James PATTERSON: The Big Bad Wolf

Kyle leaned back and seemed to be considering his options, but I knew he’d already decided what he meant to do. He was always a step or two ahead.

Finally he leaned forward, and beckoned me closer. I wasn’t afraid of Kyle, at least not physically, not even with his extra pounds of muscle. I almost hoped he’d make a move.

‘I do this out of love and respect for you,’ Kyle said. ‘I did meet with the Russian last summer. Ruthless chap, no conscience. I liked him. We played chess. I know who he is, my friend. I might be able to help you.’

It took me another day at Florence, but I finally negotiated a name out of Kyle. Now could we believe him? The name was checked and rechecked in Washington, but the Bureau was becoming confident that he had given us the Red Mafiya leader. I had doubts – because it came from Kyle. But we had no other leads.

Maybe Kyle wanted to use it to try and blow me up, or embarrass the Bureau. Or maybe he wanted to demonstrate how smart he was, how well-connected, how superior to us all. The name, the person’s position, made the arrest controversial and risky. If we went after this man, and we were wrong, the embarrassment would stick to the Bureau.

So we waited for nearly a week. We checked all of our information again and did several interviews in the field. The suspect was put on surveillance.

When we had completed the due diligence, I met with Ron Burns and the Director of the CIA in Burns’s office. Ron got to the point. ‘We believe he’s the Wolf, Alex. Craig is probably telling the truth.’

Thomas Weir from the CIA nodded my way. ‘We’ve been watching this suspect in New York for some time. We thought he’d been KGB back in Russia, but there wasn’t conclusive evidence. We never suspected Red Mafiya, never the Wolf. Not this man. Not given his position with the Russian Government.’

Weir’s look was intense. ‘We increased the levels of audio surveillance to include the apartment where the suspect lives in Manhattan. He’s making arrangements to go after Director Burns again.’

Burns looked at me. ‘He doesn’t forgive and forget, Alex. Neither do I.’

‘Is that it? We go to New York and arrest him?’

Burns and Weir nodded solemnly. ‘This should be the end of it,’ said Burns. ‘Go and take down the Wolf. Bring me his head.’

This should be the end of it. From Director Burns’s mouth to God’s ear.

The Century is a famous art deco apartment building on Central Park West, north of Columbus Circle, in New York City. For decades it has been a residence of choice for the well-to-do and famous actors, artists, and business-people, but especially for those who are humble enough to share space with working-class families who’ve passed down their apartments for decades.

We arrived at the building around four in the morning. HRT immediately took over the three main entrances on Central Park, Sixty-Second and Sixth-Third Streets. This was the largest bust I had been a part of, definitely the most complicated: the New York City Police, FBI, CIA and Secret Service were all involved in the operation. We were about to take down an important Russian. The head of the trade delegation to New York. A businessman himself, supposedly above suspicion. The repercussions would be severe if we were wrong. But how could we be wrong? Not this time.

I was at the Century, along with my partner for the past week or so. Ned Mahoney was hardworking, honest, and tough in the clutch. The head of HRT had been to my house, and even passed Nana’s inspection, mostly because he’d grown up on the streets of D.C.

Ned and I and a dozen others were climbing the stairs to two penthouse floors, since the suspect’s apartment was on twenty-five and twenty-six. He was powerful and wealthy. He had a good reputation with Wall Street and the banks. So was he the Wolf? If so, why hadn’t his name ever come up before? Because the Wolf was so good, so careful?

‘Be glad when this is over with,’ Mahoney said without a huff or puff as he mounted the stairs.

‘How did it get out of hand like this?’ I asked. ‘There are too many people here.’

‘Always too much politics. Better get used to it. World we live in. Too many suits, not enough workers.’

We finally reached twenty-five. Ned, me, and four other agents stopped there. The rest of the team continued to twenty-six. We waited for them to get into position. This was it. I hoped this was it. Was the real Wolf on one of these two floors?

I heard an urgent voice in my earpiece. ‘Suspect coming out of a window! Man in his underwear jumped from the tower! Jesus Christ! He’s down on the landing between the towers. He’s on the roof. Running.’

Mahoney and I understood what had happened. We rushed down to the twentieth floor. The Century had two towers that rose up from twenty. A large expanse of roof connected them.

We burst out on to the roof and could just about make out a barefoot man in his underwear. Even in the darkness, the figure gave the impression of being burly, balding and bearded. He turned and fired at us with a pistol. The Wolf? Balding? Burly? Could this be him?

He hit Mahoney!

He hit me!

We went down hard. Chest shots! Hurt like hell! Took my breath away. Fortunately, we were wearing Kevlar vests.

The man in his underwear wasn’t.

Mahoney’s return fire took out a kneecap; my first shot struck his thickset stomach. He went down spurting blood and howling.

We ran to the side of Andrei Prokopev. Mahoney kicked away his gun. ‘You’re under arrest!’ Ned yelled into the face of the wounded Russian. ‘We know who you are.’

A helicopter appeared between the Century’s dueling towers. A woman was screaming from one of the windows several stories above us. Suddenly, the helicopter was landing! What the hell was this?

A man came out of a window in the tower and dropped to the roof. Then another man. Professional gunmen, it looked like. Bodyguards?

They were quick on the draw and began shooting the instant they hit the roof. HRT returned fire. Several shots were exchanged. Both gunmen were hit and went down. Neither got up again. HRT was that good.

The helicopter was setting down on the roof. It wasn’t media or police. It was there to get the Wolf and whisk him away, wasn’t it? There were shots from the helicopter. Mahoney and I fired into the cockpit. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire. Then the shooting stopped inside.

For several seconds the only sound on the roof was the loud, eerie whir of the helicopter’s rotor blades. ‘Clear!’ one of our agents finally yelled. ‘They’re down in the copter!’

‘You’re under arrest!’ Mahoney screamed at the Russian in his underwear. ‘You’re the Wolf. You tried to attack my house, my family!’

I had something else in mind, another kind of message. I leaned in close and said, ‘Kyle Craig did this to you.’ I wanted him to know, and maybe pay Kyle back some day.

Maybe with zamochit .

I hoped to God it was over now. We all did. Ned Mahoney flew back to Quantico that morning, but I spent the rest of the day at FBI headquarters in lower Manhattan. The Russian Government had filed protests everywhere they could, but Andrei Prokopev was still in custody and State Department people were all over the FBI offices. Even a few Wall Street firms had questioned the arrest.

So far, I hadn’t been allowed to talk to the Russian again. He was scheduled for surgery, but his life wasn’t in danger. He was being grilled by someone, just not by me.

Burns finally reached me at around four o’clock in the office I was using in FBI-New York. ‘Alex, I want you to head back to Washington,’ he said. ‘Flight arrangements have been made. We’ll be waiting for you here.’ That was all that he told me.