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Rice added, “He knocked out Manuel like he was nothing. And then took out Pascal like he was cardboard, and you know how good Pascal is. And he lifted me up like I was a child. I felt his arm, it was like iron.”
“It was not so much his strength that impressed me,” said Kuchin. “There are many strong men, stronger even than he is. It was the speed, and the skill. Three armed men, four counting you, Alan. But three armed men who are good with weapons, and still he managed to do it.”
“There was some luck involved, surely.”
“There is always an element of luck. The question becomes, did it happen on its own, or did he create it himself? I tend to think the latter. He came out with his elbows raised horizontally, a classic close-quarters combat technique. It allowed him to strike fast on a pivot and with maximum power since he could use his weight and the leverage of his torso and hips. And bent-elbow strikes are preferable over a fist. There are many small bones in the hand that can break on contact. Any one of them snaps, that limb is useless. An elbow, on the other hand, is comprised of only three bones at a pivotal juncture, and they’re all relatively large. The elbow is at its greatest risk of breaking when it’s extended. You fall, reach out palm down, arm straight, and the part of the anatomy that takes the brunt of the fall is the elbow. It snaps.” Kuchin made a V with his arm. “But if you bend the arm those stress points vanish and the resulting durability and striking power are formidable.”
“You know a lot about these things.”
“I know enough. And he kept moving, always moving, making it very difficult to line up a shot.”
“If he’s that good, maybe we should give it a pass.”
Kuchin looked at him, clearly disappointed. “They strapped me to a crypt. They were going to put me in a grave with old bones. They defiled consecrated ground in a Catholic church. And I must now hit them back far harder than they hit me. So from this point forward it is the only thing I will focus on.”
“But the business.”
“That is why I have you.” He put an arm around the other man’s narrow shoulders and squeezed. Rice moaned slightly, since his entire body was sore from his brief but painful encounter with Shaw. “You will do a good job. And if I see any indication of you overstepping your authority or trying to replace me at the top, just keep in mind that the dogs I used on Abdul-Majeed are still available.”
Rice said nervously, “Evan, about the name they called you?”
“I would not think of it ever again if I were you.”
The plane did not land in Montreal. Kuchin had ordered a change in the flight plan. They put down on a long strip of level asphalt that he’d built in far eastern Canada on the Labrador side of the province of Labrador and Newfoundland.
Rice looked out the window as the plane taxied to a stop. “Evan, what’s going on? Why are we landing at your place here??
??
“I’m not going on to Montreal. The plane will.” He rose and slipped on a long coat.
“But why here?”
“And you won’t be leaving on this plane.”
Rice looked pale. “I don’t understand.”
“Unfortunately it can’t be helped. My jet is too easily followed.”
“You mean I’m driving all the way to Montreal? That’s a long way.”
“Over a thousand miles, actually. But you’ll be driven and you won’t have to go the whole way. In Goose Bay, I will engage another plane that will fly you the rest of the way to Montreal. You’ll be there in time for a late dinner. But you will not go to your home or the office. You will stay at the safe house outside of the city. You will conduct your business from there. And two of my men will be with you at all times. Understood?”
“Certainly, yes. You think these precautions are actually necessary?”
“Considering that I was almost dumped into a crypt in the basement of a church in Gordes, yes, I do.” He laid a hand on his assistant’s shoulder. “I will be monitoring your progress closely. You can stay on the plane. I will send transportation out to you.”
The jet door and gangway descended and Kuchin stepped off, climbed in a waiting Escalade, and was driven off.
Kuchin did not look back at his jet but kept his gaze resolutely ahead. If they knew he was Fedir Kuchin, what would be their next step? They were prepared to kill him, so he didn’t believe they were tied to an official organization like Interpol, or America’s FBI. Or even the successor to the old KGB, the Russian Federal Security Service. It had been known in the past to round up old Soviet targets and imprison or execute them after a very public trial for the global goodwill it would inspire. They did that, Kuchin thought with contempt, while a former KGB officer was now leading the country. It was disgusting what democracy could inspire.
Yet if he were wrong and they were official? They could come swooping in and dismantle his entire organization. They might be waiting for the jet to land in Montreal. Well, they would find it empty, and he trusted his pilots not to reveal his location. This was not simply an act of faith on his part. They had both been with him many years, and they knew that Kuchin knew where their families lived.
He had built a compound in a remote location nearly forty kilometers from here. He had over the years accumulated thousands of acres and put his house in the middle of some of the most rugged, glaciated tundra outside of Siberia. It was unforgiving terrain and yet Kuchin found solace and familiarity here. He and Rice had devised many successful business models here over the last four years. He could think here, deeply. And he would do so now as he planned his counterattack.
CHAPTER
63
