James Patterson - London Bridges

"We have been contacted every day since then. One message went to Mr. Bowen, one to Director Weir, and one to me. Until today, nothing of consequence had been revealed. But this morning each of us received a film of the bombing in Nevada. The film had been edited. I'll share it with you now."

Burns made a rapid, circular hand signal and a video began to play on the half a dozen monitors around the room. The film was in black and white; it was grainy and looked handheld, like news footage. Like war footage, actually. The room was very quiet as we watched the video.

From a distance of a mile or more, one camera angle revealed the army trucks and jeeps arriving in Sunrise Valley. Moments later the mystified residents were escorted from their mobile homes into the trucks.

A man pulled a handgun and was shot dead in the street. Douglas Puslowski, I knew.

The convoy then drove off quickly, raising great clouds of dust.

In the next shot, a large, dark object tumbled into view from the sky. While it was still in the air, there was an incredible explosion.

The film of the actual bombing had also been edited but showed footage from only a single camera. The editing was mostly a series of jump cuts. Jarring, but effective.

This was followed by a long shot of the explosion. The plane that delivered the bomb was never in the shot.

"They filmed the whole damn thing," Burns said. "They wanted us to know that they were there, that they are the ones who bombed the town out of existence. In a few minutes they're going to tell us why. They'll call on the phone.

"The person making the calls has been using phone cards from public phones. Crude but effective. So far, the calls have originated from grocery stores, movie theaters, bowling alleys. Pretty much untraceable, as you know."

We sat mostly in silence for a minute or two. There were only a few private conversations going on.

Then the quiet was broken-the phone at the front of the room began to ring.

"This will be on speaker for everyone to hear," Burns told us. "They said it was permissible, even advisable for all of you to be here. In other words, they expected an audience. They're very big on rules, as you'll see."

"Who the hell is they?" Monnie whispered up close to my ear. "See, it is sci-fi. Aliens, maybe? That's my bet going in."

"We'll know in a minute, won't we? I'm not betting against you."

Director Burns pushed a button on his console, and a male voice came over the speakers. The voice was heavily filtered.

"Good evening. This is the Wolf," we heard.

The hair on the back of my neck rose immediately. I knew the Wolf; I'd chased him for nearly a year. In fact, I'd never known a more ruthless killer.

"I'm the one responsible for the destruction of Sunrise Valley. I'd like to explain myself-at least, as much as you deserve to know. Or should I say, as much as I want you to know at this time."

Monnie looked over at me and shook her head. She knew the Wolf, too. The news couldn't have been worse if the call had come straight from hell.

"It's good to be able to talk to all of you, so many self-important people gathered together just to listen to my ramblings. The FBI, CIA, Homeland Security," the Wolf continued. "I'm so very impressed. Humbled, actually."

"Do you want us to talk, or listen?" Burns asked.

"Who am I speaking to? Who was that just now? Would you mind identifying yourself?"

"It's Director Burns, FBI. I'm with Director Weir of the CIA and Stephen Bowen of Homeland Security."

There was a crackling sound over the speakers that might have been a laugh. "Well, I'm just so very honored again, Mr. Burns. I'd have thought you would assign a lackey to speak to me. At first, anyway. Someone like Dr. Cross. But, you know, it's better that we talk top-to-top. That's always best, don't you think?"

Weir from the CIA said, "You specifically requested 'the first team' in your earlier contact. Believe me, this is the first team. We're taking the bombing incident in Nevada seriously."

"You actually listened. I'm impressed. I've heard that about you, Mr. Weir. Although I foresee some possible problems between us in the future."

"Why is that?" Weir asked.

"You're the CIA. Not to be trusted. Not for a minute… Don't you read your Graham Greene? Who else is on your first team?" the Wolf asked. "Stand up and be counted."

Burns went around the room, listing who was present. He omitted a couple of agents, and I wondered why.

"Excellent choices, for the most part," the Wolf said once Burns had finished the roll call. "I'm sure you know who to trust, and who not to, who you can depend on-with your very lives. Personally, I'm not keen on the CIA, but that's just me. I find them to be liars and unnecessarily dangerous. Does anyone there disagree?"

No one spoke, and the speakers crackled with the Wolf's laughter. "That's interesting, don't you think? Even the CIA doesn't disagree with my scathing indictment."

Suddenly the Wolf's tone changed. "Now listen closely to what I have to tell you, you morons. That's the important thing now, you have to listen to me. Many lives can be saved if you do. And you must obey.

"Does everyone get that? Listen and obey? I want to hear you. Please, speak up. Do all of you fucking understand?"

Everyone spoke at once, and although it seemed absurd and childish, we understood that the Wolf was showing us he was in control, total control.

Burns suddenly spoke in a loud voice, "He's gone! He hung up! He's off the line, the son of a bitch!"

We waited like his puppets in the conference room, but the Russian mobster didn't make contact again. I knew the bastard well, and I didn't expect him to call us back. He was playing with us now.

Eventually I went back to my office, and Monnie Donnelley headed to Virginia. I still hadn't been assigned to the case-not officially, anyway. But the Wolf had known I would be there in the crisis room. He'd singled me out for a gratuitous insult. Just his style.

What was he up to? A mobster using terror tactics? Starting a war? If a small group of madmen in the desert could do it, why not the Russian Mafiya? All it seemed to take was a ruthless enough leader, and money.

I waited and wondered if the terrible uncertainty I felt was part of the Russian's plan to increase the pressure and stress. To control us? Test our patience?

And, of course, I thought about Geoffrey Shafer and how he might be connected. What was that all about? I'd already pulled up most of the recent data on Shafer. We had put an old girlfriend of Shafer's-his therapist-under surveillance. Her name was Elizabeth Cassady and I was trying to get a look at the notes from her therapy sessions with Shafer.

Later, I checked in at home and talked to Nana. She accused me of eating her corn bread and I blamed it on Damon, which got a cackle out of her. "You have to take responsibility for your actions," she scolded.

"Oh, I take full responsibility," I told her. "I ate the corn bread, and I'm glad. It was delicious."

Shortly after I got off the phone I was called down to a meeting in the crisis room. Tony Woods from the director's office addressed a roomful of agents. "There have been new developments," he began in a solemn tone. "All hell has broken loose in Europe."

Tony Woods paused, then went on: "There were two more terrible firebombings about an hour ago. Both were in Western Europe.

"One bombing took place in the northern part of England, in Northumberland, near the border with Scotland. The village of Middleton Hall-population, four hundred plus-is no more." Woods paused. "This time the townspeople weren't evacuated. We don't know why. There were close to a hundred casualties. It was a horrible bloodbath. Whole families died-men, women, and some children.