Deliver Us From Evil (5 page)

F
ROM THE KITCHEN
Reggie grabbed some buttered toast and put it on a plate with fried sausages and a sliced apple. Also juggling a cup of hot
tea, she carried it all to the library. As she entered, Professor Mallory looked up from a large book written in Polish, took
out his pipe, and smiled. “I thought I heard you come in last night. Your car has a distinctive sound.”

“It’s called a wretched exhaust pipe.” She sat down next to him, lined her toast with the sausages, bit into it, and drank
her tea. “Where’s Whit?”

“I don’t believe he’s here yet. But I expect him shortly.”

“I wanted to talk to you about the personnel for the Kuchin job.”

Mallory laid aside his book. His bow tie was still askew, but this morning his shirt-collar points were both directed to where
they should be and it looked like he’d actually combed his hair.

“Do you have thoughts?” he asked.

“I believe Whit should play a prominent role.”

“Did he ask you to talk to me?”

“Not in so many words.”

“It’s difficult for you, I know. And him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve supplanted him as the leader in the field, Regina.”

The professor was the only one among them who referred to her by her proper name.

“I don’t see it exactly that way.”

“But it
is
exactly that way.”

“You know, Professor, quite frankly, you could use a bit more tact.”

He smiled at this mild reproach. “If you try to gloss over the truth or massage the facts all you’re doing is heightening
your chances of arriving at an erroneous conclusion.”

“Whit is a good asset.”

“I completely agree with you. And if it were women we were going after we would probably have greater use of him in the lead
role. Unfortunately, our targets trend to the male and heterosexual side.”

“He’s gone after men. Successfully.”

“Successful to the extent that they were terminated, yes. But we like to handle our work under the radar. For example, if
we left evidence behind of why we had ended the lives of these people and that became public, you know what would happen?”

“The remaining ones would hide even deeper. But there are no more Nazis.”

“It doesn’t disprove the point. And let me correct you. There are no more Nazis of which we are aware. New intelligence may
lead to more work in that arena. But take Kuchin. We dispose of him and word leaks out, other Eastern European mass murderers
with new lives—and there are at least a dozen we’re researching at present—would be forewarned.”

“But we don’t broadcast why we’re killing them. It’s never made public.”

“But that’s not the only way to warn someone.”

“I’m not getting what you mean.”

Mallory said, “Your first lead target was the old Austrian married five times. You tied him up and did your job, but you ransacked
the house and busted a door lock, so it looked like a robbery. And you didn’t do a bunk and scamper away but rather stayed
on during the investigation so no one suspected you of anything. Now, let’s take Whit. This was before your time, but in one
lead assignment he killed a former Gestapo chieftain by shooting him in the genitalia. He was supposed to inject the fellow
with a poison that dissolves in the body in two minutes and is untraceable. He claims that the bottle the poison was in broke.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that putting a bullet in a man’s private region and letting him bleed out is a revenge-style
killing. In fact, it could well have jeopardized future targets.”

“Maybe the bottle did break. Everything doesn’t go smoothly in the field.”

The genial look faded from Mallory’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry, I left out one piece of critical information, didn’t I? Whit painted
a
bloody
swastika on the man’s
bloody
forehead and had the effrontery to ask me if I thought that was too
subtle
.”

Reggie suppressed a smile. “Oh.”

“Quite right,
oh
. The international press had a positive field day and made our future work that much more difficult. Mr. Beckham and I had
a row about that one.”

“I’m sure.”

“In Huber’s case we already know that they believe he died after attempting to have sex with the beautiful Barbara, and that
she fled in fear of retribution. No one is pursuing it, because the man was ninety-six years old and apparently died extremely
happy.” The professor could not resist a smile at this remark.

“But we do have an advantage in this case. The world has no idea Evan Waller is Fedir Kuchin. Even if he is killed under mysterious
circumstances, other men in hiding like Kuchin will probably take no note.”

The professor shook his head. “No, no. We can’t count on that. There will be press. There will be inquiries. Someone somewhere
may recognize the man. He has kept a very low profile for decades. Even with his so-called philanthropic work, no one gets
to see him. It’s all done through intermediaries. But still we can’t draw unnecessary attention to the matter.”

“Well, I can’t fake having sex with the man and then have him conveniently die like I did with Huber. There are limits to
what I can do. Perhaps a businessman like him has other enemies and we can foist the blame there. What do we know about other
dealings he might have had?”

Mallory shrugged. “Not that much. Our people had other priorities. They were looking for Kuchin, not a possibly dishonest
entrepreneur. I agree he might have other interests that would satisfy his evil nature, but I don’t know what they are and
we have no time to look for them now.”

Reggie sat back. “I still think Whit should be in on this one. Kuchin looks well capable of taking care of himself. I won’t
be able to single-handedly overpower him. It needs to be a total team effort at the end.”

“It’s true, our prey are getting younger and stronger, aren’t they?” He tugged absently at his beard. “I largely agree with
you. You will need muscle on this. And whilst he has some shortcomings, Whit certainly has that. You can tell him I said so.”

Reggie looked irritated. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

Mallory looked bemused. “We don’t get on that well. Now, let’s get down to some details before the meeting officially starts.”

“Why do you do this, Professor?” she said suddenly.

“Do what? You mean smoke this foul-smelling pipe?”

“You’re not Jewish. You’ve never mentioned that anyone you loved ever suffered at the hands of any of these vile creatures.
So why?”

He eyed her steadily. “Does a man need a reason to pursue justice?”

“Indulge me.”

“Not today. Perhaps another time. I can tell you one thing. You’ll enjoy your little abode in Provence.”

“Really? And why is that?”

“It’s a five-level villa with extraordinary vistas of the Luberon valley, and you can walk to the quaint village of Gordes
in under five minutes. Horribly expensive, the lease payments are more than I paid for my cottage. And that’s not the best
part.”

“What’s the best part?”

Mallory’s bushy eyebrows twitched in delight. “It’s right next to where our Fedir Kuchin will be staying.”

E
VAN
W
ALLER
sat back in his desk chair and read the spreadsheet for the fifth time. He loved numbers; his nimble mind grasped their complexities
easily, massaging data into precise conclusions. He made his decision, rose, poured himself a slender finger of Macallan’s,
and drank it. He put the glass down, picked up a pistol, and faced the man bound to the chair.

“Anwar, what am I to do with you? Tell me.” His voice was deep, cultured, and overlaid with traces of his Eastern European
origins. His tone was that of a disappointed father to a misbehaving child.

Anwar was a short man with a thickened, soft body who slumped in his chair, his arms and legs tightly bound. His face was
round and his skin would normally have been a light brown color, but now yellow and purplish bruises clustered on his cheeks,
forehead, and jawline. A knife cut traveled from his left cheek to his split nostril. The blood there had congealed and blackened.
His dark hair was slicked back solely with the sweat of fear.

“Please, Mr. Waller, please. It will never happen again, sir, I swear.”

“But how can I trust you now? Tell me. I want to find a way. I value your services, but I need to know I can trust you.”

“It was her. She put me up to this.”

“Her? Tell me.”

Anwar let a trickle of blood drop from his mouth and onto his pants leg before answering. “My wife. The bitch spends money
like it is water. You pay me well but it is never enough for her. Never!”

Waller sat down in a chair across from the captive. He put the gun down and looked intrigued. “So Gisele put you up to this?
To steal from me to cover her spending?” He clapped his hands together. The sound was like a gunshot and Anwar flinched. “I
had my doubts about her from the beginning, Anwar, I told you this, did I not?”

“I know, sir, I know. And as usual you were right. But for her I never would have done this terrible thing. It made me sick
to do it. Sick because you have been so good to me. Like a father. Better than a father.”

“But you’re a man. And a Muslim. You should be able to control your woman. It is part of your culture. Your faith.”

“But she is
Brazilian
,” exclaimed Anwar, as though that would explain everything. “She is a she-devil. A wicked, wicked slut. No one can control
her. I have tried, but she beats me. Me! Her own husband. You have seen the marks yourself.”

Waller nodded. “Well, she
is
much larger than you. But you are still a man, and I despise weakness in men.”

“And she cheats on me with other men. And
women
!”

“Repulsive,” said Waller in an indifferent tone. “So you know where she is?”

Anwar shook his head. “I have seen nothing of her for a week.”

Waller sat back and spread his hands. “If we find her, what do you suggest?”

Anwar spit on the concrete floor. “That you kill her, that is what I suggest.”

“So you trade her life for yours, in effect?”

“I swear to you, Mr. Waller, I never would have thought of betraying you. It was that bitch. She made me do it. She drove
me crazy. You must believe me. You must!”

“I do, Anwar, I do.” Waller stood, walked over, made a fist, and drove it into Anwar’s already swollen face. The little man
slumped to the side, his dead weight kept in the chair only by the bindings. Waller grabbed him up by his slicked hair. “Now
you have been suitably punished. You are valuable to me. Very valuable. I cannot afford to lose you. But this is your only
forgiveness, do you understand?”

Anwar, the blood trickling from his mouth, mumbled, “I understand. I swear that I do. Thank you. I do not deserve such mercy.”
He started sobbing.

“Crying is not manly, Anwar, so stop it, now!”

Anwar choked back his last sob and looked up, his right eye puffy, his left one nearly closed.

Waller smiled. “I must reveal something to you. You will find it of interest I’m sure. We located your wife. We have Gisele.”

“You have her?” said an astonished Anwar.

“And I agree with you, she is a she-devil. A woman designed by God to drive men insane. Would you like to see her, tell her
what you think of her before we kill her?”

“It would give me great pleasure,” muttered Anwar unenthusiastically.

“Or perhaps you would like to do the honors? A bullet to the brain of the evil woman? It may do you much good. A catharsis.
A character builder.”

Anwar flinched. “I am an accountant. I have no courage for that.”

“Fine, fine. I just thought I would extend the offer.” Waller turned to one of his men. “Pascal, bring the woman in to face her wronged husband.”

Pascal, a small, trim man in his thirties, passed through another door. A few moments later the door opened again and Anwar
could see his wife’s head peering around the doorframe. Normally her skin was even darker than her husband’s. But now she
looked terribly pale, her eyes wide in stark terror.

“You miserable bitch. You devil. See what you have caused. You have… you have…” Anwar faltered as the door opened farther
and Pascal marched in holding the severed head by the dark strands. Pascal didn’t smile at the horror on the husband’s face.
He just clutched the back of the head and held it up, as he had earlier been instructed to do by his employer.

“Oh God. Oh God. No, no, it cannot be.” Anwar looked at Waller, then back to his wife’s head. “It cannot be.”

“It is, Anwar. It is. But now you can return to work a happy man.”

Anwar sobbed for a few more moments before lifting up his head and letting out a tortured yet relieved breath. “Thank you,
Mr. Waller. Allah thanks you.”

“I have no need of your Allah’s blessings, Anwar.” Waller raised his pistol and aimed it at the man’s head, his eyes first
focused on the metal nub of the sightline on the end of the muzzle and then onto the ultimate target.

Anwar jerked back. “But you said—”

“I lied.” The bullet torpedoed into Anwar’s brain. Waller relaxed and then triggered another round, tattooing the skin just
to the left of the first entry wound. He placed the fired gun on the table and took a few moments to pour one more finger
of scotch. Drinking this down slowly as he walked across the room to reach the door, he turned back and glanced at two of
his other men.

In an admonishing tone he said, “Just remember this time that a two-hundred-pound man needs twice that weight to hold the
body properly underwater.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Waller,” said one of the men nervously.

“And melt down the damn gun.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And Pascal, get rid of
that
,” he added, pointing at the woman’s head. “Cheers.” Waller disappeared through the door and settled into a black armored
Hummer that sped off the moment he buckled his seat belt. An Escalade followed with another Hummer in front of Waller’s ride.

He’d discovered that his “trusted” accountant had a slush pile siphoned from Waller’s substantial cash flow. It was minor
skimming, less than a tenth of one percent, and had done Waller no financial damage, but it was an unforgivable act. To let
it go would have been a sign of weakness. In Waller’s business your competitors and people who worked for you were constantly
looking for any signs of frailty. If they thought they’d found it, your mortality rate went up a thousand percent. He understood
that lesson well, since it was how he’d come into the business many years ago. His mentor had let a minor slight go by with
no consequences. Three months later he was being eaten by wolves in the Pacific Northwest and Waller was in charge. Over the
next two decades, there had always been consequences whenever someone had betrayed him. He had no desire to be devoured by
wolves. He would much prefer to do the eating.

He looked at the person sitting next to him. Alan Rice was thirty-nine, a graduate of a prestigious university in England,
who’d traded the halls of academia to help Waller run his empire. Some men were just drawn to the dark side because that’s
where they could thrive properly.

Rice was slender, his hair prematurely white. Though his features were delicate, his mind was muscular, brilliant. Men like
Rice were seldom content to be second-in-commands. But he’d also helped triple the size of Waller’s business in a short period
of time, and Waller had given him additional responsibilities commensurate with his talents. Waller was the only indispensable
one in his business, but it was close to the point where he could not run it without Rice.

Waller flexed his gloved hand.

Rice noted this movement and said, “Recoil on the pistol bad?”

“No. I was just thinking about the last time I’d killed someone.”

“Albert Clements,” said Rice promptly. “Your Australian point man.”

“Exactly. It makes me wonder. I pay them extraordinarily well, and yet it never seems to be enough.”

“You have thousands, you want hundreds of thousands. You have millions, you want tens of millions.”

“And they must think I’m a fool to let them get away with it.”

“No. They just think they’re smarter.”

“Do you think you’re smarter than me, Alan?”

Rice looked over his shoulder at the building they’d just left. “I’m more intelligent than the man you just killed, if for
no other reason than I have no wish to die at your hands. And I would if I tried to fool you.”

Waller nodded, but his expression wasn’t quite as convincing.

Rice cleared his throat and added, “I understand that Provence is beautiful this time of year.”

“There are few times when Provence isn’t beautiful.”

“You’ve spent much time there?”

“My mother was French, from a little town called Roussillon. It’s the site of some of the largest ochre deposits in the world.
Many famous painters, like van Gogh, traveled there to obtain the earthy pigments for their palette. And unlike many other
villages in Provence, the buildings are not white or gray stone but wild reds, oranges, browns, and yellows. If I were a painter
I would move to Roussillon and capture its images using only its colors. We had happy times there, my mother and I.”

“Have you been back as an adult?”

“Not to Roussillon, no.”

“Why not?”

“My father died there when I was twelve.”

“What happened?”

“He fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”

“An accident?”

“So
they
believe, yes.”

Rice looked startled. “So it wasn’t an accident?”

“Anything is possible.”

“Then your mother…?”

Waller placed a large hand on Rice’s narrow shoulder and squeezed a little. “I didn’t say my mother, did I? She was sweet
and good. Such an act would’ve been unthinkable to the purity of her soul.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Yes, I understand.”

The orbital ridges around Waller’s eyes seemed to deepen. “
Do
you understand, Alan?” He removed his hand and pulled a note from his pocket. “I see that a young American woman is leasing
the villa next to mine.”

“We just found that out. However, I doubt she poses a threat.”

“No, no, Alan. We don’t know what she poses yet, do we? The proximity alone is enough, is it not, to raise questions?”

“You’re right. I will find out all that I can. So will you visit this Roussillon? Is it far?”

“Nothing in Provence is really that far.”

“Then you will go?”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Just don’t become a victim of some accident yourself.”

“Please do not concern yourself about me. My father was careless and weak. His son is not.”