Deliver Us From Evil (43 page)

“
S
URE YOU
don’t want me to drive?” Frank said. He’d just climbed in the passenger seat of their rental.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Shaw drove faster than he should have to the airport.

Frank looked over nervously from time to time, but seemed loath to break the silence. Finally, he said, “We found the rest
of Kuchin’s boys, all dead, all except for this Pascal guy. He was nowhere to be found.”

“Good for him.” Shaw’s gaze never veered from the road ahead.

“You sure you don’t want to stay around here? I can get you the time off. You can be there when Katie leaves the hospital.”

“The only thing I’m going to do is get as far away from her as I possibly can.”

“But Shaw—”

Shaw slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a rubber-burning stop as horns blared all around them and cars whizzed past
on either side.

“What the hell are you doing?” exclaimed a stunned Frank.

Shaw’s face was red; his big body shook like he was suffering from meth withdrawal. “She almost died because of me. And it
wasn’t the first time. So I am never going near her because this is never going to happen again, Frank. Do you understand
me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Frank had seen Shaw under virtually every situation imaginable, but he had never seen him like this.

Later that night Shaw and Frank boarded a British Airways 777 at Boston’s Logan Airport that would take them to London by
the next morning. During the flight Frank watched a movie, had some drinks and dinner, did some work and napped.

Shaw spent the entire six-hour-and-twenty-minute flight staring out the window. When they landed the men cleared customs at
Heathrow and walked toward the exits.

“Shaw, I’ve got a car. You want a lift into town?”

“Just get me another assignment, the sooner the better.” Shaw kept walking, head down, bag swinging at his side.

Frank stared at him for a bit, then found his ride and was driven off.

Shaw got into London an hour later on a bus. He didn’t go to the Savoy. He wasn’t working. He couldn’t afford the place on
his own dime. He checked into a far more modestly priced room in a far less desirable part of town. He had just thrown his
bag down in a chair when his phone rang.

He didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID. He wasn’t talking to anyone right now. He went out, bought some beer, came
back, popped one, drank it down and then another, crumpling the empty cans in one hand and throwing them into the trash.

The phone rang again. He had another beer, went to the window, gazed out on the street, and saw a bunch of people pass by
who had never personally known Katie James and might not even know how close she had come to dying.

“She’s a terrific person,” Shaw said to the window. “I don’t deserve her. And she sure as hell doesn’t deserve me.” He held
up his beer can, tapped it against the glass, thinking of her hand squeezing his. It had felt wonderful and yet he knew he
would never feel it again.

At midnight his phone stopped ringing even as he finished off the last beer, which was now warm. He couldn’t sleep and rose
in the middle of the night to throw up all that he had drunk into the toilet. He showered, shaved, dressed in fresh clothes,
and headed out to find some breakfast at 4 a.m. This being London, he was successful after only a two-block search. He sat
in the back of the mostly empty café and ordered the biggest platter they had. When it came he just stared at the food and
instead drank down two cups of black coffee before dropping a pile of British notes on the checkered tablecloth and leaving.

He walked along the Thames and found the spot where he and Katie had stood when a shot had rung out and a man had fallen dead
into the river. Then he ventured to another street where if he’d been a second later, Katie would have been murdered by a
man wielding a syringe. He passed a shop where they had had dinner together. And finally the hotel where he had thrown her
breakfast cart against a wall and she’d responded by calmly pouring him a cup of coffee. This memory drew a smile from him
that quickly collapsed into a sob. At that same encounter she’d shown him the bullet wound on her upper arm. And shared with
him the story of the Afghan boy who had died, she said, as a result of Katie’s reaching too far, too hard for a story.

She’d flown across the Atlantic on a moment’s notice to be with Shaw when he needed her. She had always been there when he’d
needed her. And now she was lying in a hospital with a hole in her chest because of him. Shaw staggered into an alleyway,
leaned against a dirty brick building, and wept so hard he finally got the dry heaves.

Later, at Trafalgar Square, he sat red-eyed with the pigeons, staring up at Lord Nelson until his neck hurt because he didn’t
know where else to look. London was coming to life now, the pace of feet and vehicles picking up. As the sun rose, the air
warmed. After all that had happened, it was hard to believe that it was still summer. Gordes, even Canada, seemed an eternity
ago to him.

He rose, looked around, debating where next to go, then stopped. Across the square Reggie was staring back at him. He started
to walk in the opposite direction, but something made him reverse his path and cross the space toward her.

“How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” she said. “And I called Frank. He told me you were back in London.”

“How’s Whit?”

“Leg’s stiff but he’ll be fine. I’m glad Katie will be okay too.”

Shaw absently nodded.

Reggie wore the white jeans she’d had in Gordes, black flats, and a blue cotton blouse. Her hair hung limp to her shoulders.
She looked older, thought Shaw. Hell, they all looked older. He felt like he was a hundred.

“Tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.”

“I think my service was turned off,” he said.

He started walking and she fell in beside him.

He said, “Thanks for taking out Kuchin. It was a hell of a shot.”

“I should’ve been faster. If I had, Katie—”

He moved slightly away from her. “Don’t, Reggie, just don’t.”

She fell silent as they walked farther into the Strand.

“Did they ever find Dominic’s body?” he asked.

“No. And the worst part is his parents will never really know what happened to him.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

She looked down, seeming to search for the right words. “Frank is talking to us about working with you.”

Shaw stopped and looked down coldly at her. “With
me
?”

“No, I meant with him. With
his
organization,” she said hurriedly.

Shaw started walking again. “I don’t see how that could be possible.”

She started speaking rapidly. “We would have to change some of the ways we operate. I mean we can’t, well, finish the jobs
like we used to. But he said the information network and research support we have could prove useful if we were to combine
certain—”

Shaw held up a hand indicating for her to stop. “I don’t really care, okay?”

She looked crushed by this but said, “Sure. Okay. I can understand that.”

They came to a park and Shaw sat down on a bench. Reggie hesitated, seeming unsure whether he wanted her to join him or not.
She finally just sat down, but kept a healthy space between them, which was difficult since Shaw was so big.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for saving my life.”

“Shaw, you don’t have to thank me. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

“I needed to say it.”

“Fine, you said it. That’s enough.” She crossed her legs, drew an exaggerated breath. “It’s none of my business, but—”

He cut her off. “Then drop it.”

A minute of silence passed.

“We weren’t more than friends,” Shaw said, breaking the quiet. “Not yet anyway. But we
were
friends. And she meant… she
means
a lot to me. More than I realized.”

“Okay.” A tear slid down Reggie’s cheek.

“And whether we ever would be more than friends is something that…” He shook his head, stared over at a little boy with his
mother, and then dropped his gaze to the grass.

“But, Shaw, she’s going to be okay. You can go and—”

“That won’t be happening,” he said firmly.

Another few moments of silence passed.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“Few days off wandering around here until Frank puts me back to work.”

“You could come out to Harrowsfield. In fact, I believe Frank is traveling there tomorrow to go over some things. And we could—”
She stopped talking when he abruptly stood.

“No, Reggie, I really don’t think we could.”

He turned to leave.

“Please, Shaw.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “I’m sorry.”

“But if we can just take it slow.” Tears were starting to cluster in her eyes and this seemed to anger her. She brushed them
away.

He turned to face her as she stood to do the same. “I buried the one woman who meant more to me than anyone else. And I nearly
lost another woman who I care about deeply.” He paused and drew a short breath. “I’m not going to make it three. Take care
of yourself, Reggie.”

She stared after him until even his tall figure disappeared into the growing crowds as London came to life.

Reggie finally walked off in the opposite direction. She could not bring herself to look back.

If she had glanced back, however, she would have seen Shaw stop and stare back at her for a long moment. Then he slowly turned
around and kept walking.

To Michelle, who makes all our lives work.

To Mitch Hoffman, editor extraordinaire.

To David Young, Jamie Raab, Emi Battaglia, Jennifer Romanello, Tom Maciag, Martha Otis, Bob Castillo, Anthony Goff, Kim Hoffman,
and everyone at Grand Central Publishing, for all you do.

To Aaron and Arleen Priest, Lucy Childs, Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole Kenealy, Frances Jalet-Miller, and John Richmond, for helping
me every step of the way.

To Roland Ottewell, for your keen eye.

To Maria Rejt and Katie James at Pan Macmillan, for their well-timed support from across the pond.

To Grace McQuade and Lynn Goldberg, for wonderful publicity.

To Bob Schule, for world-class consultant services.

To Lynette, Deborah, and Natasha, for being a great team.

O
LIVER STONE
was counting seconds, an exercise that had always calmed him. And he needed to be calm. He was meeting with someone tonight.
Someone very important. And Stone didn’t quite know how it was going to go. He did know one thing for certain. He was not
going to run. He was through running.

Stone had just returned from Divine, Virginia, where a woman he’d met, Abby Riker, lived. Abby had been the first woman Stone
had feelings for since he’d lost his wife three decades prior. Despite their obvious fondness for one other, Abby would not
leave Divine, and Stone could not live there. For better or worse, much of him belonged to this town, even with all the pain
it had caused.

That pain might become even more intense. The communication he’d received an hour after returning home had been explicit.
They would come for him at midnight. No debate was allowed, no negotiation suffered through, no chance of any compromise.
The party on the other end of the equation always dictated the terms.

A few moments later he stopped counting. Car tires had bitten into the gravel that lined the entrance to Mt. Zion Cemetery.
It was a historical if humble burial site for African Americans who’d gained prominence by fighting for things their white
counterparts had always taken for granted, like where to eat, sleep, ride in a bus or use the bathroom. The irony had never
been lost on Stone that Mt. Zion rested high above fancy Georgetown. It was not all that long ago that the wealthy folks
here only tolerated their darker brethren if they wore a maid’s starched uniform or were handing out drinks and finger foods
and keeping their obedient gaze on the polished floors.

Car doors opened and car doors closed. Stone counted three clunks and then three sets of footsteps. So a trio. Of men. They wouldn’t send a woman for this, he didn’t think, though
that might simply have been the prejudice of his generation.

Glocks or Sigs or perhaps customized models, depending on whom they’d sent to do the deed. Regardless, the weapons would be
chambering efficiently lethal ordnance. The guns would be holstered under nice suit jackets. No black-clad storm troopers
rappelling from the skids of go-fast choppers in quaint, well-connected Georgetown. The extraction would be quiet, no important person’s sleep interrupted.

They knocked.

Polite.

He answered.

To show respect.

These people had no personal grudge against him. They might not even know who he was. It was a job. He’d done it, though he’d
never knocked beforehand. Surprise and then the millisecond-long pull of a trigger had been his M.O.

A job.

At least I thought that, because I didn’t have the courage to face the truth.

 
As a soldier, Stone had never had any qualms about ending the life of anyone who was trying to terminate his. War was Darwinism
at its most efficient and the rules were innately commonsensical, kill or be killed chief among them. However, what he had
done after leaving the military had been different in a way that left him permanently mistrustful of those in power.

He stood in the doorway, framed by the light behind him. He would have chosen this moment to fire, if he’d been on the trigger
side. Quick, clean, no chance of missing. He’d given them their opportunity.

They didn’t take it. They were not going to kill him.

It was actually 
four
men, and Stone felt slight apprehension that his observations had been flawed.

The leader of the pack was trim, five-ten, short hair and efficient eyes that took in everything and gave nothing in return.
He motioned to the vehicle parked by the gate, a black Escalade. There was a time when Stone would have rated a platoon of
crackerjack killers coming for him by land, sea and air. Those days, apparently, were over. A quartet of suits in a Cadillac
on steroids was enough.

There were no unnecessary words uttered. He was expertly searched and herded into the vehicle. He sat in the middle bench
seat, a man on either side of him. He could feel each of their muscled arms as they lay against his. They were tensed, ready
to block any attempt by Stone to get to their weapons. Stone had no thought of making such an attempt. Now, outnumbered four
to one, he would lose that battle ten times out of ten, a blackened tattoo painted on his forehead, a third eye his reward
for the fatal miscalculation. Decades ago it would’ve been far better than even money that four men far better than these
would lay dead as he walked away to fight another day. But those days were long in the past.

“Where?” he asked. He never expected a response and didn’t get one.

A minute later he stood alone outside a building virtually every American would recognize. He didn’t stand there for long.
More men appeared, better and higher-ranked than the ones who had just dropped him off. He was now in the inner ring. The
personnel became more skilled the closer one approached the center. They escorted him down a corridor with numerous doorways.
Every single one of them was closed, and it wasn’t simply the lateness of the hour. This place never really slept.

The door opened and the door closed. Stone was alone once more. Yet again not for long. A door opened in another part of the
room and the man entered. He didn’t look at Stone, but motioned for him to sit.

Stone sat.

The man settled down behind his desk.

Stone was an unofficial visitor here. Normally a log was kept of everyone passing through this place, but not tonight. Not
him. The man was dressed casually, chinos, open-collared shirt, loafers. He slid glasses over his face, rustled some papers
on his desk. A single light burned next to him. Stone studied him. The man looked intense, determined. He had to be to survive
this place.

He put down the papers, slid up the glasses.

“We have a problem,” said James Brennan, the president of the United States. “And we need your help.”