London Bridges - James Patterson [52]
Martin’s wife, Klára, identified the food as it was laid out on the sideboard. “Alex, these are koláce, pastries with a cream cheese center. Rohlíky—rolls. Turka, which is Turkish-style coffee. Párek, two kinds of sausage, very good, a specialty of the house.”
She looked at the eldest daughter, Hana, who was a neat blend of her mother and dad. Tall, slim, a pretty face but with Martin’s hooked nose. “Hana?”
Hana grinned at me. “What kind of eggs would you like, sir? You can have vejce na mekko. Or míchaná vejce. Smazená vejce, if you like. Omeleta?”
I shrugged, then said, “Míchaná vejce.”
“Excellent choice,” said Klára. “Perfect pronunciation. Our guest is a born linguist.”
“Good. Now what is it?” I asked. “The food I ordered?”
Hana giggled. “Just scrambled eggs. Perfect with the rohlíky and párek.”
“Yes, the rolls and sausage,” I said, and the girls clapped for my show-off performance.
It went that way for the next hour or so, most pleasantly, with Klára asking a lot of informal questions about my life in America while telling me about the American mystery novels she enjoyed, as well as the latest Booker Prize winner Vernon God Little, which she said “is very funny, and captures the craziness of your country much like Günter Grass did with Germany in The Tin Drum. You should read it, Alex.”
“I live it,” I told Klára.
It was only at the end of the meal that the kids admitted that the names for the breakfast foods were just about the only Czech words they knew. Then they began to clear away the food and started in on the dishes.
“Oh, and there’s ty vejce jsou hnusný,” said Jozef, or Joe, the eight-year-old.
“I’m almost afraid to ask—what does that mean?”
“Oh, that the eggs were gross,” said Joe, who laughed with little-boy delight at his joke.
Chapter 68
THERE WAS NOTHING to do once I left Martin and Klára’s, except obsess and worry about the Wolf and where he might strike, if he was going to retaliate. Back at the hotel, I caught a few more hours of sleep, then I decided to walk and I felt that this might be a long walk. I needed it.
Something strange, though. I was strolling along Broadway and I had the feeling that somebody was following me. I didn’t think I was being paranoid. I tried to see who it was, but either he was very good or I wasn’t that skilled at spy games. Maybe if this had been Washington instead of London. But it was difficult for me to spot who or what was out of place here—except me, of course.
I stopped in at Scotland Yard and there was still no word from the Wolf. And so far, no reprisals. Not in any of the targeted cities. The calm before the storm?
An hour or so later, having walked up Whitehall, past No. 10 Downing Street to Trafalgar Square and back, and feeling much better for the exercise, I made my way to the hotel and had that same creepy feeling again—as if someone was watching me, following. Who? I didn’t actually see anyone.
Back in my room, I called the kids at Aunt Tia’s. Then I talked to Nana, who was on Fifth Street by herself. “Oddly peaceful,” she joked. “But I wouldn’t mind a full house again. I miss everybody.”
“So do I, Nana.”
I fell off to sleep again, in my clothes, and didn’t wake until the phone rang. I hadn’t bothered to pull the drapes and it was dark outside. I looked at the clock—Jesus—four in the morning. I guess I was finally catching up on some of the sleep I’d lost.
“Alex Cross,” I said into the phone.
“It’s Martin, Alex. I’m on my way from home. He wants us to go to the Houses of Parliament, to meet him on the sidewalk outside the Strangers’ Entrance. Shall I pick you up?”
“No. It’s faster if I walk. I’ll meet you there.” Parliament at this time of the morning? It didn’t sound good.
Maybe five minutes later I was back outside again, hurrying along Victoria Street, heading toward Westminster Abbey. I was certain that the Wolf was going to pull something and that it would hurt like hell. Did that mean all four cities were about to be hit? That wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing would at this point.
“Hello, Alex. Fancy