"I think the plan is to let them come in and hope they lead us to others. Higher-ups. Everything is moving quickly and very loosey-goosey now."

"Maybe a little too loosey-goosey," I said.

"We do things differently. Please try to respect that, to understand it if you can."

I nodded. "Etienne, I don't think there will be any contact with higher-ups on the ground here. That isn't how the Wolf works. Every player has a part to play, but no clue about the larger plan."

The detective looked me in the eye. "I'll pass that on," he said.

But I doubted very much that he would. An idea struck me, and it was hard to handle. I am all alone over here, aren't I? I am the Ugly American.

I finally went back to the Relais at two in the morning. I was up again at 6:30. No rest for the righteous, or the ridiculous. But the Wolf didn't want us rested, did he? He wanted us stressed and afraid and capable of making mistakes.

I walked to the Préfecture de Police, obsessing about the twisted mind behind all of this. Why was he twisted? The Wolf had supposedly been a KGB agent before he came to America, where he became a powerful force in the Red Mafiya. He'd spent time in England and here in France. He was clever enough that we still didn't know his identity, not even a name, and we definitely didn't have a complete history for him.

He thought big. But why would he align himself with Islamic terrorist groups? Unless he'd been involved with al Qaeda from the start? Was that really a possibility? If so, it scared the hell out of me. Because it was so incredibly unthinkable, so preposterous in a way. But so much that was happening in the world seemed preposterous these days.

Out of the corner of my eye-a flash!

Suddenly I was aware of a silver and black motorcycle coming at me on the sidewalk! My heart clutched and I jumped out into the street. I spread my arms and balanced myself to move quickly, left or right, depending on the motorcycle's path.

But then I noticed that none of the other pedestrians around me seemed concerned. A smile finally crossed my lips. I remembered Etienne mentioning that oversize motorcycles were popular in Paris and that their riders acted as if they were on much smaller mopeds or scooters, sometimes circumnavigating traffic by going up onto sidewalks.

The bike rider, decked out in his blue blazer and tan slacks, was a Paris businessman, not an assassin. He passed by without so much as a nod. I'm losing it, aren't I? But that was understandable. Who wouldn't begin to lose it under this pressure?

At 8:45 that morning, I walked to the front of a room full of important French police and army officials. We were inside the Ministère de l'Intérieur which was located in L'Hôtel Beauvau.

We had just over thirty-three hours left to doomsday. The room was a strange mix of expensive-looking eighteenth-century-style furniture and genuinely expensive modern technology. In sharp contrast, scenes from London, Paris, Washington, and Tel Aviv played on TV monitors on the walls. Mostly empty streets. Heavily armed soldiers and police everywhere.

We are at war, I thought to myself, with a madman.

I'd been told that I could speak in English to the group, but it would be best if I went slowly and enunciated my words clearly. I figured they were afraid I was going to deliver my talk in street slang that no one in the room would understand.

"My name is Dr. Alex Cross. I'm a forensic psychologist," I began. "I was a homicide detective in Washington, D.C., before I became an agent with the FBI. Less than a year ago, I worked on a case that put me in touch with the Red Mafiya. In particular, I was involved with a former KGB man known only as the Wolf. The Wolf is my subject this morning."

I could have done the rest in my sleep. For the next twenty minutes I talked about the Russian. But even as I was finishing up and the question-and-answer period began, it was clear to me that although the French were willing to listen to what I had to say, they were steadfast in their belief that Islamic terrorists were the real source of the threat to the four targeted cities. Either the Wolf was part of al Qaeda or he was working with them.

I was trying to keep my mind open, but if their theory was correct, my mind would be completely blown. I just didn't buy it. The Wolf was Red Mafiya.

About eleven o'clock, I went back to my cubicle office and found that I had a new partner.

A new partner? Now?

Everything was going so fast; it was all a blur to me, often incomprehensible. I had to assume that the FBI had contacted someone and pulled some strings. Someone had. The new partner was an agent de police, a woman named Maud Boulard, who immediately informed me that we would be working in the "French police way," whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

Physically, she was very much like Etienne Marteau: thin, with an aquiline nose and sharp features-but shiny red hair. She went out of her way to tell me she had visited New York and Los Angeles and didn't care for either city at all.

"Our deadline is close," I told her.

"I know the deadline, Dr. Cross. Everyone does. To work fast does not mean to work intelligently."

What she called "our surveillance of the Red Mafiya" began along the Parc Monceau in the eighth arrondissement. Unlike in the United States, where the Russians seemed to hang out in such working-class neighborhoods as Brighton Beach in New York, the Mafiya was apparently situated in pricier digs here.

"Maybe because they know Paris better and have operated here longer," Maud suggested. "I think so. I have known the Russian thugs for many years. They don't believe in your Wolf, by the way. Believe me, I've asked around."

And that's what we did for the next hour or so. Talked about the Wolf to Russian thugs Boulard knew. If nothing else, the morning was beautiful, with bright blue skies, which made it excruciating for me. What was I doing there?

At 1:30, Maud said cheerfully, "Let's have lunch. With the Russians, of course. I know just the place."

She took me into what she called "one of the oldest Russian restaurants in Paris," Le Daru. The front room was paneled with warm pine as if we were inside the dacha of a wealthy Muscovite.

I was angry, but trying not to show it. We simply didn't have time for a sit-down lunch.

Nevertheless, Maud and I ate. I wanted to strangle her, the obsequious waiter, anybody I could get my hands on. I'm certain she had no idea how angry I was. Some detective!

As we finished, I noticed that two men at a nearby table were watching us, or maybe they were eyeing Maud, with her lustrous red hair.

I told her about the men, and she shrugged it off as "the way men are in Paris. Pigs."

"Let's see if they follow," she said as we got up and left the restaurant. "I doubt that they will. I don't know them. I know everybody here. Not your Wolf, though."

"They're leaving right behind us," I told her.

"Good for them. It is the exit after all."

The short rue Daru ended at rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, which Maud told me was a window-shopping experience that continued all the way to the place Vendôme. We had walked only a block when a white Lincoln limousine pulled up alongside us.

A dark-bearded man opened the rear door and looked out. "Please get in the car. Don't make a scene," he said in English with a Russian accent. "Get in, now. I'm not fooling around."

"No," said Maud. "We don't get in your car. You come out here and talk to us. Who the hell are you? Who do you think you are?"

The bearded man pulled a gun and fired twice. I couldn't believe what had just happened right in the middle of a Paris street.