The Big Bad Wolf

THE WOLF WAS in Washington, D.C., on a business trip that night. He had a late dinner at the Ruth's Chris Steak House on Connecticut Avenue near Dupont Circle. Joining him was Franco Grimaldi, a stocky thirty-eightyear- old Italian capo from New York. They talked about a promising scheme to build Tahoe into a gambling mecca that would rival Vegas and Atlantic City; they also talked about pro hockey, the latest Vin Diesel movie, and a plan the Wolf had to make a billion dollars on a single job. Then the Wolf said he had to leave. He had another meeting in Washington. Business rather than pleasure. "You seeing the president?" Grimaldi asked. The Russian laughed. "No. He can't get anything done. He's all stronzate. Why should I see him? He should see me about Bin Laden and the terrorists. I get things done." "Tell me something," Grimaldi asked before the Wolf left. "The story about Palumbo out in the max-security prison in Colorado. You did that?" The Wolf shook his head. "A complete fairy tale. I am a businessman, not a lowlife, not some butcher. Don't believe everything you hear about me." The Mafia head watched the unpredictable Russian leave the steak house, and he was almost certain the man had killed Palumbo, and also that the president ought to contact the Wolf about Al Qaeda. Around midnight, the Wolf got out of a black Dodge Viper in Potomac Park. He could see the outline of an SUV across Ohio Drive. The roof light blinked on and a single passenger got out. Come to me, pigeon, he whispered. The man who approached him in Potomac Park was FBI and worked in the Hoover Building. His carriage was stiff and herky-jerky, like that of so many government functionaries. There was no confident G-man swagger. The Wolf had been warned that he couldn't buy a useful agent and that he couldn't trust the information if he did. But he hadn't believed that. Money always bought things, and it always bought people - especially if they had been passed over for promotions and raises; this was as true in America as it had been in Russia. If anything, it was more true here, where cynicism and bitterness were becoming the national pastimes. "So is anybody talking about me up on the fifth floor of the Hoover?" he asked. "I don't want to meet like this. Next time, you run an ad in the Washington Times." The Wolf smiled, but then he jabbed a finger into the federal agent's jaw. "I asked you a question. Is anybody talking about me?" The agent shook his head. "Not yet, but they will. They've connected the murdered couple on Long Island to Atlanta and to the King of Prussia Mall." The Wolf nodded. "Of course they have. I understand that these people of yours aren't stupid. They're just very limited." "Don't underestimate them," the agent warned. "The Bureau is changing. They're going to come after you with everything they have." "It won't be enough," said the Wolf. "And besides, maybe I'll come after them - with everything I have. I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow their house down."