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.

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.

The kids had come into the city with their aunt Tia. Nana was there on Fifth Street, too. We spent the night together at our house, the one Nana had been born in. In the morning the kids would return to Maryland with Tia. Nana would stay on Fifth Street, and so would I. Maybe the two of us were more alike than I wanted to admit.

About eleven that night, someone was at the front door. I had been playing the piano on the sunporch, and it was only a few steps to the door. I opened up and saw Ron Burns standing there with a couple of his agents. He ordered his men to go wait by the car. Then he invited himself in.

"I need to talk to you. Everything has changed," the director said as he walked past me at the door.

And so I sat out on our small sunporch with the director of the FBI. I didn't play the piano for Burns; I just listened to what he had to say.

The first thing had to do with Thomas Weir. "We have no doubt that Tom had some connection with the Wolf back when he came out of Russia. He may have known who the Russian was. We're on it, Alex, and so is the CIA. But, of course, this puzzle refuses to unravel easily."

"Everybody's cooperating with everybody else, though," I said, frowning. "How nice."

Burns stared at me. "I know that this has been tough for you. I know the job isn't the perfect fit so far. You want to be in the middle of the action. And you want to be with your family."

I couldn't deny it, not any of what Burns had said. "Go ahead, Director. I'm still listening."

"Something happened in France, Alex. It involved Tom Weir and the Wolf. It happened a long time ago. A mistake was made, a big one."

"What mistake?" I asked. Were we finally getting close to some answers? "You have to stop playing games with me. Do you wonder why I'm having second thoughts about my job?"

"Believe me, we don't know what happened back then. We're getting closer to an answer. A lot has happened in the last few hours. The Wolf made contact again, Alex."

I sighed heavily, but I listened, because I promised that I would.

"You said it before, that he wants to hurt us, to break our back if he can. He says that he can. He said that the rules are changing and that he's the one changing them. He's the only one with the answers to this puzzle. You're the only one with a clue about him."

I had to stop Burns. "Ron, what are you trying to say? Just tell me. I'm either in this thing-all the way-or I'm all the way out."

"He gave us ninety-six hours. Then he promised a doomsday scenario.

"He changed some of the target cities. It's still Washington and London, but also Tel Aviv and Paris. He won't explain the change. He wants four billion dollars, and he wants the political prisoners released. He won't explain a goddamn thing to us."

"That's all?" I said. "Four doomed cities? A few billion in ransom? Free some murderers?"

Burns shook his head. "No, that's not all. He's given everything to the press this time. There's going to be panic around the world. But especially in the four cities: London, Paris, Tel Aviv, and here in Washington. He's gone public."

On Sunday morning, after breakfast with Nana, I left for Paris. Ron Burns wanted me in France. End of discussion.

Exhausted and probably depressed, I slept for a good part of the flight. Then I read a lot of CIA files about a KGB agent who had lived in Paris eleven years ago and might have worked with Thomas Weir. That agent supposedly was the Wolf. And something had happened. A "mistake." A big one, apparently.

I'm not sure what kind of reception I was expecting from the French, especially given the recent history between our countries, but things went fairly smoothly once I arrived. In fact, it seemed to me that the command center in Paris worked better than the similar command centers I'd seen in London and Washington. The reason for this was clear immediately.

The infrastructure in Paris was simpler, the organization much smaller. One official told me, "It's easy to share here, because the file you need is next door or right down the hall."

I received a quick briefing, then was thrown into a high-level meeting. A general in the army looked at me and addressed me in English. "Dr. Cross, to be honest with you, we haven't ruled out the possibility that this violence is part of the jihad, that is to say, Islamic terrorist attacks. Please believe me, they are clever enough to dream up something bizarre like this. They are duplicitous enough to have even dreamed up the Wolf. This would explain the demand to release the hostages, would it not?"

I didn't say a word. How could I? Al Qaeda? Behind everything so far? Behind the Wolf? That was what the French believed? That was why I was there?

"As you know, our two countries don't share the same perspective on the connection between the Islamic terror networks and the current situation in the Middle East. We believe that the jihad isn't actually a war against Western values. It is a complex reaction against the leaders of Muslim nations who haven't adopted radical Islam."

"And yet the four main targets of radical Islam are the United States, Israel, France, England," I spoke from my seat. "And the current targets of the so-called Wolf? Washington, Tel Aviv, Paris, London."