London Bridges - James Patterson [86]
The next morning I flew to London and met with the police at Scotland Yard, specifically Lodge’s superior, a man named John Mortenson. First, he reported that none of the survivors at Cap-Ferrat seemed to know anything about the Wolf, or even who Martin Lodge had been.
“There is a new development, a little wrinkle,” he told me then.
I leaned back in a leather lounger with a view of Buckingham Palace. “At this point, I’m not surprised about anything, John. Tell me what’s going on. This is about the Lodge family?”
He nodded, sighed, and then began. “It starts with Klára Lodge. Klára Cernohosska, actually. Let me begin with her. It turns out Martin was on the team that brought a defector named Edward Morozov out of Russia back in ’ninety-three. Martin worked with the American CIA, with Cahill and Hancock, and also Thomas Weir. Only there was no Edward Morozov. He was an unidentified KGB defector whose name we don’t know. We think that it was the Wolf.”
“You started by saying something about Martin’s wife, Klára. What about her?”
“For one thing, she’s not Czech. She came out of Russia with the man called Morozov. She was an assistant to a KGB chief, and also our main source of information in Moscow. She and Lodge apparently got cozy during the transfer, and then she was relocated to England. He had her identity changed, got rid of the records. Then he married her. How about that?”
“And she knows who the Wolf is, what he looks like? Is that it?”
“We don’t know what Klára knows. She won’t talk to us. She might talk to you, though.”
I sat back, shook my head. “Why me? I met her only once.”
Mortenson shrugged, then he gave a half smile. “She says her husband trusted you. You believe that? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why would she trust you, if you met her only once?”
Unfortunately, I had no idea.
Chapter 113
WHAT REMAINED OF the Lodge family was being kept under wraps in a small town called Shepton Mallet, which was about 120 miles west of London. Rolling valleys, lots of green countryside, perfect for hiding them, at least temporarily.
The Lodges were staying in a converted farmhouse on a “no through” road outside of town. The land was fairly flat there, and anything approaching could be seen for miles. Besides, this was an armed compound, heavily armed.
I arrived at about six that evening. The inside of the farmhouse was pleasant, with lots of antique furniture, but I had dinner with the family in a cramped bunker that was located belowground.
Klára didn’t cook the meal as she had in London, and I wondered if she approved of the fare. I doubted it. The food was dreadful, worse than airplane fare. “No míchaná vejce on the menu,” I finally tried as a joke for her.
“You remember our breakfast in Battersea, even the correct pronunciation. That’s good, Alex,” Klára said. “You’re very observant. Martin said you were a good agent.”
When the meal was over, the children—Hana, Daniela, Jozef—were sent to their room to do homework. Klára sat with me and smoked a cigarette. She took long puffs and inhaled deeply.
“Homework?” I asked. “Here? Tonight?”
“It’s good to have discipline, habits to fall back on. I think it is. So you were with Martin? When he died?” she asked. “What did he say to you? Please tell me.”
I considered my response. What did Klára want to hear? And what should I tell her?
“He said that he wasn’t the Wolf. Is that true, Klára?”
“Anything else? What else did he tell you?”
I thought about telling Klára he’d talked about her and the children, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to lie to her. Probably I couldn’t. “No, Klára. That’s all it was. There wasn’t much time. Only a few seconds. He didn’t suffer too long. He didn’t seem to be in pain. I think he was in shock.”
She nodded. “Martin thought I could trust you. He said it was your flaw, actually. He would never say anything sentimental, not even with his dying breath.”
I stared into Klára’s deep brown eyes, which seemed surprisingly