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I said, “I don’t care about you. You’re involved in murder. But I’ve seen your kids, your wife. We’ve been watching you at the house. We’ve already spoken to your neighbors and friends. When you’re arrested, your family will be in danger. We can protect them from the Wolf.”
Lipton’s face and neck reddened, and he erupted with “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy? I’m a respected businessman. I never kidnapped or harmed another human being in my life. This is crazy.”
“You gave the orders. The money came to you. Mr. Potter sent you a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Or rather, the FBI did.”
“I’m calling my lawyer,” Lipton screamed. “This is ridiculous and insulting. I don’t have to take this from anybody.”
I shrugged. “Then you’re going down in the worst possible way. These offices will be searched immediately. And then your home in Highland Park. Your parents’ home in Kessler Park will be searched. Your father’s office will be searched. Your wife’s offices at the museum of art will be searched.”
He picked up his phone. I could see that his hand was shaking, though. Then he whispered, “Go fuck yourself.”
I pulled out a two-way and spoke into it. “Hit the offices and the houses,” I said. I turned back to Lipton. “You’re under arrest. You can call your lawyer now. Tell him you’ve been taken to the FBI offices.”
Minutes later, a dozen agents stormed into the office, with its gorgeous city views and stylish and expensive furnishings.
We arrested Sterling.
Chapter 96
PASHA SOROKIN WAS CLOSE BY, and he was watching everyone and everything with great interest. Maybe it was time to show the FBI how these things were done in Moscow, to show them that this wasn’t a child’s game to be played with rules made up by the police.
He had been there outside Sterling’s office building in Dallas when the FBI team rushed inside. More than a dozen of them came calling. A strange assemblage, to be sure: some dressed in dark business suits, others in dark blue windbreakers with FBI boldly imprinted on the back. Who did they really expect to find here? The Wolf? Others from the Wolf’s Den?
They had no concept of what they were getting themselves into. Their dark sedans and vans were parked in plain view on the street. Less than fifteen minutes after they had entered the office building, they came out with Lawrence Lipton in handcuffs, pathetically trying to shield his face. What a scene. They wanted to make a show of this, didn’t they? Why do that? he wondered. To prove how tough they were? How smart? But they weren’t smart. I will show you how tough and smart you need to be. I will show you how lacking you are in every way.
He instructed his driver to start the car. The wheelman did not look around at his boss in the backseat. He said nothing. He knew not to question orders. The Wolf’s ways were strange and unorthodox, but they worked.
“Drive past them,” he ordered. “I want to say hello.”
The FBI agents were casting nervous looks around the street as they led Lawrence Lipton toward a waiting van. A black man walked beside Sterling. Tall and strangely confident. Pasha Sorokin knew from his informant in the Bureau that this was Alex Cross, and that he was held in high regard.
How was it possible that a black man was given command of the raid? he wondered. In Russia, the American Negro was looked down upon. Sorokin had never gotten past his own prejudice; there was no reason to in the U.S.
“Get me close!” he told the driver. He lowered the rear passenger-side window. The second Cross and Lipton had passed his car, Sorokin thrust out an automatic weapon and aimed it at the back of Sterling’s head. Then an amazing thing—something he hadn’t anticipated—happened.
Alex Cross threw Lipton down onto the pavement, and they both rolled behind a parked car. How had Cross known? What had he seen to alert him?
Sorokin fired anyway, but he didn’t really have a clear shot. Still, the gunshot rang out loudly. He had delivered a message. Sterl
ing wasn’t safe. Sterling was a dead man.
Chapter 97
WE TRANSPORTED LAWRENCE LIPTON to the Dallas field office and held him there. I threatened to transfer him to Washington if there was any interference from the local police or even the press. I struck a deal with them. I promised Dallas detectives they’d have their turn with Lipton. As soon as I was done.
At eleven o’clock that night I slumped into a windowless interview room. It was sterile and claustrophobic, and I felt as if I’d been there a couple hundred times before. I nodded to Lawrence Lipton. He didn’t respond; he looked just awful. Probably I did too.
“We can help you, your family. We’ll keep them safe. Nobody else can help you now,” I said. “That’s the truth.”
Lipton finally spoke to me. “I don’t want to talk to you again. I already told you, I’m not involved in any of the shit you say I am. I’m not going to talk anymore. Get my lawyer.” He waved me away.
For the past seven hours he’d been questioned by other FBI agents. This was my third session, and it wasn’t getting easier. His lawyers were in the building, but they’d backed off. They had been informed that he could be formally charged with kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder and immediately transported to Washington. His father was also in the building but had been denied access to his son. I’d interviewed Henry Lipton, and he had wept and insisted his son’s arrest was a mistake.
I sat down across from Lawrence. “Your father is in the building. Would you like to see him?” I asked.
He laughed. “Sure. All I have to do is admit that I’m a kidnapper and murderer. Then I can see my father and ask his forgiveness for my sins.”
I ignored the sarcasm. He wasn’t very good at it. “You know we can confiscate the records of your father’s company, shut it down? Also, your father is a likely target for the Wolf. We’re not here to hurt your family members,” I added. “Not unless your father is involved in this too.”
