James Patterson: London Bridges

"Finally, he was moved to a city of his choosing-Paris, where he met up with his family: mother and father, wife, two young sons, ages nine and twelve.

"Alex, they lived two blocks from the Louvre, on one of the streets that was destroyed a few weeks ago. His entire family was killed there in 'ninety-four, but not Christyakov himself. We believe the attack may have been orchestrated by the Russian government. We don't know for certain. But somebody leaked where he was living to somebody who didn't want him to continue living. The attack may have taken place on the bridge across the Seine that was destroyed."

"He blamed the CIA and Tom Weir," Burns said. "And he blamed the governments that were involved. Maybe he went mad after that-who the hell knows. He joined the Mafiya and rose quickly. Here in America, probably in New York."

Burns stopped. Dowd didn't add anything more. They were both looking at me.

"So it's not Klára. What else do we know about Christyakov?"

Dowd raised his hands with both palms up. "There are notes in our records, but precious few. He was known by some Mafiya leaders, but they seem to be dead now, too. Maybe the current Mafiya 'big man' in Brooklyn knows something. There's another possible contact in Paris. We're working a couple of angles in Moscow."

I shook my head. "I don't care how long it takes. I want him. Tell me everything there is."

"He was close to his sons. Maybe that's why he spared your family, Alex," said Burns. "And mine."

"He spared my family to show how powerful he is, how superior to the rest of us."

"He squeezes a rubber ball," said Dowd, "A handball. Black."

I didn't follow at first. "I'm sorry, what?"

"One of his sons gave him a rubber handball before the boy died. A birthday present. In one of the notes we have, it says that Christyakov squeezes the ball when he gets angry. He's also said to favor beards. He's celibate now, according to the rumors, anyway. It's all pieces, Alex. That's what we have. I'm sorry."

So was I, but it didn't matter. I was going to get him.

He squeezes a rubber ball.

He favors beards.

His family was murdered.

Six weeks later I traveled to New York, my fifth out-of-town trip in a row. Tolya Bykov had been at or near the top of the Red Mafiya gangs in New York, specifically the Brighton Beach area, for the past few years. He had been a Mafiya head in Moscow and was the most powerful leader to come to America. I was going to see him.

On a sunny, unseasonably warm day, Ned Mahoney and I made the journey out to Mill Neck on Long Island's Gold Coast. The area we drove through was heavily wooded, served by narrow roads, with no sidewalks anywhere.

We arrived at the Bykov compound with a dozen agents-unannounced. We had a warrant. There were bodyguards posted everywhere, and I wondered how Tolya Bykov could live like this. Maybe because he had to in order to remain alive.

The house itself was very large, a three-story Colonial. It had incredible water views across the sound all the way to Connecticut. There was a Gunite pool with a waterfall, a boathouse and dock. The wages of sin?

Bykov was waiting in his den for our talk. I was surprised at how tired, how old, he looked. He had small beady eyes in a pocked face rolling with fat. He was grossly overweight, probably close to three hundred pounds. His breathing was labored and he had a hacking cough.

I'd been told that he spoke no English.

"I want to know about the man called the Wolf," I said as I sat down across from him at a plain wooden table. One of our agents from the New York office translated, a young Russian American.

Tolya Bykov scratched the back of his neck, then shook his head back and forth, finally muttering several Russian words between a clenched jaw.

The translator listened, then looked at me. "He says you're wasting his time, and yours. Why don't you leave right now? He knows 'Peter and the Wolf,' no other. Wolves."

"We're not going to leave. The FBI, the CIA, we're going to be in Mr. Bykov's face, in his business, until we find the Wolf. Tell him that."

The agent spoke in Russian, and Bykov laughed in his face. The Russian said something, and the sentences mentioned Chris Rock.

"He says you're funnier than Chris Rock. He likes Chris Rock, political comedians in general."

I stood up, nodded to Bykov, then walked out of the room. I didn't expect too much more from the first meeting, just an introduction. I would be back, again and again if necessary. This was the only case I was working now. I was learning to be patient, very patient.

Minutes later, I was leaving the large house, walking side by side with Ned Mahoney. We were laughing about the first interview-what the hell, might as well laugh.

I saw something, and did a double take- saw it again.

"Ned, Jesus. Look."

"What?" His head swiveled around, but he didn't see what I saw.

Then I was running ahead on legs that felt unsteady.

"What? Alex, what is it?" Ned yelled behind me. "Alex?"

"It's him!" I said.

My eyes were pinned on one of the bodyguard types at the compound. Black suit jacket and shirt, no overcoat. He was standing under a large evergreen, watching us watch him. My eyes dropped to his hand.

In the hand-a black ball, an old one. He was squeezing it, and I knew-I just knew-it had to be the handball given to the Wolf by his small son before he died. The man with the ball had a beard. His eyes looked at mine.

Then he started to run.

I yelled back at Ned. "That's him. He's the Wolf!"

I sprinted across the lawn, moving faster than I had in a while. I trusted that Ned was behind me.

I saw the Russian man jump into a bright red convertible; then he started it up. Oh no, God, no! I thought.

But I tumbled into the front seat before he put it into gear. I hit him with a short, powerful punch to the nose. Blood gushed all over his black shirt and jacket. I knew I'd broken his nose. I hit him again, square on the jaw.

I shoved open the driver-side door. He looked at me, and his eyes were coldly intelligent, like no eyes I'd ever seen, nothing so desolate. Inhuman. That was what the French president had called him.

Was he the real Tolya Bykov? It didn't matter to me now. He was the Wolf-I could see it in those eyes, the confidence, arrogance, but most of all, the hatred for me and everyone else.

"The ball," he said. "You knew about the ball. My son gave it to me. I congratulate you."

He gave a strange half smile, then bit down hard on something inside his mouth. I thought I knew what had happened. I tried desperately to force open his mouth. His jaw was clamped tightly shut, and suddenly the Russian's eyes were wide, incredibly big and full of pain. Poison. He'd bitten into poison.

Then his mouth opened and he roared full voice. White foam and spit ran over his lips and down his chin. He roared again, and his body began to convulse. I couldn't hold him down any longer. I pushed myself up, backed away from his flopping body.

He began to gag and to claw at his throat. The convulsing, the dying went on for several awful minutes, and there was nothing I could do and nothing I wanted to do, except watch.

And then it happened: the Wolf died in the front seat of the convertible, another of his expensive cars.

When it was over, I bent and picked up the rubber handball. I put it in my pocket. It was what killers I've caught call a trophy.

It was over and I was going home, wasn't I? I had things to think about, and so much to change about my life. I had the uncomfortable thought: I am taking trophies now, too.

But I had another, much more important thought: Damon, Jannie, Little Alex, Nana.