However, despite the environmental dangers of his childhood, growing up there had provided him with an ambition to succeed that had been inexhaustible. Everything he’d ever set out to do he’d achieved, which made this present situation unacceptable.
He made the trek to the Belle Strait and stared out at seawater that represented the most direct route to Europe for ships coming from either the St. Lawrence Seaway or Great Lakes ports. Yet fogs, gales, and ice-choked seas for ten months of the year made navigation here some of the most treacherous in the world. The strait could hold wondrous sights too, however. These included humpback whales doing spectacular flips and wandering icebergs calved from glaciers in Greenland and bundled south by the Labrador Current before starting to come apart, with massive crashes, into the warmer waters off the coast. And Belle Isle, after which the strait was named, meant “Beautiful Island.” It sat at the eastern tip of the waterway and was roughly halfway between Labrador and Newfoundland, which together formed the Canadian province of the same name.
Beauty in the midst of nothing, thought Kuchin. He believed, however briefly, that he’d found beauty in Provence. A woman who intrigued him, bewitched him, even; one whom he thought he might like to possibly entertain for longer than one night without a bloody mess to clean up afterward. And yet the beauty had almost killed him. It was a sense of betrayal—even though realistically the woman owed him no measure of loyalty—that fueled Kuchin’s smoldering rage.
He walked up to the top of a small knoll, the strait behind him and the land in front of him flat for as far as the eye could see. Newfoundland was known as “the Rock.” Its eastern region used to be part of northern Africa. The last glaciation had scraped almost all the soil off the southeastern coast, leaving it with more rock than anything else, hence the nickname. Labrador, the easternmost section of the Canadian Shield, had roughly three times the landmass of Newfoundland but with approximately five percent of its population. Its climate was technically classified as polar tundra, and polar bears indeed prowled the coastal areas and caribou outnumbered people by over twenty to one. Here, Kuchin had his pick of massive mountains to hike, isolated bays in which to fish, barren tundra to ski across, and breathtaking and brutal fjords cut into bedrock by glacier saws to view. The slopes were often sheer and the current in the water deceptively fast.
Kuchin drew a bead with his rifle, sighting through a scope manufactured by Zeiss, the same outfit that had supplied the Third Reich. It had everything an experienced shooter would expect in a high-end sighting device, including O-ring seals and nitrogen fill for fogproofing, all in a lightweight package with enhanced field of vision.
When hunting large game it was generally agreed that a minimum of a thousand foot-pounds of force from the round was necessary. For the biggest game like moose that requirement ratcheted up to roughly fifteen hundred foot-pounds at about five hundred yards. He was using pointed boat-tailed 140-grain rounds that would drop just about anything on four hooves and certainly anyone on two feet.
Kuchin had had this rifle custom built. It was lightweight for ease of carrying and maneuve
rability and he had fought his ego and opted for somewhat less power because that translated to less recoil, which resulted invariably in greater accuracy. He had splurged on a premium barrel because that played a major factor in the only thing that mattered: whether you hit your intended target or not.
The small coyote was wandering along about two hundred yards away from him, its agile gait carrying the animal along rapidly over the flat terrain. It was early for the beast to be searching for food, thought Kuchin, but here one never knew. Kill when you can was probably a good motto for such a desolate place. It was probably a female, Kuchin noted as he examined through the glass the small chest and frame of the animal.
He lay prone on the ground, carrying the weight of the weapon on his elbows. He steadied himself, fixing his grip around the stock and underbelly of the gun, but relaxing his muscles. This was the magic recipe of the successful sniper and long-range hunter, firm but loose, heartbeat and breaths mellow, unhurried but with any possible vibration removed. The butt of the weapon hard to his bicep, his index finger dropped to the trigger guard and from there to the slender bit of curved metal. With one pull the immediately heated round would burst from the elongated barrel, lands and grooves branded into its metal hide from the force of the rapid expulsion. The quarter-gram metal missile would cover the distance between man and beast roughly six times faster than if it had been perched in a seat on a commercial jet aircraft.
And yet with the coyote dead in his sights Kuchin did not pull the trigger. He lowered the weapon. The beast, unaware of how close it had come to annihilation at the hands of a far more dangerous predator, scampered along until it was nearly out of sight. Kuchin trudged the solitary miles back to his cabin. He had never enjoyed killing wildlife. Fishing held little interest for him either despite having been his father’s trade.
It was only living things that looked like him that had ever motivated Fedir Kuchin to pull the trigger, light the match to the gas-filled pits, kick out the stool from under the noosed victim, or plunge the knife into someone’s chest. It was just who and what he was.
He returned to his cabin, slid the parka on a hook by the door, locked his rifle back up in his gun safe, and returned to his desk. There was a blinking light on his phone. The message on the recording dispelled all the bad thoughts Kuchin had been harboring for most of the day.
It was Alan Rice.
“We found him.”
CHAPTER
70
REGGIE LOVED Trafalgar Square. For her it seemed to define all things British in one sparkling geographic footprint. One had Lord Nelson on his forty-six-meter-high granite column, the savior of the British Empire honored for all time for his heroic death at the Battle of Trafalgar. And even if every school-aged child no longer knew exactly who Nelson was or what he’d done, his statue still stood as a memorial to the indomitability of the British people.
And yet there were also the great beastly pigeons. Though Nelson had been scrubbed clean several years ago and the city had taken steps to rid the area of the cooing winged creatures, the birds were simply an unstoppable force, such that the poor admiral was routinely covered in pigeon shit. Down below every make, model, and manner of human being walked, sat, danced, cried, ate, drank, performed, snapped pictures, read, flirted with their neighbor, and occasionally had sex late at night. This all went on while colorful cabs covered in advertisements and red elongated bendy-buses sped by with the intensity necessary to survive in one of the world’s great metropolises. It was the perfect blend of the staid historical and the radical new and Reggie took it all in, forgetting for the moment that she was going to meet a man who could possibly destroy her.
Although it seemed a bit absurd considering all she had to think about, Reggie had been most nervous about what to wear. She had washed all her clothes and selected a pale green dress of simple design that tapered at the waist, showed off her tan, and stopped several inches above her knees. Its front was scooped but not too much. She had pulled out and then discarded the one push-up bra she owned, selecting a more modest one instead. She had decided against wearing a sweater over the dress because the weather in London had not matched that in Leavesden, which was often the case. The skies had cleared, the temperature had cracked seventy, which was cause for celebration across the city, and the slight breeze from the south was even more warming. Her heels were high, taking her to within eight inches of the man with whom she would shortly be having dinner. She had packed her hair up high, letting a few strands drizzle down her long neck. Chunky aquamarine earrings and a matching necklace she’d purchased years ago in Thailand completed the ensemble.
As she walked down the side street where he had arranged to meet her, Reggie surreptitiously checked her makeup in the side mirror of a parked motorbike while pretending to admire the machine. With his height he would be easy to spot even with all the people around. Yet the street also had many places of hidden observation. He was probably watching her right now, in fact.
She thought for a moment and then just decided what the hell. She pirouetted in a tight circle, one heel spike firmly planted against the pavement, while slowly waving in all directions like a beauty queen on display. This action made her briefly forget her troubles on a rare gorgeous summer’s eve in the city she adored above all others.
The touch on her shoulder made her jump. She stopped spinning and faced him. Her first observation was that he’d also dressed carefully for the evening, in pressed gray slacks with a sharp crease, white polo shirt, and a navy blazer. His short hair had the shine of shampoo and he was freshly shaved. His scent reminded her of the luxurious beach in Thailand where she’d bought the necklace and earrings from a pale-skinned man carrying a shabby briefcase full of trinkets and wearing a Speedo. Shaw’s smell was balmy, sand, ocean, the sway of exotic trees; it settled just firmly enough in her nostrils to make her feel a bit unsteady on her feet.
“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.”