"Please keep an open mind on the matter. In addition, you should know that former KGB officers were involved and very influential with Saddam Hussein in Iraq. As I say, keep an open mind."

I nodded. "I have an open mind. But I have to tell you, I've seen no evidence that Islamic terrorists are behind this threat. I've dealt with the Wolf before. Believe me, he doesn't embrace the values of Islam. He isn't a religious man."

That night I had dinner by myself in Paris. Actually, I walked around just to see the situation in the city firsthand. There were heavily armed French soldiers everywhere. Tanks and jeeps in the streets. Not too many people out walking. Worried looks on the faces of those who ventured out for whatever reason.

I ate at one of the few places open for business, Les Olivades on avenue de Ségur. The restaurant and clientele were extremely laid-back, which was what I needed, given the jet lag and confusion, not to mention the state of the siege in Paris.

After the meal I walked some more, thinking about the Wolf and also Thomas Weir. The Wolf murdered Weir on purpose, didn't he? He's targeted Paris for a reason, too. Why? What is his thing with bridges? A possible clue for us? Are bridges symbolic for him? What is the symbolism?

It was sad and strange to walk around Paris, knowing that a deadly attack could come at any time. I was there to find some way to stop it-but honestly, no one knew where to start; no one had turned up one clue as to the identity of the Wolf or where he might be staying, not even a country. The Wolf had lived there, eleven years ago. Something bad had happened. What was it?

That section of Paris was gorgeous, broad avenues and wide sidewalks cutting a swath between the well-kept stone buildings. Wavering trails of a few car lights streamed up and down the avenues. People leaving Paris? And then-when we would least expect it- boom! Kiss your ass good-bye.

The scary thing was that a really bad end seemed almost inevitable. And not just another bridge this time.

That's how well he had us set up. He was in full control-but we had to turn that around somehow.

When I got back to my hotel, I called the kids. It was six at night in Maryland; their aunt Tia would just be getting dinner ready, the kids complaining they were too busy to help. Jannie answered the phone, "Bonsoir, Monsieur Cross." Was she psychic?

Then Jannie launched into half a dozen questions she'd been saving up for me. In the meantime, Damon had picked up the extension. Both of them began to rattle off questions. I think they wanted to lessen the tension all of us were feeling.

Had I visited Notre Dame Cathedral? Did I meet the Hunchback (ha, ha)? Did I see the famous gargoyles, like the one they remembered who was eating another one?

"I didn't have time to climb the towers to the Gallery of Fabulous Beasts today. I'm working here." I got in a couple of sentences.

"We know that, Dad," Jannie said. "We're just trying to keep everything light. We miss you," she whispered.

"Miss you, Dad," Damon said.

"Je t'aime," said Jannie.

Minutes later I was alone in a faraway hotel room, in a city under a death threat.

Je t'aime aussi.

The clock was ticking… loudly. Or was that just my heart getting ready to explode?

Early the next morning it was arranged for me to have a partner. His name was Etienne Marteau, a detective with the French National Police. Marteau was a small and wiry man, cooperative and competent on the face of it. But I had the sense that he'd been assigned to watch me more than to work with me. That was so messed up, so counterproductive, it started to drive me crazy.

In the late afternoon I spoke to Ron Burns's office about going home. My request was denied. By Tony Woods! Tony never even bothered to take it to the director. He reminded me that Thomas Weir and the Wolf had probably met in Paris.

"I didn't forget, Tony," I told him, and hung up.

So I began to wade through the records and data that had been collected by the National Police. I looked for connections to Thomas Weir, or even the CIA. I was even trying to keep an open mind about Islamic terrorists, for God's sake!

Detective Marteau was slightly helpful, but the process was slow and the Frenchman needed frequent breaks for cigarettes and coffee. This wasn't going anywhere, and again I had the feeling that whatever help I could bring to the situation was being wasted there. I was getting a really bad headache, too.

About six o'clock we gathered in the crisis center. The goddamn clock was ticking! The Wolf would call again, I finally learned. The mood in the room was charged but clearly negative: we all knew we were being manipulated and insulted. I was sure the atmosphere was the same in Washington, London, Tel Aviv.

Suddenly we heard his voice on the speakerphone. Heavily filtered. Familiar. Obscene.

"Sorry to keep everybody waiting," he said, and although he didn't laugh, there was nothing but derision in his tone. I wanted to scream at the bastard.

"But then, of course, I have been kept waiting, haven't I? I know, I know, it's because the precedent is unacceptable to all the governments, the loss of face. I understand. I get it.

"And now, I need you to understand something, too. This deadline is the final one. I will even make a concession. If it makes you feel better, go ahead and try to find me. Bring your investigations out into the open. Catch me if you can.

"But know this, and know it well, you bastards. This time, the money must be paid on time. All of it. The prisoners of war must be released. All of them. The deadline will not be extended, and believe me, it is a dead line. If you miss it, even by minutes, there will be tens of thousands of murders in each of the four cities. You heard me right-I said murders. Believe me, I will push the button. I will kill in a way the world has rarely seen. Especially in Paris. Au revoir, mes amis."

Later that night Etienne Marteau and I thought we might have stumbled onto something useful and maybe even important. At that point every clue was being looked at as vital.

The French National Police had intercepted several messages dialed on the phone of a known arms dealer working out of Marseilles. The dealer specialized in hardware from the Red Army, contraband that was floating all over Europe, especially in Germany, France, and Italy. In the past, he'd sold contraband to radical Islamic groups.

Marteau and I read and re-read the transcript of a phone conversation between the arms dealer and a suspected terrorist with ties to al Qaeda. The conversation was coded, but the French police had broken most of it down:

ARMS DEALER:Cousin, how is your business these days? [Are you ready to do the job?] Are you coming to see me soon? [Can you travel?]

TERRORIST:Oh, you know, I have a wife and too many children. These things are sometimes complicated. [He has a large team.]

ARMS DEALER:For God's sake, I have told you before-bring your woman and the children with you. You should come right now. [Bring your whole team now.]

TERRORIST:We are all very tired. [We are being watched.]

ARMS DEALER:Everyone is tired. But you will love it here. [It's safe for you.] I guarantee it.

TERRORIST:All right, then. I will start loading up my family.

ARMS DEALER:I have my stamp collection ready for you. [Probably special tactical weapons.]

"What does he mean, 'my stamp collection'?" I asked. "That's a key phrase, isn't it?"

"They're not sure, Alex. They believe it's weapons. What kind-who knows for certain? Something serious."

"Will they stop the terrorist team now? Or let them into France and watch them?"