Deliver Us From Evil, Page 27

  “It is, but airport security is a lot tighter. And there’re fewer ways out of an airport if things go bad. And most of them take you through lots of armed guys in uniforms.”

  “Okay, the train. And after that?”

  “We’ll play it by ear.”

  “Who are you with?” asked Reggie as she leaned forward from the rear seat.

  “I’m with Frank back there on the plane. That’s pretty much all you need to know.”

  “So you’re cops,” said Whit.

  “I wouldn’t describe it that way, no.”

  “Spies.”

  “No comment.”

  “What’s left?”

  “Me.”

  Whit grinned and looked at Reggie. “The big guy is growing on me, Reg. He really is. Now here’s the deal, Shaw army of one. If we get to England safe and sound you’re going to go your way and we’re going ours.”

  “Who’s going to protect you against, what was his name, Kuchin?”

  “You obviously don’t know who that is,” said Reggie.

  “Should I?”

  “There was a man named Mykola Shevchenko. KGB. He’s known as the Butcher of Kiev, but Kuchin was his top assistant, and he was the man who slaughtered hundreds of thousands of innocent people in the most brutal ways possible. Shevchenko was executed by firing squad after the Wall fell, but Kuchin got away.”

  “I guess history only remembers the top guy, not the ones running around pulling the triggers,” said Shaw. “So you were going after the guy for that. What’s your connection? Some of you Ukrainian?”

  “Yeah, on my mother’s side,” said Whit with a smirk. “And to answer your other question, we can protect ourselves.”

  Shaw eyed him skeptically. “You’ve done a hell of a job of it so far.”

  “Sometimes plans go awry, things don’t work, the unexpected occurs.”

  “Come on! It was a cock-up from start to finish,” fired back Shaw.

  Whit snapped, “Well, you blokes were here to nail him too and then you pulled out without even taking a shot. At least we tried.”

  “Not my call.”

  “Where were you going to hit him?” asked Reggie.

  Shaw hesitated. “Les Baux, the caves.”

  She considered this. “Probably a better place than the one we chose.”

  “Hey,” barked Whit. “We did the best we could with what we had. And you coming into the equation didn’t help matters,” he added, glowering at Shaw. “We might not have fancy jets but we usually get the job done.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that. But if you think you can protect yourselves against this guy without help, you’re wrong. You can ask some dead Muslims about it.”

  “I don’t care if he snuffed a couple of those guys,” declared Whit. “And you know what else? I’m going after his ass again. And this time we’ll get him.”

  “The only thing you’ll get is dead.”

  “Why don’t you just shut up and drive?” Whit turned to stare moodily out the windshield.

  Shaw glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Reggie staring at him.

  He mouthed, It’ll be okay.

  But even as he said it Shaw knew he was lying to the woman.

  He turned his gaze back to the road.

  CHAPTER

  62

  KUCHIN’S PLANE was halfway across the Atlantic. Rice had accessed the Internet to check on the Facebook page that had been set up for Reggie posing as Jane Collins and also the other background information they had found there. It had all been deleted.

  He fearfully told Kuchin of this while the man rested in his seat.

  “We didn’t print copies out either,” Rice said, his voice trembling. “So we don’t even have her photo.”

  “I have her photo,” said Kuchin surprisingly. “I took it when you both were out on the terrace talking before dinner.”

  “You had suspicions?”

  “No, I wanted a picture of a beautiful woman. But now, now I have suspicions,” Kuchin added sarcastically.

  “We have nothing on Bill Young.”

  By now Kuchin had drawn sketches of Reggie, Shaw, Whit, and Dominic. His eye and memory for detail were astonishing. He showed them to Rice, who nodded approvingly. “Spot-on, Evan. You’re quite an artist.”

  “I want the three sketches of the men transferred into a digital format or whatever it is called. Can this be done in a way that would allow a search through a photo database?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Then make it happen. Along with the photo of the woman, of course. On every database we can buy our way onto.”

  “Understood. But if you have a picture of the woman why did you sketch her too?”

  Kuchin didn’t answer this. Instead he said, “I do not like leaving Europe. The accents from the men were unmistakable, particularly the Irishman.”

  “But not the lobbyist?”

  “No. He is different.” Kuchin rubbed his battered jaw. “I have been hit before in my life. I have never been hit that hard. I am stunned my jaw isn’t broken. A strong man. A dangerous man.”

  Rice added, “He knocked out Manuel like he was nothing. And then took out Pascal like he was cardboard, and you know how good Pascal is. And he lifted me up like I was a child. I felt his arm, it was like iron.”

  “It was not so much his strength that impressed me,” said Kuchin. “There are many strong men, stronger even than he is. It was the speed, and the skill. Three armed men, four counting you, Alan. But three armed men who are good with weapons, and still he managed to do it.”

  “There was some luck involved, surely.”

  “There is always an element of luck. The question becomes, did it happen on its own, or did he create it himself? I tend to think the latter. He came out with his elbows raised horizontally, a classic close-quarters combat technique. It allowed him to strike fast on a pivot and with maximum power since he could use his weight and the leverage of his torso and hips. And bent-elbow strikes are preferable over a fist. There are many small bones in the hand that can break on contact. Any one of them snaps, that limb is useless. An elbow, on the other hand, is comprised of only three bones at a pivotal juncture, and they’re all relatively large. The elbow is at its greatest risk of breaking when it’s extended. You fall, reach out palm down, arm straight, and the part of the anatomy that takes the brunt of the fall is the elbow. It snaps.” Kuchin made a V with his arm. “But if you bend the arm those stress points vanish and the resulting durability and striking power are formidable.”

  “You know a lot about these things.”

  “I know enough. And he kept moving, always moving, making it very difficult to line up a shot.”

  “If he’s that good, maybe we should give it a pass.”

  Kuchin looked at him, clearly disappointed. “They strapped me to a crypt. They were going to put me in a grave with old bones. They defiled consecrated ground in a Catholic church. And I must now hit them back far harder than they hit me. So from this point forward it is the only thing I will focus on.”

  “But the business.”

  “That is why I have you.” He put an arm around the other man’s narrow shoulders and squeezed. Rice moaned slightly, since his entire body was sore from his brief but painful encounter with Shaw. “You will do a good job. And if I see any indication of you overstepping your authority or trying to replace me at the top, just keep in mind that the dogs I used on Abdul-Majeed are still available.”

  Rice said nervously, “Evan, about the name they called you?”

  “I would not think of it ever again if I were you.”

  The plane did not land in Montreal. Kuchin had ordered a change in the flight plan. They put down on a long strip of level asphalt that he’d built in far eastern Canada on the Labrador side of the province of Labrador and Newfoundland.

  Rice looked out the window as the plane taxied to a stop. “Evan, what’s going on? Why are we landing at your place here?�
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  “I’m not going on to Montreal. The plane will.” He rose and slipped on a long coat.

  “But why here?”

  “And you won’t be leaving on this plane.”

  Rice looked pale. “I don’t understand.”

  “Unfortunately it can’t be helped. My jet is too easily followed.”

  “You mean I’m driving all the way to Montreal? That’s a long way.”

  “Over a thousand miles, actually. But you’ll be driven and you won’t have to go the whole way. In Goose Bay, I will engage another plane that will fly you the rest of the way to Montreal. You’ll be there in time for a late dinner. But you will not go to your home or the office. You will stay at the safe house outside of the city. You will conduct your business from there. And two of my men will be with you at all times. Understood?”

  “Certainly, yes. You think these precautions are actually necessary?”

  “Considering that I was almost dumped into a crypt in the basement of a church in Gordes, yes, I do.” He laid a hand on his assistant’s shoulder. “I will be monitoring your progress closely. You can stay on the plane. I will send transportation out to you.”

  The jet door and gangway descended and Kuchin stepped off, climbed in a waiting Escalade, and was driven off.

  Kuchin did not look back at his jet but kept his gaze resolutely ahead. If they knew he was Fedir Kuchin, what would be their next step? They were prepared to kill him, so he didn’t believe they were tied to an official organization like Interpol, or America’s FBI. Or even the successor to the old KGB, the Russian Federal Security Service. It had been known in the past to round up old Soviet targets and imprison or execute them after a very public trial for the global goodwill it would inspire. They did that, Kuchin thought with contempt, while a former KGB officer was now leading the country. It was disgusting what democracy could inspire.

  Yet if he were wrong and they were official? They could come swooping in and dismantle his entire organization. They might be waiting for the jet to land in Montreal. Well, they would find it empty, and he trusted his pilots not to reveal his location. This was not simply an act of faith on his part. They had both been with him many years, and they knew that Kuchin knew where their families lived.

  He had built a compound in a remote location nearly forty kilometers from here. He had over the years accumulated thousands of acres and put his house in the middle of some of the most rugged, glaciated tundra outside of Siberia. It was unforgiving terrain and yet Kuchin found solace and familiarity here. He and Rice had devised many successful business models here over the last four years. He could think here, deeply. And he would do so now as he planned his counterattack.

  CHAPTER

  63

  WE’RE SCREWED,” muttered Shaw as he stared at the interior of the train station. Wearing a hat, tinted sunglasses, and, despite the warm air, a bulky sweatshirt, he’d entered the immense bustle of Gare du Nord in Paris only to find that numerous police officers were walking the floor holding pictures of him. Reggie, Whit, and Dominic, similarly disguised, had followed him in separately and just seen what he had.

  Then he pointed to a policewoman walking near an entrance door. In her hand was a color image of a second person.

  Reggie recognized her image immediately. “Shit.”

  After confirming that these were the only pictures being distributed, Shaw turned and left the station. The others joined him outside near a rack of luggage carts.

  “Now what?” asked Dominic.

  Whit answered. “I say the three of us take our chances and you”—he pointed at Shaw—“can take your chances somewhere else.”

  Shaw said, “I disagree.”

  “I don’t care if you bloody disagree.”

  “Use your brain, Whit. Four together is easier to catch. They’ve got my and Reggie’s pictures in there, not you two. You get on the train and get back to London. Reggie and I will get there another way.”

  “I don’t think so,” Whit shot back.

  “He’s right, Whit,” said Reggie. “It’s better to split up. If they catch us, so be it. But it would be stupid to let them catch all of us at once.”

  Whit was unmoved by her arguments. “You seem to be trying awfully hard to think of reasons to stay with this guy.”

  Shaw leaned against the wall of the station and said, “Why don’t you let the lady make up her own mind, Whit, or is that against company policy?”

  “Why don’t you shut the hell up? You don’t know anything about us.”

  “Not for lack of interest or trying.”

  “If we go on the train, how are you getting back to England?” Whit asked Reggie.

  Shaw answered, “Amsterdam. We can grab a ferry there. I know somebody. They don’t ask questions and I doubt the police will be covering it.”

  Reggie said, “Whit, you and Dom get on the damn train. He needs to get his arm looked after as soon as possible. A little over two hours on a train is a lot better than pitching on the Channel in a boat for days.”

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you? You’re going with this bloke even though you don’t know who the hell he is?”

  “I know he saved our lives. I know he disobeyed orders to come with us. Do I need to know more?”

  Whit eyed her and then Shaw and finally looked at Dominic for support. The young man’s gaze, however, went directly to the pavement.

  “Fine,” said Whit. “You two just go off doing whatever. Maybe I’ll see you back in England and maybe I won’t. I’ll drop you a line when I finish off Kuchin.” He turned and stalked back into the station, Dominic scuttling after him.

  Shaw looked at Reggie. “Is he always this good-natured?”

  “He’s a bloody man, isn’t he? It’s not part of their psychology to be good-natured when they don’t get their bloody way!” She yelled these last words after Whit, but he and Dominic had already disappeared into Gare du Nord. Reggie stalked off in the opposite direction.

  Five minutes later she and Shaw were driving off in a dark blue Ford compact Shaw had snatched because the driver had helpfully left the keys on the front seat. After driving three blocks Shaw had pulled over. He’d taken the plates off the Range Rover before ditching it. Now he switched out the Ford’s license plates with those.

  “The cops will match the make and model before they check the plates,” he told Reggie. “Range Rover, not Ford. And the guy whose car we stole—”

  “It’ll be the reverse. Plates before make and model. So on to Holland?”

  “Right. Get some sleep.”

  “What if you get drowsy?”

  “I don’t,” said Shaw.

  CHAPTER

  64

  WHIT HAD just finished speaking. Dominic sat next to him, his wounded arm in a fresh cast. Professor Mallory and Liza sat opposite them in the library at Harrowsfield. Mallory tapped his new pipe stem idly against the old table while Liza, her mouth screwed up in concentration, stared down at her hands.

  “You’re sure that this tall fellow, what was his real name again?” began Mallory.

  “Shaw,” said Whit.

  “Yes, this Shaw fellow. He could not have been the one who set you up?”

  “He saved us, Professor. I don’t know why he would have sabotaged the hit only to later come in and pull our asses out of the fire.”