James Patterson - London Bridges

"This is true, too. Keep me focused, Alex. I could easily get distracted here," Sandy said. But I knew she was focused-always. That's why we got along so well.

The Aglionby estate was located on the west side of Cap-Ferrat, in Villefranche-sur-Mer. There were glimpses of villas and gardens hidden behind high stucco and rock walls as we rode along D125, also known as boulevard Circulaire. Half a dozen cars and vans followed us, also catching the sights, no doubt: a shiny blue Rolls-Royce convertible easing out of one of the estates, with a blonde in sunglasses and a kerchief behind the wheel; dark-glassed tourists catching rays on the terrace of the Grand Hôtel du Cap-Ferrat; a bathing pool dug into solid rock at Piscine de Sun beach.

"You think this is a fool's errand, Alex?" Sandy asked.

"It's what we do. Hit and miss, hunt and peck. I feel good about this one. It has to be something. Monsieur Aglionby has to be connected somehow."

I was hopeful. We had found an awful lot of money in the account of Corky Hancock, and most of it had come in recently. But how much did he really know about the Wolf? How much did anyone know?

Then we saw the estate we were looking for-and Sandy drove past. " Got you, you bastard," she said. "Aglionby? The Wolf? Why not?"

"Whoever lives back there is certainly loaded. Jesus, how much is enough?"

"When you have a billion dollars or so, this is rather modest, Alex. It's not a question of a house-it's houses. The Riviera, London, Paris, Aspen."

"If you say so. I've never had a billion myself. Or a villa on the Riviera."

The place in question was a sun-drenched, Mediterranean-style mansion, creamy yellow with white detailing; it had gleaming balustrades and porticos, shutters that the staff apparently closed to the midday sun. Or maybe the people inside just didn't want to be seen? Four stories, thirty-plus rooms-as cozy as Versailles.

But for now all we were interested in was a peek. As we had planned earlier, we reconnoitered at a small hotel just up the coast. The decision was made by local police officials to use the estate bordering the Aglionby place on the south side. It was vacant now, except for a large staff. We would dress and pose as gardeners and household help, starting tomorrow morning.

Sandy and I listened to the plan as it was laid out, step by step. We looked at each other, shook our heads. Not this time.

I spoke. "We're going in tonight," I announced. "With or without your help."

The decision to go right away was backed enthusiastically by Interpol, and even by the French in Paris, who were in close contact with Washington and wanted the murderous Wolf as badly as the rest of the world did, maybe more. For a change, everything happened very quickly that afternoon and through the early evening. I was going to be part of the assault, and so was Sandy.

The attack was planned as if the Wolf was definitely inside the villa. Seven two-person teams of snipers were deployed on all sides of the estate, which were designated as white (north), red (east), black (south), and green (west). Every door and window was covered, and each of the snipers had a specific number of targets. They were closest to the estate. Our eyes and ears.

So far, they weren't seeing any sign that we'd been spotted.

While the snipers moved into position, the rest of us-Interpol, the FBI, the French army and police-strapped on war gear: black Nomex flight suits, body armor, handguns, MP-5 submachine guns. Three helicopters were waiting less than a mile away and would be used during the assault. We were ready for the green light, but some of the more jaded among us expected a last-minute delay for politics, cold feet at the command level, something unforeseen to get in the way.

I lay flat on the ground on my stomach beside Sandy Greenberg. We were less than a hundred yards from the main house. Starting to feel the jitters. At least, I was. The Wolf could be inside this house; maybe he was Aglionby.

Some lights were on inside, but we seldom saw anyone at the windows past midnight. Security was modest on the grounds, just a couple of guards.

"Awfully quiet," said Sandy. "I don't know if I like this, Alex. Security's light."

"It's almost two in the morning."

"You surprised that we're going in?" Sandy asked.

I smiled. " Are we going in? No, I'm not surprised. Remember, the French want the Wolf. Maybe even more than we do."

Then the signal came to go! Sandy and I were part of the second assault team, and we ran toward the house about forty-five seconds after the first wave. We entered through the back- black. The kitchen, to be exact.

Somebody had switched on the overheads. A guard lay on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his head. Highly polished marble was everywhere, four stoves at the center of the room. I noticed a large glass bowl on a table. I took a peek at what looked like dark noses inside.

Figs, I finally realized, smiling to myself.

Then Sandy and I were running down a long hallway. No gunshots had been fired inside the house yet. Lots of other noise, though.

We came to the formal living room of diplomatic proportions: chandeliers dangled over our head, polished-marble floor, half a dozen dark and solemn paintings by French and Dutch masters.

No Wolf so far. No sign of him.

"This for entertaining, or signing treaties?" Sandy asked me. "Alex, why aren't they fighting back? What's going on? Is he here?"

We climbed a winding staircase and saw French soldiers leading men and women out of the bedrooms. Most were in their underwear; a few were naked. Nobody looked very sexy, but they certainly looked surprised.

I didn't see anybody who might be the Wolf, but how could I tell for certain what the Wolf looked like? How could anybody?

The interrogations began immediately right there in the hallways. Where is the Wolf?… Who is Aglionby?…

The entire house was searched a second time, then a third.

Marcel Aglionby wasn't at the house, we were told by several of the guests. He was on business in New York. One of his daughters was present; this was her party, her guests, her friends-though some of them looked to be twice her age. Her father was a respected banker, she swore to us. No way was he a criminal, no way was he the Wolf.

So is he the Wolf's banker? And where does that lead us?

I hated to think it, but I couldn't help myself: The Wolf wins again.

We searched the place one more time and, over the threats of the daughter, started to take it apart, piece by piece.

I had to say the house was amazing, filled with antiques and artwork. Sandy thought that Aglionby might be trying to emulate the nearby La Fiorentina, which has been called the most beautiful house in the world. The banker certainly had expensive taste, and could afford to indulge them. Hand-painted Louis XVI pieces were everywhere, as were Louis XV chandeliers; antique Turkish carpets; Chinese screens and panels; tapestries; paintings, classical and modern, on nearly every wall. Works by Fragonard, Goya, Pieter Brueghel. All of it financed by the Wolf? Why not? He has over two billion to throw around.

We assembled the "suspects" in the billiards room, which had three billiards tables and nearly as many plush sofas as the living room. The same tailored formality. Did anyone here know anything about the Wolf? It didn't look that way to me. More likely, some of them might know Paris and Nicky Hilton.

"Does anyone want to speak for the group?" the French police commander addressed them.

No one volunteered; no one answered any questions. Either they didn't know or they had been told not to say.

"All right, then, let's separate them. We'll begin the interviews now. Someone will talk," the commander warned.