It was around nine in the evening. A supervisory agent from the Dallas office, Joseph Denyeau, came on my earphones. “We just got word from the director’s office. We have to back off immediately. I don’t understand it either. The order couldn’t be any clearer, though. Pull back! Everybody head to the office. We need to reconnoiter and talk about this.”
I looked at my partner in the car that night, an agent named Bob Shaw. It was pretty obvious that he didn’t understand what the hell had just happened either.
“What was that?” I asked him.
Shaw shook his head and rolled his eyes. “What do I know? We go back to the field office, drink some bad coffee, maybe somebody higher up explains it to us, but don’t count on it.”
It took us only fifteen minutes to get to the field office at that time of night. We filed into a conference room at the field office, and I saw a lot of weary, confused, and pissed-off agents. Nobody was saying much yet. We’d gotten close to a possible break on this case, and now we’d been ordered to pull back. Nobody seemed to understand why.
The ASAC finally came out of his office and joined the rest of us. Joseph Denyeau looked thoroughly disgusted as he threw his dusty cowboy boots up on a conference table. “I have no idea,” he announced. “Not a clue, folks. Consider yourselves debriefed.”
So about forty agents waited for an explanation of the night’s action, but one didn’t come, or wasn’t “forthcoming,” as they say. The agent in charge, Roger Nielsen, finally called D.C. and was told they would get back to us. In the meantime, we were to stand down. We might even be sent home in the morning.
Around eleven o’clock Denyeau got another update from Nielsen and passed it on to us. “They’re working on it,” he said, and smiled wryly.
“Working on what?” somebody called from the back.
“Oh, hell, I don’t know, Donnie. Working on their pedicures. Working on getting all of us to quit the Bureau. Then there’ll be no more agents and, I guess, no more embarrassing screwups for the media to report. I’m going to get some sleep. I’d advise all of you to do the same.”
That’s what we did.
Chapter 93
WE WERE BACK at the field office by eight the next morning. Several of the agents looked a little messed up after the night off. First thing, Director Burns was on the line from Washington. I was pretty sure the director rarely, if ever, spoke to the troops like this. So why do it now? What was up?
Agents around the room were looking at one another. Brows crinkled, eyebrows arched. No one could fathom why Burns was so involved. Maybe I could. I’d seen the restlessness in him, the dissatisfaction with the ways of the past, even if he couldn’t effectively change them all at once. Burns had started as a street cop in Philadelphia and worked his way up to police commissioner. Maybe he could change things at the Bureau.
“I wanted to explain what happened yesterday,” he said over the speakerphone. Every agent in the room listened intently, myself included. “And I also wanted to apologize to all of you. Everything got territorial for a while. The Dallas police, the mayor, even the governor of Texas was involved. The Dallas police asked that we pull back because they didn’t have full confidence in us. I agreed to the action because I wanted to talk it through with them rather than force our presence there.
“They didn’t want mistakes, and they weren’t sure that we have the right man. The Lipton family has a good reputation in the city. He’s very well connected. Anyway, Dallas was surprised that we listened to their concerns—and now they’ve backed off again. They respect the team we’ve assembled.
“We will continue our action against Lawrence Lipton, and believe me, we’re going to take that bastard down. Then we’re going to take Pasha Sorokin down, the Wolf. I don’t want you to worry about past mistakes. Don’t worry about mistakes at all. Just do your job in Dallas. I have the utmost confidence in you.”
Burns went off the line, and just about every agent’s face in the room wore a smile. It was quite magical, actually. The director had said things that some of them had been waiting years to hear; especially welcome was the news that he believed in their ability and wasn’t worried about mistakes. We were back in the game; we were expected to bring down Lawrence Lipton.
Minutes after the phone call ended, my cell went off. I answered, and it was Burns himself. “So how’d I do?” he asked. I could hear the smile in his voice. I could also almost see the cocky upturn of his lip when he grinned. He knew how he’d done.
I walked away from the group into a far corner of the room and told him what he wanted to hear. “You did good. They’re pumped to do the job.”
Burns exhaled. “Alex, I want you to turn up the heat on this punk. I sold you hard to Dallas as a key member of the team. They bought you, and your reputation. They know how good we think you are. I want you to make Lawrence Lipton very uncomfortable. Do it your own way.”
I found myself smiling. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And Alex, contrary to what I said to the others, don’t make any mistakes.”
Chapter 94
DON’T MAKE ANY MISTAKES. It was a hell of an exit line, I had to give him that. Kind of funny, in a sadistic, hard-ass way. I was starting to like Ron Burns again. Couldn’t help myself. But did I trust him?
Somehow, I got the feeling that Burns wasn’t that worried about the mistakes, though. He wanted to catch the kidnappers, especially Pasha Sorokin—even if we didn’t know yet who he really was or where he lived. According to Burns’s orders, all I had to do was figure out a way to break Lawrence Lipton down, do it in a hurry, and not embarrass the Bureau in any way.
I met with Roger Nielsen on possible strategies—we had already resumed surveillance on Lipton. It was decided that it was time to put real pressure on him, to let him know we were in Dallas and that we knew about him. After Burns’s phone call, I wasn’t surprised that I had been chosen to confront Lipton.
We decided that I would go and see Lipton at his office in the Lakeside Square Building at the intersection of the LBJ Freeway and the North Central Expressway. The building was twenty stories high, with lots of reflective glass. It was practically blinding as I looked skyward in the Texas sunshine. I walked inside at a little past ten in the morning. Lipton’s office suite was on the nineteenth floor. When I got off the elevator, a recorded voice said, “Howdy.”
I stepped into a large reception area with half an acre of wine-colored carpeting, beige walls, and dark brown leather sofas and chairs everywhere. There were framed, signed photos of Roger Staubach, Nolan Ryan, and Tom Landry on the walls.
I was told to wait in reception by a very proper-looking young woman in a dark blue pantsuit. She sat self-importantly behind a sleek walnut desk under recessed lighting. She looked all of twenty-two or twenty-three years old, fresh out of charm school. She acted and spoke as properly as she looked.
“I’ll wait, but let Mr. Lipton know it’s the FBI. It’s important that I see him,” I told her.
The receptionist smiled sweetly, as if she’d heard all this before, then she went back to answering the phone calls coming in on her headset. I sat down and waited patiently; I waited for fifteen minutes. Then I got back up again. I strolled over to the reception desk.
“You told Mr. Lipton that I’m here?” I asked politely. “That I’m with the FBI?”
“I did, sir,” she said in a syrupy voice that was starting to rub me the wrong way.
“I need to see him right now,” I told the girl, and waited until she made another call to Lipton’s assistant.
They talked briefly, then she looked back at me. “Do you have identification, sir?” she asked. She was frowning now.
“I do. They’re called creds.”
“May I see it, please? Your creds.” I showed off my new FBI badge, and she looked it over like a fast-food counterperson inspecting a fifty-dollar bill.
“Could you please wait over at the seating area?” she asked again, only now she seemed
a little nervous, and I wondered what Lawrence Lipton’s assistant had told her, what her marching orders were.
“You don’t seem to understand, or I’m not making myself clear,” I finally said. “I’m not here to fool around with you, and I’m not here to wait.”
The receptionist nodded. “Mr. Lipton is in a meeting. That’s all I know, sir.”
I nodded back. “Tell his assistant to pull him out of his meeting right now. Have her tell Mr. Lipton that I’m not here to arrest him yet.”
I wandered back to the seating area, but I didn’t bother to sit. I stood there and looked out on magnificent Technicolor green lawns that stretched to the concrete edge of the LBJ Freeway. I was burning inside.
I’d just acted like a D.C. street cop. I wondered if Burns would have approved, but it didn’t matter. He’d given me some rope, but I also had made a decision that I wasn’t going to change because I was an FBI agent now. I was in Dallas to bring down a kidnapper; I was here to find out if Mrs. Elizabeth Connolly and others were alive and maybe being held somewhere as slaves. I was back on the Job. I heard a door open behind me and I turned. A heavyset man with graying hair was standing there and he looked angry.
“I’m Lawrence Lipton,” he said. “What the hell is this about?”
Chapter 95
“WHAT THE HELL is this about?” Lipton repeated from the doorway in a loud-mouth, big-shot way. He was speaking to me as if I were a door-to-door brush salesman. “I think you were told that I’m in an important meeting. What does the FBI want with me? And why can’t it wait? Why don’t you have the courtesy to make an appointment?”
There was something about his attitude that didn’t completely track for me. He was trying to be a tough guy, but I didn’t think he was. He was just used to beating up on other businessmen. He wore a rumpled blue dress shirt and a rep tie, pinstriped trousers, and tasseled loafers, and he was at least fifty pounds overweight. What could this man have in common with the Wolf?
I looked at him and said, “It’s about kidnapping; it’s about murder. Do you want to talk about this out here in reception? Sterling.”
Lawrence Lipton paled and lost most of his bravado. “Come inside,” he said, and took a step back.
I followed him into an area of cubicles separated by low partitions. Clerical personnel, lots of them. So far this was going about as I’d expected. But now it would get more interesting. Lipton might be “softer” than I had expected, but he had powerful connections in Dallas. This office building was in one of the most upscale residential/commercial parts of the city.
“I’m Mr. Potter,” I said, as we walked down a corridor with fabric-covered walls. “At least I played Mr. Potter the last time we talked in the Wolf’s Den.”
Lipton didn’t turn, didn’t respond in any way. We entered a wood-paneled office and he shut the door. The large room had half a dozen windows and a panoramic view. A hat rack near the door held a collection of autographed Dallas Cowboy and Texas Ranger caps.
“I still don’t know what this is about, but I’ll give you exactly five minutes to explain yourself,” he snapped. “I don’t think you know who you’re talking to.”
“Actually, I do. You’re Henry Lipton’s oldest son. You’re married with three children and a nice house in Highland Park. You’re also involved with a kidnapping and murder scheme that we’ve been tracking closely for several weeks. You’re Sterling, and I want you to understand something—all your connections, all your father’s connections in Dallas, will not help you now. On the other hand, I would like to protect your family as much as possible. That’s up to you. I’m not bluffing. I don’t ever bluff. This is a federal crime, not a local one.”
“I’m going to call my lawyer,” Lawrence Lipton said, and went for the phone.
“You have that right. But I wouldn’t if I were you. It won’t do any good.”
My tone of voice, something, stopped Lipton from making the call. His flabby hand moved away from the phone on his desk. “Why?” he asked.
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.”