Deliver Us From Evil

82

AS 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.”