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CHAPTER
14
THE EXTRACTION PLAN was in place. The caves had been gone over thoroughly by assets on the ground in Provence. Shaw would also visit the caves when he got there. In the meantime he had studied detailed plans of the caves’ exterior and interior until he could draw them out on paper from memory. Waller was scheduled to travel there less than a week after his arrival; his private tour began at 10 a.m. sharp.
After each long day of work, which included handpicking the members of the hit team and prepping them, Shaw would go to his hotel, change, do his run, and then wander the streets of Paris alone until the darkness thickened and his energy waned. One night he was eating alone at a café across from the Jardin du Luxembourg, a place Anna Schmidt had loved. They’d walk through the gardens, hand in hand, watch the children sail their wooden boats in the large central fountain, and then sit and observe people drift by. He couldn’t go back there now because for him it was hallowed ground that could not be trod on again. But he had ventured close enough to see some of the flowers from a distance. That was the best he could do before his chest started to tighten and his eyes moistened.
He’d just ordered his food when he looked around the restaurant, checking each table. A decades-long habit, it was as natural to him as drawing breath. He drew a quick one when he saw her standing there in the doorway that separated one dining area from another.
Katie James didn’t look as thin as the last time he’d seen her, which was good because she’d needed to put on some weight. Her naturally blonde hair, spiky and dark the last time they’d been together, had grown out and now nearly touched her shoulders. She had on a white skirt, two-inch heels, no hose, and a dark blue long-sleeved blouse. He’d never known her to wear a sleeveless shirt, primarily because of the bullet wound on her upper left arm.
As she walked toward him he could see that her makeup did not quite cover the darkened circles under her eyes. She was a beautiful woman; many men in the room turned their heads to stare, incurring the wrath of the ladies with whom they were dining. Yet apparently a glimpse of Katie James walking across the room was worth the risk.
She didn’t wait for him to extend an invitation; she simply sat down across from him. “You look good,” she said. She eyed his hair. “A little gray?”
“A little. You look all the way back. Put on a few needed pounds. Although I kind of liked the dark, spiky hairdo.” He paused. “How did you know where I was?” He answered his own question before she could. “Frank. What’s his interest? I’ve never known him to care one way or another about my personal life.”
“I don’t think he did until Anna was killed.”
“He told me you called him.”
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“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d ever called me back.”
“I’m sorry I walked out on you.”
“There were no ties. You’re a big boy, I’m a big girl. My only problem with that was I wasn’t sure you were alive. That’s why I called Frank. To make sure you were okay.”
This made Shaw feel even guiltier. “Well, I’m fine. Back working. Everything’s okay. I told you that on the phone.”
“I wanted to see for myself.”
He looked down at the table. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
This surprised him, her turning down his invitation to dine with him, and his face showed it. “Katie.”
She rose. Their gazes locked for an extended moment. “Good luck, Shaw.”
She hesitated for another second, long enough for him to say something to keep her there. Yet he remained quiet.
She turned and left.
Shaw sat there for several beats, a massive struggle going on inside his mind. Finally, he threw some euros on the table, hustled from the restaurant, and looked up and down the crowded street.
But Katie was already gone.
CHAPTER
15
IT WAS after midnight as Reggie crept down to the library at Harrowsfield. The rain was beating against the windows and a cold wind was catapulting down the chimney, feeding a burst of oxygen onto a fading fire. She closed the door behind her, sat at the long table, and picked up a file. Under the light of a single table lamp she went over the murderous career of Fedir Kuchin for probably the hundredth time. The atrocities hadn’t changed, of course, but if anything they had become more firmly embedded in her mind. She could recite the statistics from memory; she could see the faces of the victims, pages and pages of them. The images of the mass graves, unearthed long after the man had fled the locations of his brutal handiwork, appeared to be seared onto her corneas.
She picked up a grainy picture—they were all grainy pictures, as though violent death could never have any fragment of color—and stared down at the face there. Colonel Huber had had his David Rosenbergs and his Frau Koches, photos Reggie had selected from countless others to show the man at the moment of his death. Well, Fedir Kuchin had his own testaments to a level of insane cruelty that all these men seemed to possess.
The photo she was looking at now was that of a man with an unpronounceable surname. He’d been neither wealthy nor well connected. He’d lived nearly a thousand kilometers from the capital city of Kiev. He was a simple farmer with a large family, one that he worked long hours to support. His crime against the state had amounted to his refusal to turn in his friends to the KGB, to Fedir Kuchin specifically. His punishment had been to be doused with petrol and set on fire in front of his wife and children. He had been burned to bone and cinder while they were forced to watch and listen to his screams.
