Deliver Us From Evil (15 page)

R
EGGIE HAD INSISTED
that they eat at one of the restaurants in Gordes instead of at his villa, and Waller had finally relented.

“You are tenacious,” he had said in a mildly scolding tone.

“No, I’m just exercising common sense. I don’t really know you. And my parents wouldn’t have wanted me to go unescorted to
your house, even just for dinner.”

“Wise people, your parents.”

“They
were
, yes.”

“I see. I am sorry.”

“So am I,” Reggie had said firmly.

They had walked up together to the village and taken a table outside that was wrapped by a three-foot-high wrought iron fence.
As usual, Waller’s men hovered at a nearby table. However, Pascal was not part of the security team tonight.

“Do they always go where you go?” Reggie asked as she observed the armed men.

“One of the prices that must be paid for success,” Waller said, spreading his arms in mock helplessness. He was dressed in
a blue blazer with a white pocket kerchief, khaki slacks, white silk shirt, and royal blue deck shoes that showed his bare
pale ankles. The air had not yet cooled from the day’s heat and there was a line of perspiration across his brow. She was
sure there would be curves of sweat under his armpits too. Reggie had opted for a pale blue skort, yellow blouse, and white
sandals, with a matching yellow scarf around her hair. There was no sweat on her face.

“It would be hard to imagine anyone trying to hurt anyone around here,” said Reggie as she finished her last bite of beef.

Waller sipped his wine and eyed her appraisingly. “It is serene here, bucolic. Beautiful.” He smiled. “Just as you are.”

At a wave from Waller the waiter brought a second bottle of the same wine and poured it out. Reggie picked up her full wineglass
and began to swirl the liquid around, absently checking its color against the flame of the lighted candle set in a bowl in
the middle of the table. “You mentioned that you might have children my age.
Do
you have children?”

He waved a hand carelessly. “No, I was merely speaking hypothetically. I suppose I was always too busy for children.”

“Wife?”

“If I had one now, she would be with me on this trip.”

“Had one now? So you were married?”

“Yes.”

“Did she pass away, or were you divorced?”

“Questions, questions,” he said in a casual tone, but his look was sterner.

“I’m sorry,” Reggie said. “I was just curious.”

“Both.”

“What?”

“The first one died and the second one divorced me.” He patted her hand. “You remind me a little of my first wife. She was
beautiful too. And stubborn.”

“What was her name?”

Waller started to say something and then seemed to catch himself. “That is the past. I don’t dwell on the past. I live for
the present and look to the future. Let’s finish this wonderful Bordeaux and then take a stroll and admire all things French.”

Later, he guided her back to the street where they set off, his arm through hers. She once more eyed the bodyguards. Waller
followed her gaze.

She said, “I suppose for you it’s necessary, but I wouldn’t want to have to live my life that way.”

“But you yourself are obviously well off. You travel in style; you rent luxurious villas in one of the most beautiful places
on earth. Are you not worried about being kidnapped? Or even killed for your money?”

“I have no money with me unless you count a few euros. If they want my credit cards, they hardly have to kill me for that.
And if they kidnap me there won’t be anyone to pay the ransom. So you see, I would be a very inadequate target for a criminal.”

“Perhaps you are right. Now, the man you’ve been seeing, he looks like he would make a competent bodyguard.”

“Bill
does
look like he can take care of himself.”

“Ah, so it’s Bill. His last name?”

“He didn’t tell me his last name,” she said truthfully. Whit had found it out for her.

This ignorance seemed to brighten Waller’s spirits. “Then you are not that friendly with him. I have only been here a short
time and already you know
my
last name.”

“It’s not a competition, Evan.”

“Of course not,” he said in an unconvincing tone.

“And you are old enough to be my father, like you said.”

“In truth, I am actually old enough to be your grandfather, well almost.” He let go of her arm and pointed across at the church.
“There is one of those in every village you will travel to here.”

“A church? Yes, I suppose so.”

“People use religion for much, mostly to explain their own shortcomings.”

“That’s an unusual theory.”

“Books filled up by foolish people who don’t want to take control of their own lives. So they look for some divine providence
to explain their desires.”

“You mean to guide them?”

“No, I mean for excuses. The people who actually do something with their lives do so from here.” He tapped his chest. “They
don’t need men in collars telling them what to think and who to pray to. And most importantly who to give their money to.”

“I take it you’re not a regular churchgoer.”

He smiled. “Oh, but I am. Every week I am there. And I give much money to the church.”

“Why, if you think it’s a bunch of crap?”

He took her arm once more. “No, I do so because it’s in my heart. I believe. And there is much good with faith. Much good.
My mother would have been in a convent if she’d had her way. Fortunately she did not, otherwise I would not be here. I loved
my mother very much.”

Reggie turned to see him staring directly at her.

“I am going on a private tour of the Les Baux photographic exhibit this week. Have you heard of it?”

“I read about it, yes.”

“Goya is the selected artist this year.”

“Goya? Not a very uplifting choice.”

“It is true that many of his masterpieces are bleak, but they have such power, such insight into the human soul.”

“They depict evil,” Reggie said, before looking away from the man she considered one of the most evil she had ever pursued.

“Yet evil is a large component of the soul. Its potential inhabits everyone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Reggie said breathlessly. “I refuse to believe that.”

“You may refuse if you choose to, but that does not mean that you are right.” He paused. “I would like for you to accompany
me on this tour. We can debate further this point then.”

Reggie didn’t answer right away. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

He smiled through this mild reproach, bent down and kissed the back of her hand. “I enjoyed our dinner, Janie. And now, as
I have business to attend to, I wish you good night.”

He turned and walked off, his men following him.

Reggie just stood there in the middle of the street, desperately trying to divine what that last look had truly meant.

“Troubled?”

She turned around.

Shaw was leaning against a pillar in front of the church.

E
VAN
W
ALLER
climbed into the black SUV and his three-vehicle motorcade roared off, throwing road dust on an older couple slowly making
their way up the hill to Gordes. Waller sat back and studied the screen on his phone. The email was brief, which he liked,
and to the point, which he liked even better.

“How long?” he called up to the driver.

“GPS says fifty minutes, Mr. Waller. Crappy roads.”

“Make it forty.”

The man punched the gas and spoke into his headset. “Roll harder.” The other two vehicles in the column immediately gunned
it.

Thirty-nine minutes later the three vehicles transitioned from a two-lane to a one-lane road and eventually wound their way
far back to a small stone house wedged in among a stand of leafy trees. The yard was dirt, the roof in disrepair, and the
stone crumbling. It was clear no one had lived here for a long time. And there was no other house for miles.

Waller popped open the SUV’s door and stepped out, waiting only a few seconds for his men to clear the area by sight, though
he already had a man posted there who had come out of the house when the trucks had arrived. Waller marched into the house,
his men bringing up the rear, with two left outside on perimeter watch.

The room was small, dark, and smelled of feces and mildew. It had no effect on Waller. He’d experienced much worse. There
was one narrow table in the middle of the room, seven feet long and turned on one end so it reached nearly to the low ceiling.
Two of the legs had been sawn off and the table edge rested against the floor. The remaining two legs were wedged against
a wall for support. A naked man with dark hair and a beard was tied spread-eagled to the tabletop. Waller looked over at Pascal,
who stood in one darkened corner, his gaze on the man with no clothes.

“You did well in organizing his capture, Pascal.”

“He tried to run, Mr. Waller, but he didn’t know how to.”

Waller walked up to the captive. From the light thrown by a couple of battery-powered lanterns, he could see the ambivalence
in the man’s features. This angered Waller. Either fear him or hate him, but feel something. He slapped the man across his
bloodied face.

“Are you awake, Abdul-Majeed? You do not seem to be all here.”

“I am awake. I see you. So what?” Waller knew that the man’s casual attitude was meant to embolden the Muslim and deflate
his own expectation, as though Waller were the captive instead of the other way around. In actuality, it probably achieved
neither. Fat Anwar the accountant had been westernized. Abdul-Majeed was still hard, a man of the desert for whom extreme
privation was the norm. Waller had to respect such a man, but only to a certain degree.

“Do you miss Kandahar, Abdul-Majeed? Or do you like the beauty of Provence better?”

The man shrugged. “I like this room. It is actually better than what I have in Kandahar. But, again, so what?”

Waller took a step back and smiled. He had to admire at least the man’s courage.

“I do not like to be betrayed.”

“You do not understand the ways of the Muslim world, then. It was not betrayal. It was negotiation. It was caution. And all
of Islam has been betrayed by the West many times. So why should you be any different?”

“I am here on holiday and yet I have to take time away from pleasantries because you tried to cut me out of the deal.”

“It is simply business. Do not take it personally.”

“Forgive me, but I always take it personally when someone tries to blow me up.”

“Then you are too sensitive.”

“Why did you do it?”

“You lied to us,” Abdul said simply.

“I do not lie when it comes to business.”

The Muslim scoffed. “A Canadian? You have enriched uranium? I do not think so. You are most likely a spy.
That
is why we tried to kill you.”

“Actually, I have
highly
enriched uranium. It is a critical difference. And if you did not believe it, why bother to deal with me at all?”

“I meant that
I
did not believe it. But others of my group did. They made the mistake and I was left with the mess to clean up.”

“But they were right and you were wrong.”

“Again, so you say. The Americans own your country. Everyone knows that. Canada is a satellite of the great Satan. A dog does
not leave its master’s side.”

Waller turned to his men and flicked a hand at the door. They obediently left and shut the door behind them with Pascal being
the last one out. Before closing the door he pointed to a metal case sitting on the floor in one corner of the room. He and
his employer exchanged a look of mutual understanding.

Waller turned back to the captive and grabbed a handful of the man’s filthy hair. “This is simply because you think I’m Canadian?
Can you truly be that stupid?”

Abdul-Majeed’s eyes flashed interest for the first time. “
Think
you are Canadian? You mean you are not?”

“No, Abdul-Majeed, I am not.” He slipped off his jacket and pulled up his shirtsleeve, revealing a mark on the inside of his
upper arm, where it could not be easily seen when his shirt was off. He held it up in front of the Muslim. “Do you see that?
Do you know what it means?”

Abdul-Majeed shook his head. “I do not know of such marks.”

Waller pointed to them one by one. “They are alphabet letters.”

“That is not English,” said Abdul-Majeed. “My English is good. I don’t know what that is.”

“It is Ukrainian. It is a variation of the Cyrillic alphabet. It stands for the Fifth Chief Directorate. Tasked to provide
internal security against the enemies of the Soviet Union. I loved my job. So much that I burned it into my skin.”

Abdul-Majeed’s eyes widened. “You are Ukrainian?”

Waller rolled his shirtsleeve back down and put his jacket back on. “Actually, I always considered myself a Soviet citizen
first and foremost. But perhaps that is simply splitting hairs. And since Ukraine was the repository for a good deal of the
nuclear arsenal of the former Soviet Union, do you now understand? I still have many contacts there.”

“Why did you not tell us this?” spat out Abdul- Majeed.

Waller pulled up a chair and sat down. “It’s not my responsibility to provide you with my personal history, simply enough
HEU—highly enriched uranium—to blow up a large part of a major American city. Do you even know what HEU really is, Abdul-Majeed?”

“It is Allah’s weapon.”

“No, it has nothing to do with
Allah
,” Waller said derisively. “Uranium is a naturally occurring mineral found all over the world in trace quantities. It took
the Germans during Hitler’s reign to realize its peculiar potential through precise fission, namely to destroy people and
property in vast quantities. Did you know that one can actually hold
highly enriched
uranium in his hand and not feel any adverse effects until years later? I have done so myself. Stupid of me, of course, but
to hold that much power? The temptation was too great when I was a young and foolish man, though the toxic effects will probably
kill me before my time.

“It takes fifty kilos, or nearly a hundred and ten pounds, of the substance to create a nuclear detonation. Whereas one would
need nearly one ton, or twenty times that amount, of
low-enriched
uranium to produce a single nuclear bomb. It takes far less plutonium, about twenty pounds or so, to do the same thing. But
unlike HEU, plutonium has to come from the reprocessing of nuclear material from reactors. And no country would allow terrorists
to obtain that because, like a fingerprint, the device possesses the chemical signature of that country.”

“You promised enough material for a suitcase nuke,” Abdul-Majeed said.

Waller shook his head in disappointment. “You know, if you’re going to be in the nuclear terrorist business, you should take
the time to really understand the science. Suitcase nukes are bullshit, the stuff of Hollywood films and paranoid politicians.
It’s more like an SUV nuke. It can be done perhaps in a smaller footprint, but the smaller the device, counterintuitively perhaps, the greater its maintenance costs. And it would take a very strong man to carry around
a suitcase weighing hundreds of kilos and the nuclear core would not last long. No, what I promised you was enough highly
enriched uranium processed through second-generation gas centrifuge techniques to provide the core of a nuclear explosive
device. That is fissile uranium containing in excess of eighty-five percent uranium 235. That means it is weapons-grade. I
can also offer you, for a reduced price, weapons-
usable
grade, which only has twenty percent U-235. The boom will be far less, but you will still get a damn big boom with radiation
fallout.”

Waller stood and moved around the room, but his gaze remained on the Muslim.

“I can also offer technical assistance. For instance, wrapping the weapon’s fissile core in a neutron reflector because it
will dramatically lessen the critical mass, which is a good thing when you want as much explosive power as possible. It’s
a tricky balance. A bit too much U-238 isotope and the chain reaction that gives the substance its ability to mass-fission
is rendered unworkable. Then, no boom and no burn.”

For the first time Abdul-Majeed looked impressed. “You know much about this.”

“Yes,
I know much about this
,” mocked Waller. “I lived in Ukraine when it was one large atomic weapon waiting to be deployed. I have worked in nuclear
facilities.” He added ominously, “And I have tortured scientists suspected of selling out their country to the Americans and their allies.
It was a most valuable classroom for me on many levels.”

“Then we were wrong about you. We can go through with our deal.”

Waller looked amused. “Oh, you think so? After you tried to kill me?”

“Why not? You did not die. Things are explained. You will make much money.”

“Well, it’s not always about money, is it? And not everything is explained. For instance, I know you didn’t make the decision
to kill me, because you aren’t important enough to do so. But I want the names of those who did.”

Abdul-Majeed smiled grimly. “That you will never know.”

“Have you ever been tortured, Abdul-Majeed? Forgive me if I refuse to use the ridiculous term ‘enhanced interrogation.’ I
prefer to cut to the chase.”

The Afghan looked bored. “Sleep deprivation, waterboarding, cattle prods, loud music.”

“No, you misunderstood me. I asked if you’d been
tortured,
not
coddled
by what passes for torture these days.”

Waller walked over, opened the metal suitcase, and pulled out various instruments. “It is said that the Germans knew how to
torture people, and indeed they were good at it. Today, the Israelis have the reputation of being the best interrogators,
and they claim to not torture at all, but instead to use psychological means. As for me, I believe the Soviets stood alone
when it came to such things. We had the best snipers and also the best interrogators. And I am old-fashioned. I have no patience
for the latest technological gadgets. I use tried-and-true methods of extracting what I want based on one fact.”

“What fact?” the Muslim said in a hollow tone.

Waller turned to him. “That people are soft shits. Are you a soft shit, Abdul-Majeed? We will find out tonight, I think.”