Deliver Us From Evil (26 page)

“
S
O FIRST
, where do you want to go?”

Shaw was driving with Whit next to him. Reggie and Dominic were in the backseat of the Range Rover. Dominic had dozed off
from the painkillers the doctor had given him.

Reggie and Whit looked at each other.

“It’s a valid question,” said Shaw as he patted the steering wheel. “It sort of tells me which way to point the ride.”

“North,” answered Reggie as Whit glared at her.

“North?” said Shaw. “Paris? Normandy? Calais?”

“Farther north.”

Shaw eyed Whit. “The Channel? The North Sea? Do you live on a boat?”

“Funny.”

“You mean you’re Brits?” Shaw added sarcastically, “Bloody hell.”

“I’m Irish, remember,
Paddy
?
Not
British,” retorted Whit. “But I’ll let it pass. This time. So you got an idea how to get across the Channel? Hey, maybe this
Rover’s amphibious.”

“Do you have passports?”

Whit pointed behind them. “Back there. But we can make some calls and get them quick enough. In fact, I don’t know what we
need you for, actually.”

“Because I know what I’m doing. And don’t underestimate the French police.”

Whit slowly nodded. “I don’t underestimate anybody, least of all
you
.”

“Make the call. Tell him we’ll meet at Reims in four hours. When we get close we’ll call and pick the place.”

“So you know France?” asked Whit.

“Even speak the language passably,” replied Shaw.

“Goody for you.”

Whit made arrangements to meet one of their people who had the fake documents they would need to get out of the country.

“Okay, that’s done. Now what?”

“Just sit back and relax.”

Whit kept his gun in his hand. “And after Reims?”

“Since we can’t risk an airport, the Chunnel train to St. Pancras is the most direct route. That’s why we need passports.
If that doesn’t pan out we head east and work our way across the Channel by boat. Maybe from Belgium or Amsterdam.”

“Passport Control is pretty tight at Gare du Nord,” pointed out Reggie.

“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.

K
UCHIN’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?”

“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.