Tom Clancy Enemy Contact - Mike Maden

by Tom Clancy

  “At the time, most people thought it was just another POW camp. My uncle knew the only way to find out the truth was to get himself arrested and imprisoned there.”

  “Wait. Are you saying he intentionally broke into a Nazi concentration camp?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he Jewish?”

  “No, he was a Christian. But he was a human being, wasn’t he?”

  “And he died in the camp?”

  “No. Once he got inside the camp, he organized the resistance movement, and also began writing reports that made their way back to London, detailing the atrocities and trying to convince the Allies to join forces with the Polish underground to liberate the camp. But Churchill and the others didn’t believe him and refused to do it.”

  “That sucks. What was Pilecki’s response?”

  “He escaped in order to help organize the Polish underground forces to liberate it, but they were too weak to do so, and even though the Russians were close enough to offer military support, they refused to help as well.”

  “How long had he been in Auschwitz?”

  “Just under three years. Most people didn’t survive six months.”

  “And after his escape?”

  “He fought in the Warsaw Uprising. Remember, Stalin refused to cross the Vistula to help them, and sixteen thousand Polish fighters were massacred by the Germans so that Russians could take control of Poland after the war.”

  “Sounds like the Russians have never been friends to the Polish people, either.”

  “My great-uncle would have agreed. He was finally captured by the Germans after the uprising but was liberated from his POW camp by the American Army. He returned home after the war, only to find that the West had given Poland to Russia, and now the Russians were the occupiers. Naturally, my great-uncle had to join the resistance movement against the Soviet Communists, especially after he began to investigate the Katyn Forest massacre.”

  “That was during the Phony War, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. In 1940, the Russians murdered twenty-five thousand Polish soldiers and intellectuals in the Katyn Forest and buried them there. Stalin lied about it, and blamed the Nazis.

  “The Russians eventually captured my great-uncle for his efforts. They tortured and then murdered him after a show trial in 1948, then buried him in an unmarked grave. It wasn’t until the fall of Communism in Poland that Witold Pilecki’s story was finally told to the whole world, though people who knew him personally knew it well.”

  “Like Mr. Wilczek?”

  “He told me his grandfather fought alongside my great-uncle against the Germans and even saved his grandfather’s life.”

  Jack shook his head. “I understand now when you say that history isn’t just a school subject for you, but a daily reality.”

  “Which is perhaps why I talk too much about it. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologize for. It’s fascinating and painful all at the same time. You must be very proud of your family.”

  “A family’s name and a family’s honor is everything, don’t you think?”

  “No question.”

  They were tooling along a southbound two-lane now. The road was fairly busy, mostly with passenger vehicles, but quite a few commercial ones as well, traveling in both directions.

  “You mentioned before that you appreciated the fact my country wants to put a military base in Poland outside of NATO commitments. Is that because you don’t trust France and Germany to come to your aid against another Russian invasion? Sort of like the Phony War?”

  “Would you? When have they ever lived up to their NATO commitments? The French and the Germans couldn’t save us from a Russian invasion, even if they wanted to.”

  “But you trust us to come to your aid?”

  “I trust President Ryan, yes.” She smiled. “Your Congress? Not so much.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Am I wrong to do so?”

  Jack shook his head. “I’m even sorrier you’re right.”

  Liliana slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t think we Poles don’t love America. We do! You know our country disappeared from all of the European maps for over one hundred and twenty-three years, right? We were divided up and absorbed by the Austro-Hungarian, Russian, and German empires until 1918. But it was President Wilson who insisted after World War One that Poland be allowed to be a country again. That’s why we’re celebrating our hundredth anniversary this year. We love America, and we know we can rely on you whenever it really counts.”

  “So long as President Ryan has anything to say about it, yeah, you can count on us, for sure.”

  37

  KRAKÓW, POLAND

  Jack and Liliana hit traffic on the two-lane road on the north side of the city. Traffic was heavy in both directions.

  It was hard to believe that a city of nearly eight hundred thousand residents had such small roads, but then again, Poland appeared to have a lot more public transportation than the United States did. On this side of town, at least, there weren’t any skyscrapers. Mostly low apartment buildings, homes, and businesses. Everything was neat and clean, as it had been in Warsaw. Maybe more so. The architecture had changed somewhat. Jack knew he was about as close to Budapest in the south and Vienna in the southwest as he was to Warsaw in the north. So perhaps it was the influence of the Austro-Hungarian Empire he was feeling.

  “Everything looks neat and clean here. I take it Kraków was destroyed during the war, too, and then rebuilt?”

  “The city was last destroyed during the Mongol invasion in the thirteenth century. The Nazis felt Kraków was the most Germanlike city in Poland, so they preserved it. They even ran their wartime administration from here, instead of Warsaw. There is a great deal of history here, including German history, which the Germans admire most of all.”

  There were just five addresses and income tax statements on the list sent by Liliana’s friend at the tax office, and Liliana had already marked them on Google Maps.

  “So where do you want to start?” Liliana asked.

  “The most interesting place. His house.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  * * *

  —

  Liliana followed the ring road west, then south, avoiding the city center. They crossed the wide Vistula River and headed farther south. Without the onboard navigation, Liliana admitted, she would have had a hard time finding Stapinsky’s neighborhood, located on the edge of a protected forest. The homes here were larger than most, with distinctly alpine features and situated on large, heavily wooded private lots. From an American perspective, it had a middle-class feel, but Liliana assured him that the average working person could never afford these properties.

  The woman’s voice in the Audi’s MMI console directed them onto a gravel road cutting through a stand of trees, which they followed around an S-curve.

  A two-story house stood on the crest of a small hill. New construction, to judge from the remnants of fresh lumber and paint buckets stacked neatly to one side.

  A tallish man, balding and bearded, tossed Tumi luggage into the back of a brand-new grape-colored Mercedes G-Class, a square-shaped SUV that Jack’s dad referred to as a high-dollar Tonka truck. The man’s round gut bulged beneath an Adidas-branded turquoise-and-black tracksuit, with the famous three white stripes running the length of his sleeves.

  But it was the two big black-and-tan Rottweilers in the yard that caught their attention.

  Or was it the other way around?

  The two thickly muscled guard dogs barked as they charged in a flash of snarling teeth toward the Audi at full speed.

  The man set his bags down in the grass, squinting behind his glasses at the silver Audi rolling up his driveway.

  Liliana hit the brakes and slammed the car into park just as the enormous fo
repaws of the black-and-tan monsters slammed onto the driver-side glass, their massive jaws snapping and snarling, fogging the window with their hot breath and saliva.

  Liliana reached into her coat pocket to grab her pistol, but a sharp whistle from the man outside yanked them away as if they had been jerked by leashes. Their stubby tails wagged furiously as they charged back toward their master and dropped to a sitting position on either side of him in perfect synchronicity.

  The man smiled.

  Liliana turned to Jack. “Shall we?”

  “So long as you’ve got that pistol, I’m good.”

  She hit the unlock button and the two of them emerged from the Audi, opening the doors slowly. They approached, careful not to make any sudden or threatening moves. The two male Rotties were each easily one hundred pounds of raw muscle and slashing teeth, descended from a breed of dog first brought to the region by Roman legions two millennia earlier.

  “Mr. Ryan, I assume?” the man said.

  “Mr. Stapinsky,” Jack said. The man didn’t offer a hand. Neither did Jack.

  Stapinsky turned to Liliana. “And you must be Ms. Pilecki?”

  “I am.”

  “Pavel was quite impressed with you, according to my secretary. I can see why.”

  “He is a nice man.”

  Stapinsky laughed. “Nice? I’ve heard him called a lot of things, but never ‘nice.’ One evening not so long ago, we went out to a pub and he got roaring drunk. A young idiot insulted his wife and a minute later Pavel threw him against a plate-glass window. Fortunately, the glass didn’t break, or else the man would have been shredded like a cabbage.”

  “That sounds very gallant,” Liliana said.

  “It might have been, except that Pavel has never been married. So, how can I help the two of you? Something about an investment?”

  Jack shot a quick glance at the panting dogs, their eyes fixed on him. He handed Stapinsky his business card, hoping his arm wouldn’t be snapped in two by a pair of anxious jaws.

  “I’m an analyst with Hendley Associates, a private equity firm. We’re looking for investment opportunities in Poland, and, more importantly, partnerships with well-managed local businesses.”

  Stapinsky held the card with two hands, pinched between his thumbs and index fingers, straining to read it through his thick lenses.

  “I’ve not heard of your firm, I’m sorry.” He handed the card back to Jack.

  “Keep it, please.”

  Stapinsky shoved the card into his pocket as if it were a dirty Kleenex.

  Jack continued. “We’re one of the most successful private equity and investment firms in the United States. We’re looking to expand overseas.”

  “You were wise to pick Poland. Our economy is booming, and we are in the heart of Europe. But I’d like to know: Of all of the thousands of companies in Poland, how did you happen to pick mine as a target of opportunity?”

  “Research, Mr. Stapinsky. That’s what I do.”

  “As a skilled researcher, you must have discovered that I have no need of any investors.”

  “You mean any new investors, don’t you?”

  “To whom are you referring?”

  “I believe Baltic General Services has recently partnered with you, providing cash and other services to bolster your enterprise.”

  “What of it?”

  “Did they buy you out? Fifty-fifty ownership?”

  “I’m not inclined to discuss my arrangements. But tell me, what is it about my company that interests you so?”

  “That’s what we’d like to talk to you about, if you have a few minutes.”

  “As you can see, I’m packing to leave for a long vacation.”

  “Somewhere fun, I hope.”

  “It’s really none of your business, is it?” Stapinsky lifted another bag into the trunk.

  “It will only take a few minutes of your time, and I think you’ll be glad you did.”

  “You assume a lot.”

  “I assume ten million dollars is worth your time.”

  Stapinsky’s eyes widened at the number.

  “And that’s how much I have to invest. Today, if possible.”

  “I suppose I can spare a few minutes. Please, won’t you come inside?”

  Gotcha.

  * * *

  —

  They sat on a green leather couch in Stapinsky’s library, its newly built shelves bulging with books, mostly paperbacks. The covers were pristine, as if the books were unread. The English-language titles were business texts and literary classics. The same with the Russian. The Polish book titles he couldn’t read, but he assumed they were the same.

  “May I?” Jack asked, pointing at one of the shelves near his desk.

  “If you must,” Stapinsky said, annoyed, as he tamped sweet-smelling tobacco into the bowl of his Italian briarwood pipe.

  Jack lifted a copy of Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls off the shelf.

  “Great book. Love the movie. Have you seen it?”

  “Many times. Bergman is a dream,” Stapinsky said, lighting his pipe.

  “But the actress who played Pilar stole the show. What was her name?”

  “I haven’t the slightest.”

  Stapinsky’s attention turned to his young live-in maid as she entered the room with a tray. The Ukrainian girl brought in cups of instant coffee and Biscoff cookies, still in their plastic wrappers.

  Jack returned the book to its shelf as Stapinsky dismissed the girl with a flick of his hand.

  “I love these cookies,” Liliana said. “They usually serve these on airplanes.”

  Stapinsky released a cloud of blue smoke, then offered an oily smile. “We are the exclusive Biscoff distributors in Poland.”

  “Impressive.”

  Jack took a seat next to Liliana. Stapinsky pointed at the coffee and cookies. “Please, help yourselves.”

  “Thank you.” Jack took a sip of the weak coffee.

  Stapinsky folded his long fingers together and leaned forward on his desk, his pipe clenched firmly between his yellowed teeth.

  “So, Mr. Ryan, what is it exactly you are proposing?”

  38

  Did that go as you expected?” Liliana asked as she pulled out of Stapinsky’s curving driveway.

  “One second,” Jack said, putting AirPods in his ears. “I need to check something.” He punched a speed-dial number, careful to hide the screen from Liliana’s peripheral vision.

  A ring later, the call connected to the listening device Jack had planted on Stapinsky’s bookshelf. He’d likely never find it, because Jack placed it behind a book the man had clearly never read. In fact, most of the books on his shelf looked unread. They were probably all for show to impress any visitors.

  Jack listened for a moment, smiled. That didn’t take long, he told himself.

  Stapinsky was already on the phone with someone, and speaking in English, so no translation was needed. The call was being recorded on his phone in case he wanted to listen to it again later.

  “Something funny?” Liliana asked as she turned onto the narrow asphalt road heading back toward Kraków.

  Jack hit the pause button. “Just a voice mail from work. I’ll be with you in a second.” He hit play and listened to the rest of the message.

  “He wanted to know if I was seeking an investment partner . . . Of course I told him I wasn’t, but he insisted on making his case . . . Of course . . . Of course not . . . I will let you know if he contacts me again. Yes. Right away . . . Good-bye, Mr. Gage.”

  “Gotcha again,” Jack said. At least that was a confirmation that Gage and Stapinsky knew each other. Not that it meant anything substantial, and it certainly didn’t connect any dots to Senator Dixon. But who knows? Maybe they would have a more interesting conversation later. If so
, the automated bug would pick it up and transmit it to Jack’s phone.

  “What?” Liliana asked.

  Whoops.

  Jack closed the app and pulled out his AirPods, saying, “Oh, nothing important. Just something from work.”

  “So did your meeting with Stapinsky go the way you planned?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But he didn’t say or offer you anything.”

  “Which is exactly what I expected.”

  Of course, the meeting had pissed him off. He couldn’t stand Stapinsky’s smug nouveau-riche arrogance, which was a real tell. Most people crumbled when they came into a lot of money quickly, especially money that wasn’t earned. The problem wasn’t the money; fast cash only amplified existing character faults. Stapinsky was probably always an arrogant, self-interested son of a bitch, but now he could afford to not hide it. Nor his obvious greed. Just waving the possibility of an easy $10 million was enough to get Jack and Liliana past the Baskerville hounds and into the Baskerville house.

  “Then what was the purpose of the meeting?” Liliana drove through a stand of trees on either side of the narrow lane. It looked like some kind of a park or nature preserve.

  “That’s a great question.” It really was. Jack knew that his answer would determine his immediate future. Either a chance at cracking open whatever nut Christopher Gage had put together, or a stint of jail time in a Polish prison cell. It all depended on how far he could trust Liliana.

  Or if he could trust her at all.

  His dad taught him years ago that reading people was one of life’s most important skills. His dad claimed he could assess someone’s character within sixty seconds of meeting them. Until Bosnia, Jack might have thought he possessed the same skill. Now he wasn’t so sure. And now he found himself in yet another vehicle in another foreign country with another beautiful woman who also possessed a pistol that could blow his brains out. Aida had given it her best shot. Would Liliana?

  “Are you asking me as a friend or as an agent of the ABW?”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “I didn’t realize we were friends.”