London Bridges - James Patterson [42]
I looked at the alarm clock, squinting to focus, saw that it was three in the morning. Now what? Have there been reprisals? If so, they weren’t telling me over the phone.
“I’ll be right there,” I said, pushing myself out of bed, cursing under my breath. I showered under hot, then cold water for a minute or two, toweled off, threw on clothes, and got in the car and drove through Washington in a horrible daze. All I knew was that the Wolf was going to call in thirty minutes.
Three-thirty in the morning, after a long weekend, with the expired deadline hanging over our head. He wasn’t just controlling, he was sadistic.
When I arrived at the crisis room on five, there were at least a dozen others already there. We greeted one another like old friends at somebody’s wake. For the next couple of minutes, bleary-eyed agents kept filing into the conference room, nobody seeming completely awake. A ragged line formed at the coffee table as a couple of pots finally arrived. Everybody looked nervous and on edge.
“No Danish?” said one of the other agents. “Where’s the love?” But nobody even smiled at his joke.
Director Burns came in a few minutes past 3:30. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, formal for him, but especially at this time of the morning. I had the sense that he didn’t have any idea what was happening, either. The Wolf was in charge, not any of us.
“And you thought I was a tough boss,” Director Burns cracked after a couple of minutes of silence in the room. Finally, there was a sprinkling of laughter. “Thank you for coming,” Burns added.
The Wolf came on the line at 3:43. The filtered voice. The characteristic smugness and disdain.
“You’re probably wondering why I scheduled a meeting in the middle of the night,” he began. “Because I can. How do you like that? Because I can.
“In case you haven’t been able to tell, I don’t like you people very much. Not at all, actually. I have my reasons, good ones. I hate everything America stands for. So maybe this is partly about revenge? Maybe you’ve wronged me somewhere, sometime in the past? Maybe you wronged my family. That’s a part of the puzzle. Revenge is a sweet bonus for me.
“But let me get to the present. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I instructed you not to conduct any more investigations into my whereabouts.
“So what do you do? You bust six poor bastards in downtown Manhattan because you suspect they’re working with me. Why, one poor girl was so distraught that she went out a third-floor window. I saw her fall! I suppose that your thinking—such as it is—was that if you took out my operatives there, then New York City would be safe.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I almost forgot. There’s also a little matter of a deadline you missed.
“Did you think I had forgotten about that? Well, I didn’t forget about the deadline. Or the insult in your missing it. Now, watch what I can do.”
Chapter 56
AT 3:40 IN THE MORNING, following instructions, the Weasel took up a position on a bench in the riverfront park on Sutton Place and Fifty-seventh Street. There was a great deal that bothered him about this job, but the problems were balanced by two large positives: he was being paid a lot of money, and he was in the middle of the action again. Jesus, am I ever in the middle of the shit.
He stared down on the East River’s dark, swift-moving currents. A red tugboat marked MCALLISTER BROTHERS was assisting a containership on its way. The city that never sleeps, right? Hell, the bars on First and Second Avenues were just getting down to their last call. A little earlier he’d passed an animal medical center that was still open for late-night pet emergencies. Pet emergencies? Jesus, what a city, what a messed-up country America had become.
A lot of New Yorkers would be wide-awake soon, and they would find it exceedingly difficult to get back to sleep. There would be weeping and the gnashing of teeth. The Wolf was going to