finest silk.
In his full KGB dress regalia he was propelled back to a time in his life that even then he had realized would be the high point of his existence. He touched the medals, ribbons, and badges riding on the left side of the jacket. Three Irreproachable KGB Service Medals, Distinguished Worker of State Security, graduate of Leningrad University badge, and another badge indicating that he had attended the prestigious Andropov Red Banner Institute. He also had medals for combat service, which he’d earned with his blood in Afghanistan among other places. There were many terrible things his enemies could truthfully call him, but a coward was not one of them.
Though born in a rural fishing village only six hundred kilometers from Kiev, Waller had always considered himself a Soviet and not a Ukrainian. His mentor in the KGB had been a three-star colonel general with the reputation of being the “Butcher of Kiev.” This man was also Ukrainian-born but had sworn his allegiance to Moscow. Everything Waller knew about counterintelligence, crushing insurgencies, and ensuring the security of the Soviet way of life had come from this man. Waller had a picture of him on the wall next to the red Soviet flag with its golden hammer crossed with a golden sickle and the star denoting the Communist Party residing in the upper canton.
He marched to the center of the room, came to rigid attention, and saluted this great Soviet, who was now dead, having been unceremoniously shot for his glorious service. Then Waller, feeling slightly foolish at this attention given to a man long in his grave, seated himself at an old 1950s-era metal desk that he had used when with the KGB in his home country. Old papers and forms in triplicate with cumbersome carbon copies were stacked neatly on his desk. Scarred metal filing cabinets were lined against one wall. Inside those plain depositories were as many of the records of his decades-long service to his adopted country as he had managed to smuggle out. He would come here from time to time to go over these “accomplishments” and allow himself to relive past glories.
In truth, he cared little for his current life. He was rich, but money had never been a primary goal. He had been born poor, grown up in poverty, and joined the ranks of those defending his way of life. Yet even those in the highest levels of the Communist Party typically only had “luxuries” such as a flat with its own bath and a car. It did not pay nearly as well as capitalism.
Yet now that is what I am. A capitalist. The same thing I fought against all those years. Well, I have to admit, the Americans probably had it right.
The trafficking of young girls for prostitution bored him. He had entered into negotiations with the Muslims to sell them nuclear weapons capability principally because it allowed him to recapture a little of his past, when what he did, what he ordered, affected thousands. Now he was just a businessman, like so many others. He made a lot of money, he lived in great luxury, but if he were gone tomorrow who would care? No history book would hold his name. His superiors in the KGB had earned much of the credit for his work. They were immortal. By comparison, he was quite ordinary. Yet there were those who knew what he had done. And that was why he’d had to run, hide like a mouse in a wall. He’d had little choice if he wanted to live. He had seen what happened to comrades who were not so nimble. Some were torn apart by hordes of angry people who had spent their entire lives imprisoned while living in their own country. He understood the emotion perfectly; he just didn’t want to suffer the consequences of it.
He opened another drawer, pulled out an old book, and leafed through it, revealing page after page of drawings, in his own hand. He had always been a good sketch artist, having learned the skill from his mother, who had earned her living as a street artist first in France and then in Kiev before ending up in a fishing village that was icebound five months of the year, married to a man who did not love her. Even now Waller did not know the full history of the pair and what had drawn them together. Reproduced in this book were many of the people he’d killed, their dead or dying faces done in charcoal, black ink, or pencil only. There was no color in this book. The dead did not require it.
The next book he slid out of his desk might have surprised some people who had known the old Fedir Kuchin. He hefted the Bible in his hand. The Soviet Union of course had been vehemently opposed to organized religion of any kind. “The opium of the masses,” as Marx had pointed out. Yet Waller’s mother had been French and a devout Catholic. And she had raised her son in her religious beliefs even though it was a very dangerous thing to do. She read the Bible to him every night while his usually drunk father slept.
What had first appealed to Waller about the readings was how much violence was contained in a book purportedly espousing peace and love. Many people were slaughtered in ways even the grown Fedir Kuchin would not have employed. Reciting the Lord’s Prayer with his mother each night, she had always emphasized one phrase above all others, lingering over it as though giving it its due.
“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
Waller well knew the evil she was referring to: her husband.
His poor mother, good to the last. Yet what she didn’t understand about evil, her son clearly did. Given the proper motivation anyone was capable of terrible cruelty, baseless savagery, horrific violence. A mother would kill to protect her child or a child his mother. A soldier kills to protect his country. Waller had killed to protect both his mother and his country. He was good at it, understood quite clearly the mind-set required. He was not desensitized to violence; he respected it. He did not use it cavalierly. Yet when he did employ it, he couldn’t say that he didn’t enjoy the process, because he did. Did that make him evil? Perhaps. Would his mother have considered him evil? Clearly not. He killed for his country, his mother, and his own survival. When people struck him he struck back. There could be no fairer set of rules ever conceived. He was who he was. He was true to himself, while most people lived their lives as a façade only, their real selves buried under a platform of lies. They would smile at their friend before thrusting the knife into his back. Under those parameters who was truly the evil one?
The lion roared before it attacked, while the snake slithered in silence before sinking its fangs into unsuspecting flesh.
I am a lion. Or at least I used to be.
From a storage locker he pulled an old projection camera, set it on his desk, and plugged the power cord into an outlet. He opened his desk drawer and took out a projection reel with film wrapped around it. He snapped it into place on the camera, fed the film through the machine, pointed the camera at a blank concrete wall, turned down the lights, and flicked on the projector switch. On the wall appeared black-and-white images from over thirty years ago. Striding into view was a young Fedir Kuchin in full uniform. The present-day Kuchin smiled proudly when he saw his younger self.
On the wall the young Kuchin marched to the center of a compound with high fences of concertina wire and guard towers visible all around. He said something and armed men drove a dozen people forward into view, forcing them to kneel in front of Kuchin with thrusts from their gun barrels. There were four men, three women, and the rest children. Kuchin bent down and said something to each of them. Sitting in his desk chair, Waller mouthed these same words. This was one of his favorite memories. On the wall the black-and-white Kuchin led the children off to the side, away from the adults. From his pocket he took out candy and gave it to the frightened kids with rags for clothes, even patting one little girl on the head. From the pocket of his uniform the present-day Waller withdrew a decades-old disc of stale chocolate from that very occasion.
As the starving kids hungrily ate their treats, Kuchin walked back over to the adults, pulled his pistol, and executed each one of them with a bullet to the back of the head. When the screaming children rushed forward to hold their dead parents, Kuchin shot them too, sending his last bullet into the spine of a little girl who was cradling her dead mother’s head. The final image was Kuchin taking a half-eaten piece of candy from the dead fingers of a boy lying sprawled in the mud an
d devouring it himself. When the film reel finished playing and the wall became light again, Waller sat back with a level of pride and satisfaction that had once been his on a daily basis. That had been his job, and he had done it so well. No one in Ukraine had done it better.
He took off his uniform and hung it carefully back in his locker, smoothing out a few wrinkles in the fabric. Before turning out the lights and exiting, he glanced back at the flag and the photo of his mentor.
I just want something worthy of me again. Something that really matters.
He turned out the light, secured the door, and returned to the only life he had left. He was leaving for France shortly. Maybe he would find something there to make him care again.
CHAPTER
29
REGGIE HEARD the horn toot from outside. She checked her watch. She was running late. She peered out her window and looked down on the street below. Shaw was sitting on his Vespa near her front door. He was dressed in khaki pants and a white cotton shirt he wore untucked. Loafers minus socks were on his feet. She tapped on the window, got his attention, and held up two fingers.
She hurriedly finished dressing and clipped on her earrings. Next she tidied her hair in the mirror, though it wouldn’t make much difference after the ride on the scooter. She smoothed down the front of her dress. She’d chosen a formfitting one because of their mode of transportation. She didn’t need a skirt billowing over her head as they raced along the rural roads of southern France.
Finishing with her lipstick, she hurried down the stairs. She locked the front door and waved to Shaw.
“You look terrific,” he said.
“That was the goal,” she shot back. “You look very handsome in a carefree sort of way. So unlike a lobbyist. I’m duly impressed.”
“Good, because that was my goal.”
She climbed on the back and took the helmet he handed her, strapping it on.
“Pretty scooter,” she said, stroking the pale blue metal.
“Best way to get around here. Hold on.”
She gripped him around the waist and leaned into his back. With her hands around his middle Shaw felt a burst of electricity rush down his spine. He even jerked a bit, it was so visceral.
“You okay?” she said.
“Fine. Just sore from all that rowing.” He hit the throttle and they sped off going about twenty kilometers an hour. When they reached the main road he accelerated to double that.
“Okay, where to?” he called over his shoulder.
“I’ll tap your back left or right,” she answered. He nodded to show he got that.
Fifteen minutes later they were chugging up a steep hill, the Vespa’s 125cc engine whining in protest. Shaw found a parking space and they lifted off their helmets and Shaw attached them to the bike. They walked up to the restaurant, which was only a half block away, and sat outside on a terrace overlooking the valley.
“Nice pick,” said Shaw as they eyed the vistas.
“The food is wonderful too,” she said.
They placed their orders and, from habit, each took a few moments to observe the tables around them. When they’d finished, their gazes settled on each other.
“So you’re divorced with two kids? Are they with their mother?”
“For now, but we share custody.”
Shaw broke off a bit of bread, soaked it in fresh olive oil, and then drank some of his wine. “How about you? All I know is you’re rich.”
She wrinkled up her nose. “That’s pretty much it. I’m involved in a few charities. Mostly I travel, looking for something, I guess. Just not sure what.” She took a sip of wine and tugged her hair behind her ear. She didn’t look at Shaw—her gaze eased past him. For some reason Reggie was having a hard time staying in character.
He said, “You look like you’re thinking way too hard. Just chill. You’re on holiday.”
She ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “So who do you think the people are renting the villa next to me?”
He shrugged. “I have an idea.”
She sat slightly forward, looking at him expectantly.
He noticed this and grinned. “Hey, no grand revelations, okay? I did check with the real estate office in town, but they don’t handle that listing and didn’t know anything.” Shaw wasn’t about to admit that he’d talked to the agent controlling the listing or that he knew she had too.
“Okay,” Reggie prompted. “And?”
“And I think it might be some political type. You know. They have an entourage. They send in security ahead of time. Stuff like that. I saw it all the time in D.C.”
Reggie sat back, trying not to look disappointed. “Or it might be somebody quite rich, even richer than me.”
“Right, right. Like Bill Gates or Warren Buffett.”
“Or a mobster. You said the one guy looked really tough.”
“Well, even Bill Gates probably doesn’t hire wimpy-looking security. You want to look tough as a deterrent. Goes with the job.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see who shows up.”
Their food came and as they ate the conversation turned to other subjects. They drove back to Gordes two hours later when the daylight was just beginning to run out completely. When Shaw turned onto the small side street leading to Reggie’s villa a man dressed in a black suit and a white T-shirt stepped in front of them, blocking the way. Shaw had to stop so abruptly that Reggie bumped against him and almost slid off the scooter before righting herself.
Shaw lifted his visor and eyed the guy. He was only a couple of inches taller than Janie, but even through the suit Shaw could see the guy was wiry, not a gram of fat. The hair was curly, the chin jutting, the eyes focused and missing nothing, the hands strong and nimble-looking. Shaw knew he was right-handed because the shoulder holster was on the left side under a little bump-out built into his jacket just for that purpose.
“Where you folks going?” Pascal asked pleasantly.
“I’m taking this lady home,” said Shaw. “And since this is a public street, I’m not sure why we’re even having this discussion.”
Behind him Shaw could see Reggie squirming slightly. He felt one of her fingernails digging into his side.
Pascal turned around and stared at the two villas. “Ma’am, are you the one leasing that villa?” He pointed to the one on the right.
Reggie didn’t lift her visor. “Yes.”
The man gazed at her, his eyes running up and down, from the helmet to her long bare legs.
“So you’re Jane Collins?”
Now Reggie snapped up her visor. “How did you know that?”
“The real estate agent was very helpful.”
“That’s an invasion of privacy.”
“No,” Pascal said calmly. “It’s just part of my job.”
“What job would that be?” asked Shaw.
“Let’s just say I’m in safety management.”
“Can we go now?” asked Reggie.
“Sure, I’ll just follow you on up and make sure you get in okay.”
“I don’t think the lady needs any help,” said Shaw.
Reggie said hastily, “No, it’s all right.”
Shaw puttered up to the villa, the Vespa’s single headlight illuminating the way, while the man followed behind. They could see that not only was the Citroën van back but there were two large SUVs that had somehow made their way up the narrow streets off the main road heading into Gordes without shearing off their side mirrors. The villa also had all the lights on inside. Shaw could see shadows pass back and forth in front of one window.
They slipped off the Vespa and Reggie opened the door. The beep-beep of the security system sounded.
Pascal had stopped near the scooter and he nodded appreciatively. “Good thinking, ma’am, using your security system. Can never be too safe.”
“Do you want me to come in, Janie?” Shaw asked as Pascal stood there watching.
 
; She hesitated before eyeing the other man. “No, that’s okay. I’m tired. Thanks for dinner.”
She closed the door and Shaw got back on the scooter.
“Foxy woman,” said Pascal.
Shaw had known men in special forces units around the world who looked just like this guy. They could run circles around the tall, bench-press-muscled jocks. In that line of work the essential wasn’t strength or even speed, it was endurance. The tortoise definitely won in that world. These guys could kick ass with the best, shoot the wings off bees at four hundred yards, change plans in midstream, read complicated maps on the fly, employ stealth when it was called for, and steamroll the other side when stealth was all played out. But in the end it was all about survival. That’s why Shaw had never lifted many weights but had instead run the soles off his sneakers up one side of a mountain and down the other. That and a good, true aim and stout nerves made all the difference between going home safe or getting wedged in a box for all eternity.
He broke free from these thoughts when Pascal stepped next to him and said, “You need anything else? If not, I’d appreciate you moving on so I can secure this area.”
No overt threat, very professional, Shaw thought. The guy was good. But then a man like Waller could afford the best. Shaw rode back to his room and phoned Frank.
“Okay,” Frank said after Shaw briefed him. “Game on. Keep me posted.”
Shaw changed his clothes, waited another three hours, and then headed back out again on foot, after retrieving his night optics—which looked like an ordinary camera—from the hotel’s safe deposit room. He slipped through the dark streets of Gordes. Normally he would be pleased that the target was in town and on schedule. Even though the villa had been rented and the private tour at Les Baux arranged, plans changed and there was never any guarantee that Waller would actually show up in Provence. Yet Shaw was not pleased. The target was here, but so was Janie Collins. Shaw suspected nothing good could come out of that.
CHAPTER
30
REGGIE LOOKED in the bathroom mirror as she washed away her makeup