After reading Dr. Cassady's notes, I have to admit, I was a little speechless, too. More than a little, actually. The strange case notes began to side with Shafer after the sixteenth visit; they no longer contained any of his personal feelings that must have led to the affair.

Then Dr. Cassady stopped making notes on the sessions altogether. How incredibly odd, not to mention unprofessional. I assumed that their affair had begun by then. If I needed any more proof of what a clever and highly disturbed psychopath Shafer was, I had it in Dr. Cassady's notes.

Late that night I got a call to head down to the crisis room again. I was told that the Wolf would be calling momentarily. This had to be something. The countdown had to start.

When the call came through, he began in a low-key manner. "Thank you for getting together again on my behalf. I'll try not to disappoint you, or waste anyone's valuable time. Directors Burns, Bowen, Weir, do you have anything you'd like to say before I begin?"

"You told us to listen," said Burns. "We're listening."

There was a burst of laughter from the Wolf. "I like you, Burns. I suspect you'll be a worthy adversary. By the way, is a Mr. Mahoney there in the room?"

The head of the Hostage Rescue Team and a friend of mine glanced at Ron Burns, who nodded to him to speak.

Ned Mahoney sat hunched forward in his chair, and he was giving the Wolf the finger. "Yes, I'm right here. I'm listening." He still had his middle finger extended. "What can I do for you?"

"You can leave now, Mr. Mahoney. I'm afraid that you won't be needed. You're too unstable for my tastes. Too dangerous. And, yes, I'm quite serious."

Burns motioned for Mahoney to go.

"There will be no need for the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team," said the Wolf. "If it comes to that, all is lost, I assure you. I hope you're beginning to understand how my mind works. I don't want HRT mobilized, and I don't want any further investigation. Call off the dogs.

"Are you all listening? No one is to try to find out who I am-or who we are. Do you really understand? Please respond if you do."

Everyone in the room called out, "Yes." They understood. Once again, it seemed that the Wolf was trying to make us feel like children, or maybe he just enjoyed humiliating the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security.

"Anyone who didn't respond just then, please leave the room," said the Wolf. "No, no, sit back down. I'm just having fun at your expense. I'm what you might call a 'creative type.' But I am serious about Mr. Mahoney, and about there being no formal investigation. I'm deadly serious about it, in fact.

"Now, then, let's get down to today's business, shall we? This is an interesting juncture, actually. I hope someone is taking notes."

There was a pause of approximately fifteen seconds. Then the Wolf resumed. "I want you to know the targeted cities. It's time for that.

"There are four-and I would advise that these cities prepare for a worst-possible-case scenario. The cities should prepare for total destruction."

Another pause, then:

"The targeted cities are… New York… London… Washington… Frankfurt. These cities should prepare for the worst disasters in history. And not a word of this goes public. Or I attack immediately."

Then he was gone again. And he still hadn't given us any deadline.

The President of the United States was up at 5:30 that morning. Unfortunately, he had already been in meetings for almost two hours. He was on his fourth cup of black coffee.

The National Security Council had been in his office since a little past 3:30. Those present included the heads of the FBI and CIA, plus several intelligence experts. Everyone was taking the Wolf seriously.

The president felt he was sufficiently briefed for his next challenging meeting, but he could never tell about these things, not for sure, especially when politics came into play in a real emergency situation.

"Let's get this unfortunate circus started. Let's do it." He finally turned to his chief of staff.

A couple of minutes later he was talking with the German chancellor and the British prime minister. They were all on-screen, all slightly out of sync in the strange land of videoconferencing.

The president found it a little hard to fathom, but none of the countries' intelligence services had anything concrete on who the Wolf was or where he might be living. He said as much to the others.

"Finally, we agree on something," the German chancellor said.

"Everyone is aware that he exists, but no one has a clue where he is," the prime minister agreed. "We think he's former KGB. We think he's in his late forties. But all we know is that he's very clever. It's maddening."

They all agreed on that single fact, and finally they agreed on one other thing.

There could be no negotiations with the terrorist.

Somehow, the Wolf had to be hunted down-and terminated with extreme prejudice.

All large cities were becoming the same boring and antiseptic place to the Wolf now, as capitalism and multinational businesses spread everywhere and major crime followed and spread as well. The Wolf spent part of the night walking in one of the world's most important cities; it doesn't matter which one, since the Russian was equally uncomfortable in nearly all of them.

But tonight, he happened to be in Washington, D.C. Plotting the next steps.

No one understood the Wolf, not a single person in the world. Of course, no one was ever understood by anyone else, was he? Any rational person knew that. But no one could possibly comprehend the Wolf's extraordinary level of paranoia, something burned into his heart long ago-in Paris, of all places. Something almost physical, a poison in the system. His Achilles' heel, he suspected. And this paranoia, the certainty of an untimely death, led to a passion-not exactly a love of life, but a need to play fiercely at it, to win at all costs, or at least never to lose.

So the Wolf walked the streets of downtown Washington, and he planned even more murders.

Alone. Always alone. Frequently squeezing his black rubber handball. A good-luck charm? Hardly. But ironically, a key to everything about him. The little black ball.

Time to think, to plan, to execute, he reminded himself. He was sure that the governments wouldn't listen to his demands; they couldn't give in. Not yet, not so easily.

They needed another lesson. Possibly more than one lesson.

And so a late-night drive out to FBI Director Burns's home in the Washington suburbs.

What a desirable life the man seemed to live with his family. The Wolf genuinely felt that way.

An attractive, well-kept ranch house-modest enough, consistent with an American Dream of a sort. A blue Mercury sedan in the driveway. Bike rack with three two-wheelers. Basketball hoop with a glass backboard and a bright white square above the rim.

Should this family die? A simple enough task to execute. Pleasurable in a way. Richly deserved.

But was it the most effective lesson?

The Wolf wasn't sure. So the answer was probably no.

Besides, there was another target to consider.

A grudge to settle.

What could be better than that?

Revenge, a dish best served cold, thought the Wolf, squeezing his rubber ball again and again.