London Bridges - James Patterson [57]
I ate at one of the few places open for business, Les Olivades on avenue de Ségur. The restaurant and clientele were extremely laid-back, which was what I needed, given the jet lag and confusion, not to mention the state of the siege in Paris.
After the meal I walked some more, thinking about the Wolf and also Thomas Weir. The Wolf murdered Weir on purpose, didn’t he? He’s targeted Paris for a reason, too. Why? What is his thing with bridges? A possible clue for us? Are bridges symbolic for him? What is the symbolism?
It was sad and strange to walk around Paris, knowing that a deadly attack could come at any time. I was there to find some way to stop it—but honestly, no one knew where to start; no one had turned up one clue as to the identity of the Wolf or where he might be staying, not even a country. The Wolf had lived there, eleven years ago. Something bad had happened. What was it?
That section of Paris was gorgeous, broad avenues and wide sidewalks cutting a swath between the well-kept stone buildings. Wavering trails of a few car lights streamed up and down the avenues. People leaving Paris? And then—when we would least expect it—boom! Kiss your ass good-bye.
The scary thing was that a really bad end seemed almost inevitable. And not just another bridge this time.
That’s how well he had us set up. He was in full control—but we had to turn that around somehow.
When I got back to my hotel, I called the kids. It was six at night in Maryland; their aunt Tia would just be getting dinner ready, the kids complaining they were too busy to help. Jannie answered the phone, “Bonsoir, Monsieur Cross.” Was she psychic?
Then Jannie launched into half a dozen questions she’d been saving up for me. In the meantime, Damon had picked up the extension. Both of them began to rattle off questions. I think they wanted to lessen the tension all of us were feeling.
Had I visited Notre Dame Cathedral? Did I meet the Hunchback (ha, ha)? Did I see the famous gargoyles, like the one they remembered who was eating another one?
“I didn’t have time to climb the towers to the Gallery of Fabulous Beasts today. I’m working here.” I got in a couple of sentences.
“We know that, Dad,” Jannie said. “We’re just trying to keep everything light. We miss you,” she whispered.
“Miss you, Dad,” Damon said.
“Je t’aime,” said Jannie.
Minutes later I was alone in a faraway hotel room, in a city under a death threat.
Je t’aime aussi.
Chapter 75
THE CLOCK WAS ticking . . . loudly. Or was that just my heart getting ready to explode?
Early the next morning it was arranged for me to have a partner. His name was Etienne Marteau, a detective with the French National Police. Marteau was a small and wiry man, cooperative and competent on the face of it. But I had the sense that he’d been assigned to watch me more than to work with me. That was so messed up, so counterproductive, it started to drive me crazy.
In the late afternoon I spoke to Ron Burns’s office about going home. My request was denied. By Tony Woods! Tony never even bothered to take it to the director. He reminded me that Thomas Weir and the Wolf had probably met in Paris.
“I didn’t forget, Tony,” I told him, and hung up.
So I began to wade through the records and data that had been collected by the National Police. I looked for connections to Thomas Weir, or even the CIA. I was even trying to keep an open mind about Islamic terrorists, for God’s sake!
Detective Marteau was slightly helpful, but the process was slow and the Frenchman needed frequent breaks for cigarettes and coffee. This wasn’t going anywhere, and again I had the feeling that whatever help I could bring to the situation was being wasted there. I was getting a really bad headache, too.
About six o’clock we gathered in the crisis center. The