James Patterson - London Bridges

Monnie went back to her computer. "Here's a tidbit on the Weasel. Worked with an outfit called Mainforce International. Listen to this-offices in London, Washington, and Frankfurt."

That got my attention. "Three of the targeted cities. What else do you have on Mainforce?"

"Let me see. Clients include financial institutions; oil, of course; precious stones."

"Diamonds?"

"Are a mercenary's best friend. Shafer was going under the name Timothy Heath. Worked in Guinea to 'free' some mines taken over by 'the populace.' Heath/Shafer was arrested in Guinea, charged with trying to bribe local officials. He had a million pounds on him, cash, when he was arrested."

"How did he get out of that one?"

"Says he escaped. Hmmm. No detail. No follow-up, either. Odd."

"That's one thing the Weasel's always been good at. Wiggling out of tight spots. Getting away with it. Maybe that's why the Wolf wanted him for this job."

"No," said Monnie, and she turned and stared into my eyes, "the Wolf wanted him because Geoffrey Shafer has gotten under your skin. And because you're close to the director of the FBI."

At two that same afternoon, I was on my way to Cuba, Guantánamo Bay. Gitmo, as it's called. I was on a mission from the director, and also the president of the United States. Lately, our base at Guantánamo Bay had been much in the news on account of more than seven hundred "detainees" being held there in connection with the war on terror. An interesting place, to say the least. A historical one, for better or worse.

Once I landed, I was escorted to Camp Delta, the site of most of the cellblocks. All around the prison area were several guard towers and razor wire. According to a rumor I'd heard on the ride down, one U.S. corporation was receiving in excess of a hundred million dollars a year for services provided at Guantánamo Bay.

The man I was there for was originally from Saudi Arabia. He was being kept in the small psych ward on the grounds, which was in a separate building from the cellblocks. I wasn't given his name. Nor was I told very much about him, except that he had important information about the Wolf.

I met with the prisoner inside a "quiet room," an isolation cell with mattresses on the walls and no windows. Two small chairs had been brought into the room for the purpose of the interview.

"I've told the others everything I know," he said to me in very good English. "I thought that we made a deal for my release. I was promised as much two days ago. Everybody here lies. So who are you?"

"I was sent down here from Washington to listen to your story. Just tell me everything again. This can only help you. It can't hurt."

The prisoner nodded wearily. "No, nothing can hurt me anymore. It's true. You know, I have been here two hundred and twenty-seven days. I did not do anything wrong. Not a single thing. I was teaching high school in Newark, New Jersey. I have never been charged with anything. What do you think of that?"

"I think you have a way out of here now. Just tell me what you know about the Russian who goes by the name Wolf."

"And why do I talk to you? I think I may have missed that part. Who are you, again?"

I shrugged. I'd been told not to reveal who I was to the prisoner. "You have everything to gain, nothing to lose. You want to get out of here, and I can help you achieve your goal."

"But will you, sir?"

"I will help you if I can."

So the man talked to me. In fact, he went on for over an hour and a half. His life had been interesting. He had worked in security for the royal family in Saudi Arabia, sometimes traveling with them in the United States. He liked what he saw here and decided to stay, but he still had friends back home who worked in security.

"They spoke to me about a Russian who had talks with dissident royal family members, of whom there are many. This Russian was looking for capital to finance a big operation that would seriously hurt the United States as well as certain countries in Western Europe. A doomsday scenario was discussed, though I don't have specifics."

"Do you have a name for the Russian? Where was the man from? What country, what city?"

"This is the most interesting thing," said the prisoner. "The Russian-it is my impression it was a woman, not a man. I am confident about my information. The code name or whatever was definitely Wolf.

"Now what?" the prisoner asked when he was finished talking. "Will you help me?"

"No, now you repeat your story," I said. "From the top."

"It will be the same," he said. "Because it is the truth."

Late that night I left Gitmo for Washington. Although it was very late, I had to report on my interview with the prisoner. I met with Director Burns and Tony Woods in the director's small conference room. Burns wanted to know my bottom line on the Saudi's credibility. Had we learned something useful about the Wolf? Was he negotiating in the Middle East?

"I think we should let the prisoner go," I told Burns.

"So you believe him?"

I shook my head. "I think he was given information, for whatever reason. I don't know if the information is accurate. Neither does he. I think that either we charge him or we set him free."

"Alex, was the Wolf in Saudi Arabia? Is it possible the Wolf is a woman?"

I repeated myself. "I think he told us what he was told. Let the schoolteacher go home to Newark."

And Burns snapped at me, "I heard you the first time."

He let out a long sigh. "I was with the president today, his advisers. They don't see how we can make a deal with these bastards. It's their position that we won't." Burns stared at me. "Somehow, we have to find the Wolf. In the next two days."

It's extraordinarily bad to be waiting for something devastating to happen and not be able to do a damn thing to prevent it. I was up at five the next morning and I had breakfast with Nana. "We have to talk about you and the kids," I said as I sat at the kitchen table with coffee and a slice of unbuttered cinnamon toast. "You awake for this?"

"I'm fully awake, Alex. How about you?" she said. "You ready to match wits with me?"

I nodded, and bit my tongue. Nana had something to say to me, and I was supposed to listen. I've learned that no matter how old you get, to some extent you always remain a child in the eyes of your parents and grandparents. That was certainly true with Nana Mama.

"Go ahead, I'm listening," I said.

"You better be. The reason that I'm not going to move out of Washington," Nana began, "is twofold. Are you with me so far? Good.

"First of all, this has been my home for eighty-three years. This is where Regina Hope was born, and where I plan to die. That may be a little foolish, I know, but it is what it is. I love the city of Washington, love our neighborhood, and I especially love this old house where so much has happened to me. It goes, I go with it. It's sad, really sad, but the situation here in Washington is a part of life now. This is the way of the world now, Alex."

I had to smile a little at my grandmother. "You know, you just jumped right back into your old schoolteacher tone of voice. You realize that?"

"Maybe I did, and if so, then so what? It's a serious subject," Nana said. "I didn't sleep most of the night. I was lying there in the dark, thinking about what I wanted to say to you. Now, what do you have to say on the subject? You want us to move, don't you?"

"Nana, if the kids got hurt, I'd never be able to forgive myself."

"Neither would I," she said. "Goes without saying." Her eyes remained steely. God, she is tough.

Nana stared deeply into my eyes, but she was thinking, reconsidering, I hoped. "This is where I live, Alex. I have to stay. If you think it's the right thing to do, the kids should go with Aunt Tia for a while. Now… is that all you're going to eat? A measly slice of toast? Let me make you a decent breakfast. I'm sure you have a long day in front of you, a terrible day."