He shot his friend dead on the test track. Then the Wolf just walked away, never looking back. He had no interest in the dead.

Chapter 71

That same afternoon the Wolf visited a farmhouse about fifty kilometers southeast of the test track. He was the first to arrive and settled in the kitchen, which he kept as dark as a crypt. Artur Nikitin had been ordered to come alone, and he did as he was told. Nikitin was former KGB and had always been a loyal soldier. He worked for Ilya Frolov, mostly as an arms dealer.

The Wolf heard Artur approaching on the back steps. "No lights," he called. "Just come inside."

Artur Nikitin opened the door and stepped inside. He was tall, with a thick white beard, a big Russian bear of a man, physically not unlike the Wolf himself.

"There's a chair. Sit. Please. You are my guest," said the Wolf.

Nikitin obeyed. He showed no fear. Actually, he had no fear of death.

"You have always done good work for me in the past. This will be our last job together. You'll make enough to walk away from the life, to do as you wish. Does that sound all right?"

"It sounds very good. Whatever you wish, I do. It's the secret of my success."

"Paris is very special to me," the Wolf continued. "In another life, I lived there for two years. And now, here I am again. It's no coincidence, Artur. I need your help here. More than that, I need your loyalty. Can I depend on you?"

"Of course. Without a doubt. I'm here, aren't I?"

"I plan to blow a big hole in Paris, cause lots more trouble, then get filthy rich. I can still depend on you?"

Nikitin found himself smiling. "Absolutely. I don't like the French anyway. Who does? It will be a pleasure. I especially like the 'filthy rich' part."

The Wolf had found his man for the job. Now he gave him his piece of the puzzle.

Chapter 72

Two days after the bombing of Westminster Bridge, I traveled back to Washington. During the long flight, I forced myself to make extensive notes about what the Wolf might do next. What could he do? Would he strike again, keep on bombing cities until he got his money? And what was the significance of bridges to him?

Only one thing seemed obvious to me: the Wolf wasn't going to disappear and leave things as they had been before. He wasn't going away.

Even before my plane landed I got a message from Ron Burns's office. I was to go to headquarters as soon as I arrived in Washington.

But I didn't go to the Hoover Building; I went home instead. Like Bartleby the Scrivener, I respectfully declined my employer's request. I didn't think twice about it. The Wolf would still be there in the morning.