"Less than ten hours," Martin Lodge said. "To be blunt, we don't have time for a lot of bullshit. Somebody has to drop the hammer on anyone who's resisting paying the ransom."

A policeman had come up to me and was whispering against my ear. "Sorry. You're needed, Dr. Cross."

"What is it?" I whispered back. I wanted to hear everything that was being said in this meeting.

"Just come. It's an emergency. Right now, please."

Chapter 84

I knew that, ironically, an "emergency" had to be considered good news at this point in the countdown. At 8:30 that morning I was inside a speeding police cruiser, the blare of its siren disturbing the peace all along our route across Paris.

My God, the streets were bleak and deserted. Except for soldiers and the police, anyway. My part in an ongoing interrogation was explained to me during the ride. "We have an arms dealer in custody, Dr. Cross. We have reason to believe that he helped supply the bombs. Maybe he's one of the men who you saw out in the country. He's a Russian—with a white beard."

Minutes later we arrived in front of the Brigade Criminelle, a dark, nineteenth-century building in a quiet neighborhood along the Seine. Actually, this was the infamous "La Crim" from countless French movies and police stories, including several about Inspector Maigret that Nana and I had read together when I was a kid. Life imitates art, or something like that.

Once inside La Crim I was led up a rickety staircase, all the way to the top floor, the fourth. The interrogation was being conducted up there.

I was brought down a narrow hallway to room 414. The brigadier who escorted me knocked once, and then we stepped inside.

I recognized the Russian arms dealer instantly.

They had caught White Beard, the one who'd told me he was the Wolf.

Chapter 85

The room was small and cramped, as it was situated right under the eaves. It had a low, rain-stained, sloping ceiling and a tiny Velux, a skylight. I looked at my watch—8:45. Tick, tick, tick.

I was hurriedly introduced to the interrogation team of Captain Coridon and Lieutenant Leroux—and their prisoner, a Russian arms dealer, Artur Nikitin. I already knew Nikitin, of course. He wore no shirt or shoes and was cuffed, hands behind his back. He was also sweating profusely. He was definitely the white-bearded Russian from the farmhouse.

I had been told during the ride over that the Russian hoodlum did business with al Qaeda that had made him millions. It was believed that he was involved with suitcase nukes, that he knew how many had been sold, and that he knew who had bought them.

"Cowards!" he was shouting at the French police as I entered the room. "Fucking goddamn cowards. You can't do this to me. I've done nothing wrong. You French claim to be such liberals, but you are not!"