London Bridges

“I don’t know if I like this, Alex. Security’s light.”
    “It’s almost two in the morning.”
    “You surprised that we’re going in?” Sandy asked.
    I smiled. “
Are
we going in? No, I’m not surprised. Remember, the French want the Wolf. Maybe even more than we do.”
    Then the signal came to go! Sandy and I were part of the second assault team, and we ran toward the house about forty-five seconds after the first wave. We entered through the back—
black.
The kitchen, to be exact.
    Somebody had switched on the overheads. A guard lay on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his head. Highly polished marble was everywhere, four stoves at the center of the room. I noticed a large glass bowl on a table. I took a peek at what looked like dark noses inside.
    Figs,
I finally realized, smiling to myself.
    Then Sandy and I were running down a long hallway. No gunshots had been fired inside the house yet. Lots of other noise, though.
    We came to the formal living room of diplomatic proportions: chandeliers dangled over our head, polished-marble floor, half a dozen dark and solemn paintings by French and Dutch masters.
    No Wolf so far. No sign of him.
    “This for entertaining, or signing treaties?” Sandy asked me. “Alex, why aren’t they fighting back? What’s going on?
Is he here?
”
    We climbed a winding staircase and saw French soldiers leading men and women out of the bedrooms. Most were in their underwear; a few were naked. Nobody looked very sexy, but they certainly looked surprised.
    I didn’t see anybody who might be the Wolf, but how could I tell for certain what the Wolf looked like? How could anybody?
    The interrogations began immediately right there in the hallways.
Where is the Wolf? . . . Who is Aglionby?
. . .
    The entire house was searched a second time, then a third.
    Marcel Aglionby wasn’t at the house, we were told by several of the guests. He was on business in New York. One of his daughters was present; this was her party, her guests, her friends—though some of them looked to be twice her age. Her father was a respected banker, she swore to us. No way was he a criminal, no way was he the Wolf.
    So is he the Wolf’s banker? And where does that lead us?
    I hated to think it, but I couldn’t help myself:
The Wolf wins again.

Chapter 108
    WE SEARCHED THE PLACE one more time and, over the threats of the daughter, started to take it apart, piece by piece.
    I had to say the house was amazing, filled with antiques and artwork. Sandy thought that Aglionby might be trying to emulate the nearby La Fiorentina, which has been called the most beautiful house in the world. The banker certainly had expensive taste, and could afford to indulge them. Hand-painted Louis XVI pieces were everywhere, as were Louis XV chandeliers; antique Turkish carpets; Chinese screens and panels; tapestries; paintings, classical and modern, on nearly every wall. Works by Fragonard, Goya, Pieter Brueghel.
All of it financed by the Wolf? Why not? He has over two billion to throw around.
    We assembled the “suspects” in the billiards room, which had three billiards tables and nearly as many plush sofas as the living room. The same tailored formality. Did anyone here know anything about the Wolf? It didn’t look that way to me. More likely, some of them might know Paris and Nicky Hilton.
    “Does anyone want to speak for the group?” the French police commander addressed them.
    No one volunteered; no one answered any questions. Either they didn’t know or they had been told not to say.
    “All right, then, let’s separate them. We’ll begin the interviews now.
Someone will talk,
” the commander warned.
    Since I hadn’t been asked to participate in the interrogations, I wandered out onto the grounds and walked down toward the water. Had we been given another false lead to follow? The Wolf’s game-playing, his strategies and counterstrategies, had been relentless from the beginning. Why should it stop now?
    There was a large—actually, very long—wooden boathouse at the water’s edge. It stood maybe a hundred yards from the main house. But what was this? Somebody had transformed the old boathouse into a garage to house a collection of more than thirty very expensive sports cars and luxury sedans. Maybe this was finally something. Evidence that the Wolf might have used this estate. Or was it another ruse, a tease?
    I was standing between the boathouse and the water when all hell broke loose.

Chapter