“I’m sure.”

“In Huber’s case we already know that they believe he died after attempting to have sex with the beautiful Barbara, and that she fled in fear of retribution. No one is pursuing it, because the man was ninety-six years old and apparently died extremely happy.” The professor could not resist a smile at this remark.

“But we do have an advantage in this case. The world has no idea Evan Waller is Fedir Kuchin. Even if he is killed under mysterious circumstances, other men in hiding like Kuchin will probably take no note.”

The professor shook his head. “No, no. We can’t count on that. There will be press. There will be inquiries. Someone somewhere may recognize the man. He has kept a very low profile for decades. Even with his so-called philanthropic work, no one gets to see him. It’s all done through intermediaries. But still we can’t draw unnecessary attention to the matter.”

“Well, I can’t fake having sex with the man and then have him conveniently die like I did with Huber. There are limits to what I can do. Perhaps a businessman like him has other enemies and we can foist the blame there. What do we know about other dealings he might have had?”

Mallory shrugged. “Not that much. Our people had other priorities. They were looking for Kuchin, not a possibly dishonest entrepreneur. I agree he might have other interests that would satisfy his evil nature, but I don’t know what they are and we have no time to look for them now.”

Reggie sat back. “I still think Whit should be in on this one. Kuchin looks well capable of taking care of himself. I won’t be able to single-handedly overpower him. It needs to be a total team effort at the end.”

“It’s true, our prey are getting younger and stronger, aren’t they?” He tugged absently at his beard. “I largely agree with you. You will need muscle on this. And whilst he has some shortcomings, Whit certainly has that. You can tell him I said so.”

Reggie looked irritated. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

Mallory looked bemused. “We don’t get on that well. Now, let’s get down to some details before the meeting officially starts.”

“Why do you do this, Professor?” she said suddenly.

“Do what? You mean smoke this foul-smelling pipe?”

“You’re not Jewish. You’ve never mentioned that anyone you loved ever suffered at the hands of any of these vile creatures. So why?”

He eyed her steadily. “Does a man need a reason to pursue justice?”

“Indulge me.”

“Not today. Perhaps another time. I can tell you one thing. You’ll enjoy your little abode in Provence.”

“Really? And why is that?”

“It’s a five-level villa with extraordinary vistas of the Luberon valley, and you can walk to the quaint village of Gordes in under five minutes. Horribly expensive, the lease payments are more than I paid for my cottage. And that’s not the best part.”

“What’s the best part?”

Mallory’s bushy eyebrows twitched in delight. “It’s right next to where our Fedir Kuchin will be staying.”

12

EVAN WALLER sat back in his desk chair and read the spreadsheet for the fifth time. He loved numbers; his nimble mind grasped their complexities easily, massaging data into precise conclusions. He made his decision, rose, poured himself a slender finger of Macallan’s, and drank it. He put the glass down, picked up a pistol, and faced the man bound to the chair.

“Anwar, what am I to do with you? Tell me.” His voice was deep, cultured, and overlaid with traces of his Eastern European origins. His tone was that of a disappointed father to a misbehaving child.

Anwar was a short man with a thickened, soft body who slumped in his chair, his arms and legs tightly bound. His face was round and his skin would normally have been a light brown color, but now yellow and purplish bruises clustered on his cheeks, forehead, and jawline. A knife cut traveled from his left cheek to his split nostril. The blood there had congealed and blackened. His dark hair was slicked back solely with the sweat of fear.

“Please, Mr. Waller, please. It will never happen again, sir, I swear.”

“But how can I trust you now? Tell me. I want to find a way. I value your services, but I need to know I can trust you.”

“It was her. She put me up to this.”

“Her? Tell me.”

Anwar let a trickle of blood drop from his mouth and onto his pants leg before answering. “My wife. The bitch spends money like it is water. You pay me well but it is never enough for her. Never!”

Waller sat down in a chair across from the captive. He put the gun down and looked intrigued. “So Gisele put you up to this? To steal from me to cover her spending?” He clapped his hands together. The sound was like a gunshot and Anwar flinched. “I had my doubts about her from the beginning, Anwar, I told you this, did I not?”

“I know, sir, I know. And as usual you were right. But for her I never would have done this terrible thing. It made me sick to do it. Sick because you have been so good to me. Like a father. Better than a father.”

“But you’re a man. And a Muslim. You should be able to control your woman. It is part of your culture. Your faith.”

“But she is Brazilian,” exclaimed Anwar, as though that would explain everything. “She is a she-devil. A wicked, wicked slut. No one can control her. I have tried, but she beats me. Me! Her own husband. You have seen the marks yourself.”

Waller nodded. “Well, she is much larger than you. But you are still a man, and I despise weakness in men.”

“And she cheats on me with other men. And women!”

“Repulsive,” said Waller in an indifferent tone. “So you know where she is?”

Anwar shook his head. “I have seen nothing of her for a week.”

Waller sat back and spread his hands. “If we find her, what do you suggest?”

Anwar spit on the concrete floor. “That you kill her, that is what I suggest.”

“So you trade her life for yours, in effect?”

“I swear to you, Mr. Waller, I never would have thought of betraying you. It was that bitch. She made me do it. She drove me crazy. You must believe me. You must!”

“I do, Anwar, I do.” Waller stood, walked over, made a fist, and drove it into Anwar’s already swollen face. The little man slumped to the side, his dead weight kept in the chair only by the bindings. Waller grabbed him up by his slicked hair. “Now you have been suitably punished. You are valuable to me. Very valuable. I cannot afford to lose you. But this is your only forgiveness, do you understand?”

Anwar, the blood trickling from his mouth, mumbled, “I understand. I swear that I do. Thank you. I do not deserve such mercy.” He started sobbing.

“Crying is not manly, Anwar, so stop it, now!”

Anwar choked back his last sob and looked up, his right eye puffy, his left one nearly closed.

Waller smiled. “I must reveal something to you. You will find it of interest I’m sure. We located your wife. We have Gisele.”

“You have her?” said an astonished Anwar.

“And I agree with you, she is a she-devil. A woman designed by God to drive men insane. Would you like to see her, tell her what you think of her before we kill her?”

“It would give me great pleasure,” muttered Anwar unenthusiastically.

“Or perhaps you would like to do the honors? A bullet to the brain of the evil woman? It may do you much good. A catharsis. A character builder.”

Anwar flinched. “I am an accountant. I have no courage for that.”

“Fine, fine. I just thought I would extend the offer.” Waller turned to one of his men. “Pascal, bring the woman in to face her wronged husband.”

Pascal, a small, trim man in his thirties, passed through another door. A few moments later the door opened again and Anwar could see his wife’s head peering around the doorframe. Normally her skin was even darker than her husband’s. But now she looked terribly pale, her eyes wide in stark terror.