“I intend to ask that very question when I find dear Abdul.” Pascal’s BlackBerry chirped and he glanced at the message.
Waller had not missed this. “Yes, Pascal?”
Pascal came forward and whispered into his boss’s ear. Waller smiled. “The Muslims have come home to roost.”
“Progress?” asked Rice.
“It seems,” Waller said curtly.
Waller stared at each of his men who stood silently in the darkness, hands clasped in front of them. He had drawn most of his associates from the military ranks of various countries, and they had retained their discipline and protocols. This pleased Waller, since he had worn the uniform as well. His gaze settled on Rice. “It would be disappointing to learn that I had a traitor within my own ranks.”
Rice managed to find some courage under the withering gaze and said, “Don’t look at me. Why would I betray you only to get myself blown up?”
“An adequate response. For now.”
Waller lifted the hoods off the rest of the ladies, scrutinized them as he would cattle in an auction, and finally settled on one, the smallest. He gripped her skinny arm and pulled her along, her feet stumbling with the shackles.
“We’ve soundproofed a room upstairs,” said Rice. “New carpeting and furniture too. Do you want the shackles and cuffs off?”
“No. Give me two hours and then send someone to clean up.”
As soon as Waller was outside of earshot one of the guards edged over to Rice and said in a low voice, “Isn’t Mr. Waller worried about stuff?”
“Like what?” asked Rice sharply.
The big man looked embarrassed. “You know, like AIDS, STDs, stuff like that.”
“These women are all virgins. That’s sort of the point, Manuel.”
“But still, third world shit. Man never knows.”
Rice gazed up the rickety set of stairs where his boss had disappeared with the girl. “I don’t believe he actually has sex with them.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t really want to know.”
CHAPTER
26
REGGIE WAS WAITING at the bakery by the time Shaw got there. They ordered and ate their pastries and drank their fresh coffee outside on bistro chairs. Reggie’s hair was swept up under a Red Sox baseball cap. She had on jean shorts, a pale blue T-shirt, and Saucony running shoes. Shaw was dressed in slacks, loafers, and a white long-sleeved shirt.
Reggie sipped her coffee, ran an eye over him, and said playfully, “You still dress like a lobbyist, even in Provence.”
Shaw smiled and eased back on the little chair. Behind them a workman was washing down the streets using a fire hose. The rush of water would follow the laws of gravity and work its way over the cobblestone streets, down worn stone steps, and eventually snake down the cliffs in diminished rivulets.
“Old habits die hard.” He took a bite of croissant. “But I left the ties and jackets in the closet.”
“Where are you staying? I think it’s only fair since you know where I am.”
He hooked a finger over his head. “Hotel and spa down that way. It’s nice. I’m thinking about getting a massage later today.” He drank his coffee, wadded up the paper his pastry had come in, and tossed it in a nearby trash can. “Those guys still around?”
“The Citroën was there this morning, but only one man was inside. Whether they stayed there all night I don’t know. It does seem sort of mysterious,” she added innocently.
“How’s your back where I threw you?”
“Fine, how’s your left kidney?”
“Not that great, actually. That’s why I’m thinking about the massage.”
“Next time remember to phone before you scale my wall.”
“Funny, these villas are usually rented out fully during the summer. But the one next to yours has been empty since I got here.”
She forced a smile. “You’re a nosy one. Are you obsessing about villas now?”
You were nosy enough yourself. He said, “No, just curious. I was thinking about renting one, but it was way too much money for me.”
“I thought all lobbyists were rich.”
“Except for the divorce, I’d be a very wealthy man. Now I’m still well off, but just by half.”
“I doubt I’ll ever get married.”
“Why’s that? Not intending to sound crass, but you’d be quite a catch for some young guy.”
“Why young?”
“Well, you’re young. Most people marry folks close to their own age.”
“How old are you?” she asked, smiling.
“Too old for you.”
“You’re flattering and disparaging yourself at the same time. I’m impressed.”
“It’s a talent I’ve burnished over the years. I hope you have your gun in a safe place. The cleaning help around here come across it you’ll have some questions to answer from the local cops.”
“It’s in a very safe place, thank you for your concern.”
“So dinner tomorrow night?”
“I can’t do it tomorrow night. How about the next?”
“Okay. Here in town?”
“No, there’s a village nearby with a little restaurant that overlooks the valley. Do you kayak?”
He looked surprised by the sudden change in topics. “I’ve done it. Why?”
“I have a spot reserved today with a kayak company in Fontaine de Vaucluse. I hear the river there is really beautiful. I was wondering if you’d care to join me? We’d have to leave in about an hour.”
Shaw finished his coffee, thinking quickly. “Okay. I’ll just have to change into something more appropriate.”
“A bathing suit would be fine.”
“Well, my goal is to stay in the boat. Even in summer I bet that water is cold.”
“You never know, you have to be prepared for the unexpected.”
As they parted company, Shaw watched her walk down the street. When he saw the man coming toward him he ducked down an alley. It was the thug he’d seen last night spying on Janie. Whether he was following Janie or not Shaw couldn’t be sure.
He had yet to make up his mind about the lady. And that bothered him. Despite a well-crafted plan he had no idea how things would play out. He could sense his rear flank was exposed and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
For now, apparently he was going to go kayaking. And he meant to heed the woman’s advice and be prepared for the unexpected.
CHAPTER
27
I DON’T THINK I’ve ever seen water this clear,” said Reggie as they paddled along.
She was in front and Shaw was in the rear of the red kayak. He’d changed into long bathing trunks and a loose-fitting T-shirt with a life jacket worn over it. Reggie had on a striped bikini top under her life jacket and a pair of white cotton butt-huggers, thin enough for the striped bikini bottom to be visible through them. She had the same Red Sox baseball cap on, only now it was turned backwards.
“You’re good at this,” said Shaw as he watched her muscled delts work, dipping the paddle in and out of the water. He’d synchronized his movements with hers except when he had to use his paddle as a rudder to navigate them around the curves of the river, whose current was deceptively fast. In large masses under the otherwise clear water were bright green and purple vegetation and long strands of what looked like kelp. Shaw felt like he was in a large aquarium.
“I like the water. When I lived in Boston I crewed on the Charles River every chance I got.”
He said, “Okay, so you’re a ringer. Now I don’t feel so bad about not being able to keep up with you.”
“You’re doing fine.”
He dipped his hand in the water. It was very cold. He was definitely staying in the boat.
There were five other kayaks in their party, but Shaw and Reggie had quickly outdistanced all except for one. In that kayak Whit and Dominic, dressed as tourists and loudly speaking French, were acting out having a go at paddling. While
Dominic held a camera and pretended to shoot video of Whit doing something funny, he was able to record about two minutes’ worth of close-ups of Shaw.
They had to stop at various small dams and the guides helped them transport the kayaks over them. There was one “surprise” rapid that they easily navigated before ending their river run and climbing in the kayak company’s van for transport back to their point of origin. Shaw and Reggie rode near the front, Whit and Dominic in the rear. The van rocked back and forth over winding and rutted dirt roads before they reached asphalt once more. Only once did Reggie glance back and flash Whit a signal by blinking her right eye. He answered by lightly squeezing the bag he was holding. Inside was the gun with Shaw’s prints on it. By prearrangement he’d snagged it out of her car while the others were getting their kayak gear together.
They climbed out of the van and into Reggie’s red Renault. Shaw had to bend his long torso and legs to awkward degrees to accommodate the small space.
“Euro cars are definitely not for tall people,” Reggie said sympathetically.
“I’ll survive.”
The drive back to Gordes took less than twenty minutes.
“You can just head to your villa,” he said. “I can walk back up to my place.”
“How about a swim and some lunch first?” she said. “You’re already dressed for it.”
He hesitated, mentally going through all that this might entail. “All right. Sure.”
They parked in front of her villa. Shaw glanced at the entrance to the villa next door. “Don’t see the Citroën.”
“I know. It was gone when I left to pick you up.”
“Interesting. I saw one of the guys walking through town this morning.”
“Really? Did you talk to him?”
He looked at her strangely. “Uh, no, he looked pretty tough. Sort of like a mobster.”
She unlocked the door, disarmed the security system, and led him into the back. She passed him a towel and some sun block, pointing to his forearms that were already a bit red from the kayak ride.
“Yeah, all those years spent indoors,” he lamented.
They went out to the pool area. She slid off her shorts and stepped out of her sneakers while he pulled off his T-shirt and kicked off his sandals.
Behind his sunglasses he took a moment to assess her physical condition and came away impressed. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the woman and her muscles were lean and defined; her midsection was a hard pack, her calves as defined as a professional sprinter’s.
She dove in the pool and then came back up treading water with easy motions of her arms and legs. She nodded to her right. “That’s the deep end. Twelve feet. Don’t want you to hit your head, six-six.”
He dove in and came up next to her.
“I’m going to swim some laps,” she said.
And she did for the next twenty minutes, back and forth, flip-turning at the precise moment. He swam a few laps with her and then climbed out of the pool, toweled off, lay under the beautiful Provençal sun, and watched her.
When she came out later, she wrung out her hair, grabbed a towel, and looked up.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Shaw was standing on top of the stone-tiled dining table under a wooden pergola next to the wall separating her villa from its neighbor. The wall was high, but the table plus his own considerable height enabled him to easily peer over.
“Checking out the next-door thugs.”
She crossed the tiled surface in a flash and forcibly pulled him off his perch.
He feigned amusement. “What’s wrong?”
Her face was pink underneath the tan, her eyebrows knitted together in anger. “Just don’t do it again.”
“Why, aren’t you curious?”
“You were the one who saw the creep spying on me. You said the guy you saw in the village this morning was tough-looking. Like a mobster. I don’t want them mad at me. I’m on vacation.”
“Fine, fine. That’s reasonable enough. How about some lunch? I’m starving.”
She regained her composure and continued to towel off. “I was thinking a shrimp salad, some bread to dip in olive oil, and a bottle of white wine? I got some tomatoes, cucumbers, and artichoke hearts from the market.”
“Sounds great. Put me to work. I know my way around a kitchen. I can sous-chef with the best of them. Well, I can’t really, but I can slice vegetables.”
“I will put you to work.” She slipped on her shorts, but did not cover up her bikini top. She twisted her hair back and secured it with a red scrunchie. She’d looked more voluptuous in her sundress, Shaw noted. And yet he was really thinking that she’d failed his little test. He’d stood on the table—a spot he’d calculated could not be seen from next door unless someone were standing in the rear grounds—simply to gauge her reaction. She’d said all the right things, exhibited normal concern about getting mixed up with “tough” people. Yet Shaw had been doing this a long time, and his instincts told him that her emotional underpinnings accompanying these words were off the mark just enough. She was fearful, but not for the obvious reason.
He helped her fix lunch and they ate outside; their talk was innocuous for the most part and neither mentioned the developing plot next door. Later he walked back up to his hotel. He immediately checked the three little traps he always set to see if someone had been there. They were located such that a cleaning person would not disturb them while performing their regular duties—his desk drawer, his closet, and on one of his bags.
He sat back on his bed. Of the three traps, two had been sprung. While he’d been out cavorting with “Janie” someone had searched his room.
CHAPTER
28
WALLER SHOWERED and used a razor to slice a few errant hairs off his head. He was not naturally bald, but had begun shaving his head as an act of disguise when he’d fled Ukraine. He knew that almost nothing changed a man’s appearance more than hair added or subtracted.
After giving himself another injection of his special elixir he strode through his penthouse, reaching the end of a corridor and a built-in cabinet. He twisted in a counterclockwise motion the pull knob on the right-side cabinet door and a piece of wood slid aside, revealing a digital pad. He punched in a four-digit code. There was a click and the cabinet front moved forward on smooth hydraulics. Waller passed through, and the door, operating on a motion sensor, automatically closed behind him. It was a nifty piece of craftsmanship.
Waller’s penthouse was over ten thousand square feet, not including the “hidden” space located here, in the center of his home. This was the primary reason why he allowed no one else in his apartment. He couldn’t chance anyone discovering it. The space was a bare concrete shell, part of the original bones of the penthouse. The man who’d constructed this “safe room” for him was of Ukrainian descent, loyal to Waller, and now dead, of natural causes. Waller rarely if ever killed his true friends.
He’d decorated the safe room himself. Stainless steel boxes with electronic locks had been delivered via a secure courier and Waller had unpacked them alone in this sanctuary. He stood in front of an old metal locker with “Fedir Kuchin” engraved on a small plate affixed to its door. He took out his officer’s parade uniform. It still fit rather well, he thought, though it was tight in places where gravity had bested him. He secured his gun belt around his middle, in which was holstered a vintage Russian 9x18 Makarov PM-53. This had been the Soviet Union’s standard military sidearm for forty years, ending its run in 1991 when the Soviet empire collapsed completely. He placed the bright blue cap with gold piping on his head with the red Soviet star in the middle and turned and looked at himself in the mirror bolted to one wall. The material was scratchy and the fabric did not breathe very well, but to him it was the