Deliver Us From Evil (34 page)

F
EDIR
K
UCHIN
stared out the window of his hotel room into the wash of streetlights. He was dissecting the city in his mind. Washington,
D.C., was separated into four quadrants. The sector tourists were most familiar with was northwest D.C., where most of the
major monuments and the White House were located. This area was relatively safe. Yet there were narrow but consistent pockets
of violence throughout the rest of the city. He had learned that three percent of the zip codes here accounted for over seventy
percent of the violent crime. Much of it was drug- and gang-related and kept the police chief deploying more and more resources
in those areas.

Kuchin sat back down and studied his map of the city, breaking it down as he had in other battles. D.C. had a fairly large
footprint, but was certainly not the most populous metropolis in the country. Still, nearly six hundred thousand people called
it home and far more than that commuted into the city every day from the suburbs. He did not think Katie James would be staying
in any of the high-crime sections, so that somewhat limited his search. In the business district were mostly hotels. To stay
there she would need to use a credit card, so he could reasonably rule that out. Around the U.S. Capitol Building where the
four quadrants converged were residential neighborhoods where she conceivably might be staying. There were also high-dollar
areas in Georgetown to the west and up along Massachusetts Avenue, or Embassy Row as it was known, and on Connecticut Avenue
and Sixteenth Street heading toward the Maryland state line. He had a finite amount of manpower with him and did not intend
on deploying it inefficiently.

He was staying at the Hay-Adams Hotel, on the back side of Lafayette Park, which was across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White
House. He was here with six men including Pascal to conduct his hunt for the elusive journalist. And that was the key for
him. She was a journalist. What did journalists do? They traveled, wrote stories, interviewed people, and checked in with their employers from time to time. The problem was, it seemed that James was not
currently employed.

He stared down at his list. Still, she might be working at some point. If so, there were a few possibilities.

The
Washington Post
was the city’s best-known newspaper. James had worked for them years ago and had since done freelance jobs for them, though
not for several years. Its offices were on Fifteenth Street northwest. Kuchin had a man posted there with a picture of James.
Another man was watching the bureau offices of the
New York Tribune
, which was two blocks over from the
Post
. James had won two Pulitzers while at the
Trib
, but Kuchin had learned that the reporter and the paper had had a falling-out. Still, it was a base he had to cover.

The
New York Times
had its bureau headquarters at First Street, also in the northwest quadrant. CNN, while not a print publication, was also
located on First Street, but in the northeast. Both the
Times
and CNN were in sight of the Capitol. According to her file, James had also worked for the
Times
and had done both on- and off-camera reporting for CNN during the first years of the Afghan war. There were many other news
organizations in the city, but these, at least in Kuchin’s mind, were the most likely to attract the attention of a journalist
with the hefty reputation of Katie James.

Kuchin paced his hotel room. He would give this strategy a few days to see if anything came of it. He would also hope that
Katie James used a credit or ATM card, or perhaps enabled her GPS chip in her phone. If she did Kuchin was confident his “friend”
would alert him. He also had another list from this same source. It contained four names, all friends of James, who were also
in the news business and lived in the D.C. area. Two, Roberta McCormick and Erin Rhodes, were stateside and thus it was doubtful
that James would be encamping in their homes. The other two were out of the country. Thus Kuchin had sent his remaining men
to those locations.

He thought things over. His chess pieces were in place as best he could employ them. It was a waiting game now, and despite
his combat experience, Kuchin had never been comfortable waiting. He took a walk. He passed the White House, stopped and stared
through the wrought iron fence. Thirty years ago Kuchin and his fellow Soviets had done everything in their power to bring
down the person occupying this house. Capitalism was evil; personal liberties were even more counterproductive. Marx had it
right; Lenin had it even more right; and Stalin and his progeny had perfected the system. Yet they all had been wrong, of
course. The wall of communism had toppled, Kuchin had fled, and now he lived like a king in the land of his former nemesis
employing the same free-market tools he had long fought against. Well, one adapted or one died, he reasoned.

He eyed a uniformed Secret Service agent who seemed to be taking an unhealthy interest in him. He backed away from the fence
and walked toward Fifteenth Street, drawing in the fresh, hot air and showing a middling interest in the gaggles of tourists
and their stupid cameras.

His phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“She just used her ATM card,” said his friend. “Corner of M and Thirty-first in Georgetown. I’m awaiting photo confirmation
from the ATM camera.”

Kuchin immediately phoned his man closest to this location and then jogged back to the hotel. In five minutes he was in a
rental SUV driving himself west to Georgetown. The traffic was bad, the intersections snarled. Kuchin anxiously tapped his
fingers against the glass. His phone rang again. He was still at least ten minutes away.

“Yes?”

“No sign of her, sir,” said Manuel.

“Call in the rest of the teams. Set a ten-block perimeter outward from the ATM. Four men walk every square inch of it starting
at that point. Two men in cars ride a circuit on the outside of the perimeter, one clockwise and the other in the opposite
direction. I’ll be there as soon as I can. She just got cash so it’s a reasonable bet she’s going to spend it on something,
so check any shops or restaurants you think appropriate.”

He slipped the phone back in his jacket. He had been convinced they would not find her on this go-round. That would be too
easy, too lucky. Those things happened in movies, not in real life. But now they had a perimeter. And Kuchin knew how to work
a perimeter like few people in the world.

“
T
ELL ME
about Kuchin’s friend,” said Shaw.

“Which friend?” asked Reggie.

“The skinny one with white hair who shot Dominic in the arm.”

It was late at night and they were sitting in a small room on the second floor at Harrowsfield that Reggie shared with Whit
as an office of sorts. It was cramped and cluttered. Reggie sat on the only chair and Shaw was perched uncomfortably on a
small cardboard box. Outside a light rain fell.

“Alan Rice. He’s a business associate of Kuchin.”

“What else?”

“I only spoke with him a few times. Although there was one odd thing.”

Shaw sat up straighter. “Word for word.”

“Well, I can’t remember it word for word, but he was warning me. About Kuchin. Well, of course he used the name Evan Waller.”

“Warning you how?”

“He said that his boss could get a bit weird around women. That he’d done so in the past. Become obsessed. He was basically
telling me to shove off for my own good.”

“So he was concerned for your safety?”

“Apparently so, yes, although he said he was doing it to protect his boss.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why is it interesting?”

“Because I think Rice tried to kill his boss in the catacombs back in Gordes.”

Reggie looked over at him in shock. “What? Why do you think that?”

“In a crisis you fire your weapon at primary threats, Reggie, not at secondary targets.”

“I’m not following.”

“Rice had his gun pointed at Whit, who was not near Kuchin. On the other hand, Dominic was maybe a foot to the right of Kuchin.
When I hit the first guy, Rice wheeled around and saw me. A second later I hit the second guy, the smaller one. Rice could
have taken me out then. He was only five feet away with a clear line of fire. Instead he turned and fired at his boss.”

“But he hit Dominic.”

“He hit Dominic probably because he was a bad shot. It’s a lot harder to nail someone from even ten feet away than it looks.
But that round did come within a hair of impacting Kuchin’s brain. So he doesn’t take me out when he could but instead tries
to kill his boss.”

“But that makes no sense. Why try to kill Kuchin? He was there to rescue him.”

“Or make it look that way.”

“What would it matter how it looked if Kuchin ended up dead?”

“Think it through. Kuchin’s guys would still be alive. They might not take too kindly to the second banana blatantly offing
the boss in front of them. It has to look like an accident. And on the other hand, what if Kuchin survived the shooting?”

“Do you think he knew you were there? And would try to stop Kuchin from killing us?”

“Highly doubtful. He might’ve gone in thinking he was indeed going to save his boss. Maybe he saw you coming out of the church
one night and got onto you that way. Then he’s in the catacombs, sees me burst out of hiding, and he hits on a second plan
in a matter of seconds. In the confusion of me coming on the scene he fires his gun, everyone scrambles, shots go off, Kuchin/Waller
ends up dead. Then he inherits the business.”

“I guess that could be possible.”

“Now, you tracked Kuchin down. How?”

“This building is full of people who do that. Researchers, linguists, academics.”

“No, I didn’t mean following the trail that showed Evan Waller was really Fedir Kuchin. I mean how did you know he would be
in Gordes and when?”

“Our people got those details and they passed them along to us for the mission. That’s how we operate. I don’t know how they
came by the intelligence. An inside source perhaps?”

“Let me ask you this. Could Alan Rice be your inside guy?”

“I just told you I don’t know how we got that information. How did
you
know he would be in Gordes? Do you have someone on the inside?”

“No. All our intel came from satellite surveillance of phone calls, electronic credit card receipts, and other high-tech gadgetry.”

Reggie looked envious. “Must be nice.”

“They’re only nice if they work. Would Mallory know who the inside source was?”

She looked doubtful. “I suppose, but I don’t think he’ll divulge that sort of thing to you. He likes to keep things very close
to the vest.”

“He may have to reveal them if he wants to continue doing what he’s doing.”

“You mean you’ll shut us down? Put us in the dock?”

“I just keep going back to my original point. If we don’t get him first, Kuchin will get all of you.”

“Then why don’t we go ask the professor?”

Shaw checked his watch. “It’s nearly one in the morning. Do you think he’ll be up?”

“The professor sleeps even less than I do. We’ll probably find him in the library.”

“Is he an insomniac?”

“No, an enlarged prostate actually.”

Shaw could only shake his head.

A
S IT
turned out Mallory was not in the library. They found him in his office. The professor was fully dressed, sitting behind
his desk, his hands forming a confident steeple; yet his gaze kept twitching from Reggie to Shaw when Shaw asked the question.

“I don’t know the person’s identity,” said Mallory tersely.

“But there was someone?” said Shaw.

“Yes. We sometimes have to rely on informants.”

“But if you didn’t know who, how were you sure you could trust the source?”

“I was confident enough to follow through. And this would probably be our only opportunity to get to the man.”

“Confident enough?” exclaimed Reggie. “To risk our lives in case you were wrong?”

“I told you this would come back to bite you, Miles.”

They all turned to see Liza standing at the door. She wore slacks and a long sweater. Obviously she had not gone to bed either.
She leveled a withering gaze on the professor before settling down in a chair across from him. She looked up at Shaw and Reggie.
“Miles and I had words about this a number of times, didn’t we?”

“You expressed your opinion thoroughly,” he noted diplomatically.

“My opinion was that it was rubbish sending out a team based on intelligence from an anonymous source.”

“But that anonymous source proved to be correct in Kuchin’s movements,” pointed out the professor. “He did travel to Gordes,
to that villa, and with the exact security team that was provided to us.”

“But still to trust the person—”

“What motive would the person have to double-cross us?” interrupted Mallory.

“How about to kill you before you killed his boss once this informant found out you were gunning for him?” said Shaw.

“It didn’t work that way. The person approached us.”

“How did he know to approach us?” asked Reggie.

“There are avenues to do that,” answered Mallory.

“Constructed by whom?” asked Shaw.

“Me.”

“And you never thought to tell us about these avenues?” Reggie wanted to know.

“It didn’t seem relevant. It’s never backfired against us yet. You work with the model that provides results. And finding
out the history of someone is only part of the equation. We then have to get to them. And to do that one needs intelligence.”

“Well, after what happened in Gordes it seems that it might’ve finally backfired, Miles,” said Liza.

“There is no conclusive proof of that yet,” he countered.

“Someone knew we were going to be in the catacombs with Kuchin.”

“If you recall, that was a suggestion you made to me, Reggie, because of Kuchin’s religious faith. But the selection of the
exact location, the catacombs, was done while you were in Gordes. Our anonymous source would not have known of that.”

“But they could have followed us there,” said Reggie. “If they knew we were going after Kuchin and wanted to stop us.”

“Again, I fail to see, logically, why the person would help us get to the man and then at the last instant try and stop us.”

“Maybe it was neither,” said Shaw. This comment made all the others look at him in surprise.

“Explain yourself,” said Mallory.

“Alan Rice could be your source. He wants Kuchin dead, but for his own reasons, namely to take over the man’s criminal empire.
I theorized to Reggie before that he might’ve attempted to kill his boss on the spur of the moment when I appeared on the
scene and threw a monkey wrench in the works. But now I’m not so sure.”

“If that was his intent why wouldn’t he just let us kill him, then?” said Liza curiously. “Why show up and try and stop it?”

“You kill him and stuff him in some crypt, no one knows what happened to the guy. That creates uncertainty. The enterprise
can’t go forward under new leadership because everyone’s waiting for the boss to come back. Or other guys make a grab for
it. It’s not clean. If Rice is there and tries to save his boss, he earns big creds from the troops. And then you have closure.
The king is dead. Rice can step in as the logical successor.”

“That hardly sounds logical,” sniffed Mallory.

“I was in those catacombs,” rejoined Shaw. “I saw Rice take a shot at Kuchin. He was trying to kill his boss.”

“
Could
your informant be Rice?” said Reggie.

The professor shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose. As I said, he remained
anonymous
.”

Liza spoke up. “And if what you say is true, Shaw, how does that further our goal of getting to Kuchin?”

“If Rice is the inside guy, we can use that against him to get to the boss. He’s got to be a little nervous already. Kuchin
is alive, after all.” He looked at Reggie. “You guys said his real name that night. Rice had to hear it. I doubt Kuchin is
thrilled about that. Rice may think his days are numbered anyway.”

“But how do we get to Alan Rice?”

“Kuchin has a string of legit businesses. Presumably Rice has a hand in running them. Kuchin’s headquarters are in Montreal.
He has a downtown penthouse there. I say I go to Canada and start pushing some buttons.”

“You?” asked Reggie.

He looked at her. “Yeah, me.”

Reggie automatically glanced at the professor. “What do you think?”

“What about Whit going too?” he said, but Shaw was already shaking his head.

“We don’t play well together. And he’s a hothead who probably won’t follow my lead.”

“I’ll go,” said Reggie.

“Not a good idea,” shot back Shaw.

“Why?”

“Just not, trust me.”

“I disagree,” said Mallory. “I think she should go.”

“I don’t think you’re calling the shots,” said Shaw. “I am.”

“We have a vested interest in bringing this all together,” said Mallory. “And more to the point, keep in mind that while I
concede that you can bring us down, that sword can cut both ways.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, it seems, that you also work for a highly secret organization. If our existence comes to public light, I can assure
you that so will yours.”

Shaw considered this, keeping his true feelings behind a mask of inscrutability. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long,” said Mallory. “As you said, Kuchin is coming for us.”

Shaw and Reggie drove back to London. She dropped him off at the Savoy.

“Do you want me to come up?” she asked. “Just to talk,” she added quickly.

“Not tonight. I’ve got a lot to think about. Maybe another night.”

Clearly disappointed, she drove off.

Shaw rode the elevator to his room. He opened the door, flicked on the light.

“How’s it going, Shaw?”

Frank sat at the desk, the bulge of the bandages wound around his middle visible through his shirt.

Shaw was clearly not surprised to see him. He took off his jacket and laid it on the bed. “We might be screwed, Frank.”

“Things not going according to our little plan?”

Shaw slumped on the bed. “Definitely not.”