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The touch on her shoulder made her jump. She stopped spi
“You look great,” he said.
“No more seasickness. I promise.” She tapped the ground with her spike heels. “Firmly on terra firma.”
Shaw glanced around before returning his gaze to her. Reggie could sense in that one motion that he had assessed all potential threats and filed them away in some neat data bank in his mind.
“You like seafood?” he said.
“That’s actually my absolute favorite.”
“I know a place in Mayfair.”
“Sounds brilliant.”
He looked hesitant for a moment and then held out his arm. She quickly slipped her hand through it before he could reconsider the offer. His hesitation had made Reggie inwardly smile. Uncertainty humanized a person so wonderfully, she thought. Reggie slightly increased the pressure on his arm to show him he’d made the right decision.
“It’s not too far from here,” he said. “It’s a nice night, we can walk.” He glanced down at her shoes. “Can you manage in those things? We can cab it if you want.”
“I can walk over in these heels. I just might not be able to walk back.”
“I can always carry you.”
They walked down Haymarket Street, cut through Piccadilly Circus, and over to Mayfair.
“It’s only a few more blocks,” said Shaw as they ambled slowly along. “Just off Grosvenor.”
“I’m good.”
He glanced down at her. “You do seem good.”
She interpreted his remark as she glanced around at other couples doing exactly what they were doing. “It’s just nice to pretend to be normal. I guess that seems weird.”
“No it doesn’t. In our professions those moments are few and far between.”
The restaurant was set midblock, and had a green awning out front partially obscuring a pair of formidable mahogany doors. Inside, the ceilings were high, the wood dark, the booths leather-backed, the linens starched, and the napkins poofed up in cut crystal water glasses. Topping chest-high wood cabinets were iced platters of lobster tails, shrimp, black-shelled mussels, and spidery crab legs arranged in concentric circles. Shaw had made a reservation and a curvy young Indian woman in a black dress tight enough to reveal her choice of thong underwear led them to their table. It was situated in the back diagonally across from the entrance.
Shaw took the seat opposite the mahogany doors.
This had not been lost on Reggie. “Firing lines sufficiently established?” she asked impishly.
“They’ll do. Unless that platter of steamed squid fouls the shot.”
“Why do I think you’re not joking?”
He picked up his menu.
She did the same. “Any recommendations?”
“Pretty much anything that has a fin, gills, and/or a shell is a safe bet to be classified as an aphrodisiac.”
She dropped the menu. “Then why don’t you pick for me?”
Shaw’s gaze topped his menu. “Indecisive?”
“Actually, cautious enough to defer to another’s enhanced expertise.”
“There’s a lot that can be interpreted from that remark,” he said candidly.
“There is. But for now, let’s limit it to the food.”
He put his menu aside. “Then we’ll double down on the Primavera Frutti di Mare.”
They ordered their food and a white wine to go with it. The waiter drew out the cork and poured the small taster portion, which Shaw approved with a sip and a nod. The waiter filled their glasses, set a basket of bread and a bottle of olive oil between them, placed the wine in a chiller sleeve, and left them alone.
Shaw held up his glass and Reggie dinked it with hers.
“Is the pretending to be normal period almost over?” she said resignedly.
“Almost, but not quite.”
“I love London,” Reggie said, looking around.
“There’s a lot to love,” agreed Shaw.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
He remained silent but stared at her expectantly.
“You mentioned back in the cemetery at Harrowsfield that you stare at graves too. What did you mean by that?”
“Not graves, grave, singular.”
“Whose?”
“It’s in Germany, an hour’s ride outside of Frankfurt, a small village.”
“That’s where, but whose grave do you look at there?”
“A woman’s.” The strain on Shaw’s face was perceptible.
“I take it you two were close?”
“Close enough.”
“Can you tell me her name?”
“A
71
FEDIR KUCHIN was impatient, which meant he was irritable, which meant he was once more pacing in his precise ninety-degree grids. A leased jet had just touched down forty kilometers from here. He envisioned Alan Rice climbing in an SUV and setting off to come and meet with him. In his possession was information that Kuchin now craved more than he had anything in his life.
But he had to wait. Forty kilometers over mediocre roads. An hour, perhaps more if the weather continued to deteriorate as it had threatened to do all day.
“Everything okay, Mr. Waller?”
He stopped pacing and looked up to find Pascal standing in the doorway. He wore jeans, boots, fla
“Just thinking, Pascal. The others will be here in about an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Not bad.”
The little man was tough, Kuchin could not deny that. His arm could be dangling by a sliver of skin and he would probably only ask for aspirin or more likely nothing at all.
He is tough, like his father.
The affair had been brief but memorable. Kuchin had taken a holiday in Greece as reward for his good work in Ukraine. Under brilliant sunlight that did not seem to exist in the Soviet Union, at least that he’d experienced, Fedir Kuchin had bedded a woman and together they’d made a baby. Kuchin had not been there for the birth but he had named his son. Pascal was a Francophone given name for a male. In Latin it meant relating to Easter and in Hebrew to be born or associated with Passover. Kuchin had named the boy in honor of his French mother, who was also a Jew, though she’d converted to Catholicism when still a young girl. He’d never told anyone about her ethnicity, nor of her and his religious beliefs. In the power circles of the Soviet Union, that would not have been looked on in a positive way.
“You do good work, Pascal,” said Kuchin. Searching the other man’s features, as he sometimes did, Kuchin would imagine he saw a glimmer of himself there. He had sent his son off to various skirmishes across the world as a mercenary. Pascal had been trained by some of the best military minds around. He’d fought in places like Kosovo and Slovakia, Bosnia and Honduras, Colombia and Somalia. He’d always returned to his father with a smile on his face and more experience grafted into his DNA. Kuchin had taught him some old tricks of the trade as well, taking some fatherly pride in doing so, but not too much. He was a bastard child after all. But he was also all Kuchin had in the way of descendants. Not smart enough to run the business, but smart enough to protect those who did.