London Bridges: A Novel by James Patterson
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Police, Police Procedural, Washington (D.C.), Police psychologists, Cross; Alex (Fictitious character), African American police, Terrorism, Suspense Fiction; American, Terrorism - Prevention, Police - Washington (D.C.), Psychological fiction; American
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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.”
Alex Cross 10 - London Bridges
Chapter 45
The Wolf was in the Middle East, so at least some of the rumors about him appeared to be true.
The meeting, which the Wolf called “a little fund-raiser,” took place in a city of tents in the desert about seventy miles southwest of Riyadh in Saudi Arabia. Those present were split between the Arab world and Asia. And then there was the Wolf, who called himself “a world traveler, a citizen of no particular country.”
But was this person really the Wolf? Or merely a representative? A stand-in? No one knew for certain. Wasn't the Wolf supposed to be female? That was one of the current rumors.
But this man was tall, with long dark brown hair and a full beard, and the other participants couldn't help thinking he would be hard to disguise, and presumably easy to find, but that didn't seem to be the case; it only enhanced his reputation as a person of mystery, and possibly a true mastermind.
So did his behavior during the half hour or so before the meeting began. While some sipped whiskey and others mint tea and chatted amicably, the Wolf stood off to the side, talking to no one and impatiently waving off the few who approached him. He seemed so above it all.
The weather was balmy, so it was decided to hold the meeting outside in the open air. The participants left the tent and were seated according to country of origin.
The business meeting was then called to order and the Wolf took center stage. He addressed the gathering in English. He knew all of them spoke the language, or at least understood it well enough.
“I am here to report that everything is going very well so far, very much according to plan. We should all rejoice, give thanks.”
“How do we know this other than your word?” asked one of the principals at the meeting. The Wolf knew the man was a mujahid, a fighter, a warrior for Islam.
The Wolf smiled genially. “As you said, you have my word. And perhaps not in this country, but most of the world has televisions, newspapers, and radios to verify that we've created problems for the Americans, the English, the Germans. Actually, CNN is available here—inside the tent—if you'd like some validation other than my word.”
The Wolf's dark eyes shifted away from the mujahid, who was now red-faced, embarrassed, but also clearly angry.
“The plan is working, but now it's time for another donation to keep all our important pieces in motion. I'll go around the table and you can signal if you are in agreement with me. You have to spend money to make money. A Western idea, perhaps, but a true one.”
The Wolf went from face to face, receiving nods or raised hands as he proceeded—except from the one Arab troublemaker, who sat with his arms folded defiantly and said, “I need to hear more. Your word is not enough.”
“Understood,” said the Wolf. “I have gotten your message, and now I have one for you, warrior.”
In a split second the Wolf raised his hand—and a pistol shot rang out. The bearded Saudi fell from his chair, dead on the spot, lifeless eyes staring up at the heavens.
“Does anyone else need to hear more? Or is my word good enough?” the Wolf asked. “Do we move on to the next important phase of our war against the West?”
No one said a
“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.”
Alex Cross 10 - London Bridges
Chapter 45
The Wolf was in the Middle East, so at least some of the rumors about him appeared to be true.
The meeting, which the Wolf called “a little fund-raiser,” took place in a city of tents in the desert about seventy miles southwest of Riyadh in Saudi Arabia. Those present were split between the Arab world and Asia. And then there was the Wolf, who called himself “a world traveler, a citizen of no particular country.”
But was this person really the Wolf? Or merely a representative? A stand-in? No one knew for certain. Wasn't the Wolf supposed to be female? That was one of the current rumors.
But this man was tall, with long dark brown hair and a full beard, and the other participants couldn't help thinking he would be hard to disguise, and presumably easy to find, but that didn't seem to be the case; it only enhanced his reputation as a person of mystery, and possibly a true mastermind.
So did his behavior during the half hour or so before the meeting began. While some sipped whiskey and others mint tea and chatted amicably, the Wolf stood off to the side, talking to no one and impatiently waving off the few who approached him. He seemed so above it all.
The weather was balmy, so it was decided to hold the meeting outside in the open air. The participants left the tent and were seated according to country of origin.
The business meeting was then called to order and the Wolf took center stage. He addressed the gathering in English. He knew all of them spoke the language, or at least understood it well enough.
“I am here to report that everything is going very well so far, very much according to plan. We should all rejoice, give thanks.”
“How do we know this other than your word?” asked one of the principals at the meeting. The Wolf knew the man was a mujahid, a fighter, a warrior for Islam.
The Wolf smiled genially. “As you said, you have my word. And perhaps not in this country, but most of the world has televisions, newspapers, and radios to verify that we've created problems for the Americans, the English, the Germans. Actually, CNN is available here—inside the tent—if you'd like some validation other than my word.”
The Wolf's dark eyes shifted away from the mujahid, who was now red-faced, embarrassed, but also clearly angry.
“The plan is working, but now it's time for another donation to keep all our important pieces in motion. I'll go around the table and you can signal if you are in agreement with me. You have to spend money to make money. A Western idea, perhaps, but a true one.”
The Wolf went from face to face, receiving nods or raised hands as he proceeded—except from the one Arab troublemaker, who sat with his arms folded defiantly and said, “I need to hear more. Your word is not enough.”
“Understood,” said the Wolf. “I have gotten your message, and now I have one for you, warrior.”
In a split second the Wolf raised his hand—and a pistol shot rang out. The bearded Saudi fell from his chair, dead on the spot, lifeless eyes staring up at the heavens.
“Does anyone else need to hear more? Or is my word good enough?” the Wolf asked. “Do we move on to the next important phase of our war against the West?”
No one said a
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