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“Of course.” The Wolf nodded cordially. He walked to the suite’s mirrored wet bar, where he made the drinks and decided what to do next. He was starting to enjoy this. It was different. No one here was afraid of him.
He plopped down on the pillowed couch between Ilia and Alexei. He looked back and forth into their faces, smiling broadly again. “You’ve been away from Russia for a long time, no? Maybe too long,” he said. “You drink Bombay gin? You forget your manners?”
“We hear you’re a real tough man,” said Alexei, who was in his early thirties and obviously lifted weights, a lot of weights, and often. He was around six feet and over two hundred twenty pounds.
“No. Not really,” said the Wolf. “I am just another American businessman these days. Nothing very special. Not tough anymore. So, I was wondering, do we have a deal for the game with Montreal?”
Alexei looked over at the cable guy. “Tell him,” he said.
“Alexei and Ilia are looking for a little more action than what we originally talked about,” he said. “You understand what I’m saying? Action?”
“Aahhh,” said the Wolf, and grinned broadly. “I love action,” he said to the businessman. “I love shalit too. Means mischief in my country. Shalit.”
He was up off the couch faster than anyone would have thought possible. He’d pulled a small lead pipe from beneath a couch cushion and he cracked it across Alexei Dobushkin’s cheek. Then he swung it off the bridge of Ilia Teptev’s nose. The two hockey stars were bleeding like stuck pigs in seconds.
Then and only then did the Wolf take out his gun. He held it between the eyes of the cable owner. “You know, they’re not such tough guys as I thought. I can tell about these things in a few seconds,” he said. “Now, down to business. One of the two big bears will allow a score by Montreal in the first period. The other will miss a play for a score in the second. Do you understand? The Flyers will lose the game in which they’re favored. Understood?
“If for any reason this doesn’t happen, then everybody dies. Now let yourselves out. I look forward to the game. As I said, I love American-style hockey.”
The Wolf began to laugh as the big hockey stars stumbled out of the Nero suite. “Nice meeting you Ilia, Alexei,” he said as the door closed. “Break a leg.”
Chapter 59
A HUGE TASK FORCE MEETING was held in the SIOC suite on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building, which was considered sacred ground in the Bureau. SIOC is the Strategic Information Operations Center, and the central suite was where most of the really important powwows were held, from Waco to September 11.
I had been invited, and I wondered whom I had to thank for it. I arrived at around nine and was brought in by an agent who manned the front desk.
I saw that the SIOC suite consisted of four rooms, three of which were filled with state-of-the-art workstations, probably for researchers and analysts. I was led into a large conference room. The focal point was a long glass-and-metal table. On the walls were clocks set to different time zones, several maps, and half a dozen TV monitors. A dozen or so agents were already inside the room, but it was quiet.
Stacy Pollack, the head of SIOC, finally arrived, and the doors were shut. Pollack introduced the agents who were present, as well as two visitors from the CIA. She had a reputation inside the Bureau for being a no-nonsense administrator who didn’t suffer fools and who got results. She was thirty-one years old, and Burns loved her.
The TV monitors on the wall told the latest story: Live-action film was up and running on the major networks. Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, said the super.
“That’s old news. We have a new problem,” announced Pollack from the front of the room. “We’re not here because of the screwup at Beaver Falls. This is internal, so it’s worse. Folks, we think we’ve learned the name of the person responsible for the leaks out of Quantico.”
Then Pollack looked right at me. “A reporter at the Washington Post denies it, but why wouldn’t he?” She continued, “The leaks come from a crime analyst named Monnie Donnelley. You’re working with her, aren’t you, Dr. Cross?”
Suddenly the conference room seemed very small and constricting. Everyone had turned toward me.
“Is this why I’m here?” I asked.
“No,” said Pollack. “You’re here because you’re experienced with sexual-obsession cases. You’ve been involved with more of them than anyone else in the room. But that isn’t my question.”
I thought carefully before I answered. “This isn’t a sexual-obsession case,” I told Pollack. “And Monnie Donnelley isn’t the leak.”
“I’d like you to explain both of those statements,” Pollack challenged me immediately. “Please, go ahead. I’m listening with great interest.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “The abductors, the group or ring behind the kidnappings, are in this for the money. I don’t see any other explanation for their actions. The slain Russian couple on Long Island is a key. I don’t think we should be looking at past sex offenders as our focus. The question should be, Who has the resources and expertise to abduct men and women for a price, and probably a very large price? Who has experience in this area? Monnie Donnelley knows that and she’s an excellent analyst. She’s not the leak to the Post. What would she have to gain?”
Stacy Pollack looked down and shuffled some of her papers. She didn’t comment on anything I’d said. “Let’s move on,” she said.
The meeting resumed without any further discussion of Monnie and the charges against her. Instead, there was a lengthy discussion of the Red Mafiya, including new information that the couple murdered on Long Island definitely had connections to Russian gangsters. There were also rumors of a possible mob war about to break out on the East Coast, involving the Italians and the Russians.
After the larger meeting, we broke off into smaller groups. A few agents took workstations. Stacy Pollack pulled me aside.
“Listen, I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” she said. “I wasn’t suggesting that you’re involved in the leaks, Alex.”
“So who accused Monnie?” I asked.
