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KUCHIN HAD SPENT a full day going over the collected file on Katie James. When he turned the final page he called Rice into the room. “A lot of information but very little that might tell us where she is currently.”
“She had an apartment in New York, but she lost her job, couldn’t pay the rent, and she got kicked out. She left no forwarding address. From what I’ve learned she has a habit of using the homes of former colleagues around the world to crash for a few days or weeks at a time.”
“I remember the story of course that she worked on most recently,” said Kuchin.
“Katie James was a key player in bringing that whole conspiracy to light. Even now the whole truth isn’t known.”
“Buried,” said Kuchin knowingly. “Because the truth would embarrass important people. It’s always that way.”
Rice tapped the mound of pages. “Well, I’m thinking that as good a journalist as she undoubtedly is, I don’t believe she navigated that whole episode alone.”
“Bill Young the lobbyist, you mean? And that was why they were together soon after in Zurich?”
“That’s one theory, anyway.”
Kuchin said, “There might be other more plausible ones. But I don’t really care what they are. We have to find her.”
“I can get some people working on it. Check plane records, charge card transactions.”
“No, I will handle it.”
“But—”
Kuchin rose, hefting the file in his right hand. “I told you, Alan, you’re to concentrate on the business. I will be preoccupied with this until the matter is resolved.” He looked down at his assistant. “Now, there has been no unusual activity around the office, I take it?”
“Unusual activity?”
“Any extraordinary interest in my whereabouts by any parties, official or otherwise?”
“Not that I’ve personally seen or heard from anyone. It’s been business as usual.”
“Then it is possible that I will return on the jet.” Kuchin seemed to be talking more to himself than Rice.
“All right, Evan, certainly. You’re paying for the plane after all.”
“I know that. I’ll be ready to leave in one hour. Alert the pilots.”
Kuchin packed a small bag. Among the many perks of flying via private wings was that you could bring anything on board with you. Weapons, explosives, victims. He had transported all three.
After closing his bag Kuchin picked up a phone and hit a button. “Pascal?”
“Yes, Mr. Waller?”
“I’m going to Montreal. I want you with me.”
“Yes sir. I’m ready to go.”
“How did you know?”
“Just my job, sir.”
The faithful little servant.
“Five minutes.”
“Yes sir.”
Rice was waiting by the door when Kuchin came out with his bag and briefcase. “Jet’s all ready. The flight to Montreal isn’t much longer than the car ride from the landing strip to here.”
