James Patterson - London Bridges

"Never. Had one of their multipurpose knives once when I was ten or eleven."

"Alex, we have to eat a meal here. Promise me. Let's go inside now. They're waiting for us, and they don't like to wait in Zurich. Especially the bankers."

The inside of the Zurich Bank was expensive-looking, highly polished, wood paneling everywhere, as spotless as a hospital operating room. The teller area was natural stone, with more wood paneling. The tellers were efficient and professional-looking, and they whispered to one another. The bank's branding was understated, but there was a great deal of modern art on the wall. I thought that I understood: the art was the bank's branding.

"Zurich has always been a haven for avant-garde intellectuals, cultured types," Sandy said, and didn't whisper. "The Dada movement was born here. Wagner, Strauss, Jung all lived here."

"James Joyce wrote Ulysses in Zurich," I said, and winked at her.

Sandy laughed. "I forgot, you're a closet intellectual."

We were escorted to the bank president's office, which had a serious look. Neat as a pin, too. Only one transaction on the desk blotter, everything else filed away.

Sandy handed Mr. Delmar Pomeroy an envelope. "A signed warrant," she said. "The account number is 616479Q."

"Everything has been promptly arranged," Herr Pomeroy said to us. That was all. Then his warrant officer took us to look at the transactions in and out of account number 616479Q. So much for the secrecy and security of Swiss banks. Everything has been promptly arranged.

This was feeling more like an efficient, orderly police investigation now. Even though I knew it really wasn't. Sandy, two of her agents from Interpol, and I got to look through all of Corky Hancock's transactions in a small, windowless room somewhere deep in the basement of the Zurich Bank. The former CIA agent's account had grown from two hundred thousand U.S. dollars to slightly over six million. Youza.

The latest, and largest, deposits totaled three and a half million and had come in four installments this year.

The source of the payment was an account in the name of Y. Jikhomirov. It took us a couple of hours to track down all of the records. There were more than a hundred pages going all the way back to '91. The year the Wolf had been brought out of Russia. Coincidence? I didn't believe in them. Not anymore.

We carefully examined withdrawals from the Jikhomirov account. They included payments to a company that leased private jets; regular air travel with British Airways and Air France; hotels: Claridge's, the Bel-Air in L.A., the Sherry-Netherland in New York, the Four Seasons in Chicago and Maui. There were wire transfers to America, South Africa, Australia, Paris, Tel Aviv. The trail of a Wolf?

And an entry that particularly caught my interest-the purchase of four expensive sports cars in France, all from a dealership in Nice, Riviera Motors. A Lotus, a special-edition Jaguar, and two Aston Martins.

"The Wolf is supposed to be a sports car enthusiast," I said to Sandy. "Maybe the cars mean something. Maybe we're closer than we suspect. What do you think?"

She nodded agreement. "Yes, I think we should visit Riviera Motors in Nice. Nice is nice. But first, Alex, lunch in Zurich. I made you a promise."

"No, I think you made me promise. After my bad Swiss Army knife joke."

I was hungry anyway, so it seemed a good idea. Sandy chose the Veltliner Keller, one of her favorites-a restaurant she thought I would appreciate.

As we entered, she explained that Veltliner Keller had been a restaurant since 1551, a long time for any business to survive. So we forgot about police work for an hour and a half. We dined on barley soup, zuppe engadinese; a casserole, veltliner topf; and very good wine. Everything was just so: crisp white linens and napkins, roses in sterling vases, crystal salt and pepper shakers.

"This is one of your better ideas," I told Sandy near the end of the meal. "A nice break in the action."

"It's called lunch, Alex. You have to try it more. You should come to Europe with your friend, Jamilla. You're working too hard."

"It shows, I guess."

"No, actually you look as good as ever. You're holding up better than Denzel-in his latest movies, anyway. Somehow you persevere. I don't know how, but you do. But I can tell that you're twisted up inside. Eat, relax, then we'll go to Nice and check out some sports cars. It will be like a holiday. Maybe we'll even catch a killer. Finish your wine, Alex."

"Right," I said, "and then I have to buy some chocolate for Jannie. A suitcase full. I made another promise."

"Didn't you promise to catch the Wolf?" Sandy asked.

"Yeah, that too."

Next stop, a luxury-car dealership in Nice. I felt as if I were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

The owner of Riviera Motors, the "concessionnaire exclusif Jaguar, Aston Martin, Lotus," appeared to like drama, too, at least in a design sense. To that effect, a long row of gleaming black cars was displayed in the showroom. The cars were clearly visible from the street through monumental bay windows. The shiny black machines cut a startling contrast to a spotless white floor.

"What do you think?" Sandy asked as we climbed out of our rented Peugeot, which we had parked across the street from the dealership.

"I think I need a new car," I said to her. "And I know the Wolf likes fancy sports cars."

We went inside and stopped at the reception desk in front. Behind it was an elegant reception person, well tanned with a bleached and ironed ponytail. She was checking Sandy and me out: Both over six feet; ebony and ivory. Who are these people?

"We're here to see Monsieur Garnier," Sandy said to the woman in French.

"You have an appointment with Monsieur, madame?"

"We do indeed. Interpol and the FBI, respectively-and respectfully, I might add. Monsieur Garnier is expecting us, I believe. We're here on important business."

While we waited, I continued to take in the place. The expensive cars were precisely parked in a herringbone pattern, interspersed with voluminous potted plants. In an adjacent service atelier, mechanics in matching Jaguar-green jumpsuits worked with pristine tools.

The manager of the car dealership appeared after a couple of minutes' wait. He was dressed in a fashionable gray suit, but not too flashy, just clearly expensive and right.

"You've come about a couple of Aston Martins, a Jaguar, a Lotus?" he asked.

"Something like that, monsieur," Sandy told him. "Let's go up to your office. We wouldn't want to hurt business by talking down here in the showroom."

The manager smiled. "Oh, believe me, madame, our business is bulletproof."

"We'll see about that," I told him in French. "Or maybe a better way of putting it: let's try and keep it that way. This is a murder investigation."

The manager suddenly became extremely polite and cooperative. The four luxury cars in question had been purchased by an M. Aglionby, who apparently had a home nearby on the beautiful peninsula, Cap-Ferrat, just east of Nice. Monsieur Garnier told us it was "off the Basse Corniche, the main coastal road to Monaco. You can't miss it. And you won't miss the Aglionby estate."

"To Catch a Thief," Sandy said as we sped along toward Cap-Ferrat about two hours later. We had lost a little time calling in backup.

"Actually, the most memorable shots in the Hitchcock movie were filmed up there," Sandy went on. She pointed toward a parallel road winding along the cliffs; it was at least a hundred yards higher than the one we were driving on. In other words, very high up, and dangerous-looking.

"Also, we're here to catch a mass murderer without any conscience," I said, "not a witty and charming cat burglar like Cary Grant was in the flick."