The Warsaw Protocol

by Steve Berry

  He stood and approached the bars. “Isn’t this how we first met?”

  Stephanie Nelle smiled and nodded. “In the Duval County jail, as I recall.”

  He grinned. “I was a hotshot navy lawyer.”

  “Who’d just shot a woman.”

  “Come on. She fired first, trying to kill me.”

  “And here we are, so many years later, and you’ve crashed a stolen boat into a canal. Trouble does seem to follow you.”

  “What about the three thieves and the reliquary they stole?”

  “That’s the thing, Cotton. There’s no theft.”

  The revelation surprised him. Then he realized. “You put a lid on it?”

  She nodded. “I was in Brussels, at our embassy, when the call came from the police. They learned you were once one of ours and made inquiries through Atlanta. The office contacted me. I, of course, had no idea you were here. But I claimed you, nonetheless.”

  He shrugged. “Wrong place, right time. I just happened to be there. But those thieves knew exactly what they were doing. The whole thing was planned.”

  “Tell me more.”

  He explained what had happened in the basilica and after. She on one side of the bars, he on the other. When he finished he asked, “What are you doing in Brussels?”

  “The answer to that question will cost you.”

  He understood. She’d left him in the cell for this conversation for a reason. A few years ago, when he’d retired early from the Justice Department, he’d thought seeing Stephanie Nelle again would be a rarity. One of the reasons he’d quit was to escape the risks and try his hand at something different. He’d been a committed bibliophile all his life. Now the owner of his own shop in Copenhagen, his primary profession was books. He’d come to Belgium on the hunt for some rare tomes a few of his regular customers had expressed an interest in owning. An 1897 printing of Dracula. A 1937 first edition of The Hobbit. And a 1900 original of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. All expensive and hard to find. He’d made a name for himself as a guy who could locate what collectors wanted. But instead of being at the book fair, he was in jail, his former boss apparently holding the key to the door.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I always liked your directness. It saves a lot of time.”

  While Danny Daniels had served as president, the Magellan Billet had been the White House’s go-to agency. Stephanie had not always enjoyed such a chummy relationship with the executive branch. In fact, most presidents hadn’t really cared for her. She and Daniels had not gotten along at first, either. But she’d earned his trust. Daniels’ two terms had ended and he was now the junior U.S. senator from Tennessee. Divorced, he had cultivated a personal relationship with Stephanie that, if the rumor mill was to be believed, had blossomed into love. He was glad for her. She deserved happiness. Work should not be what defined a life.

  Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.

  Stephanie was one of a handful of people in the world whom he called a friend. One of his closest. They’d been through a lot together. His entire professional career as an intelligence agent had happened thanks to her. She took a chance on a young navy lawyer and gave him the opportunity to become really good at what he did. So much so that she kept coming back to him for help, even in retirement.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Nor have you offered to get me out of here. I’m assuming the two are related? So let’s cut to the chase. How much you offering?”

  “Can this one be a favor?”

  Now it was his turn to toss her a quizzical look. “I have bills to pay. I’m here to buy books for people who are paying me to do it. A lot of money, I might add. I do have a business—”

  “A hundred thousand,” she said.

  “How long?”

  “A few days. To Thursday evening, at the latest.”

  “The threat level.”

  “This one could be tricky.”

  Stephanie was not noted for exaggeration or underestimation. So if she attached the adjective tricky, that warning could not go unheeded. But as he’d learned through the years, sure things hid the most danger. Tricky might be better.

  “A hundred and fifty,” he said. “A little extra for the tricky part.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I have big problems.”

  “Get me out of here and I’ll help you solve them.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cotton followed Stephanie as they left the jail and stepped back onto the streets of Bruges. A flood of tourists was out enjoying the beautiful evening. The police had not been happy to see him go, but no one challenged Stephanie. Her authority came straight from Brussels, far higher on the food chain than any local police chief.

  Though his clothes had begun to dry from the dunking, his sandy-blond hair was still a mess. He was coming down off the high that action always gave him. He told himself over and over that he didn’t miss it. But that was a lie. He seemed at his best when the pressure was on, though his attempt to catch the Three Amigos had not been one of his finest moments. Stephanie’s sudden appearance, however, had placed a new light on things.

  Something big was happening.

  And who didn’t like being a part of that?

  They made their way into the crowded central square.

  Bruges began as a 9th-century fortress, built to defend the coast from Vikings. Back then the town faced the sea. But slowly, over the centuries, the ocean withdrew and the remaining mudflats evolved into dry, fertile soil, transforming the town into a major medieval trading hub. People had gathered in its cobbled main square since the 10th century, and standing there now he envisioned fishermen selling their wares, farmers hocking produce, Flemish cloth being inspected by foreign buyers, and the many fairs and festivals that drew crowds from all over Europe. This was the New York City of its time. The center of social, political, and economic life for the entire province.

  He stared at the square.

  Most of it, he knew, came from a 1990s renovation that retained the feel of a bygone era while making it more pedestrian-friendly. No billboards, neon, or high-rises existed then or now. Its charm oozed from an unpretentious simplicity, the aging hand of time dominating with not a hint of neglect. The rows of step-gabled houses were full of hotels, banks, souvenir shops, retailers, bars, and cafés, everything put to good use as though it were not a priceless relic from another epoch. The trademark belfry cut a path high into the evening sky. Nearly three hundred feet tall and, as he’d found out a few years ago, worth a climb. On a clear day the Flemish coast could be seen miles in the distance.

  “I’m listening,” he finally said to Stephanie, who’d been quiet on the walk. Time for her to ante up.

  “Washington’s in upheaval,” she said.

  He smiled. “What else is new?”

  Every day there were press reports on the Warner Fox administration, detailing one misstep after another. Policy shifts and staff changes occurred constantly, all with little to no consistency. Fox would say one thing, his advisers and cabinet officers another. Everything seemed rudderless, adrift, lacking direction. Hit or miss. Mostly miss.

  “How bad is it,” he asked.

  “They’re idiots. They have no clue what they’re doing. A band of arrogant, stupid imbeciles who managed somehow to get a grip on power.”

  He chuckled. “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “The attorney general has never been inside a courtroom. Never served in public office. He was a Wall Street corporate lawyer who graduated from Yale 145th out of a class of 152. His only saving grace is that the guy at number 133 in that same class was Warner Fox. They were roommates in law school. He’s absolutely loyal to Fox. Never questions anything. He just does what he’s told.”

  “Are you still being frozen out?”

  He’d been there on Inauguration Day, seen the early ineptness for himself. But Fox had been conciliatory, promising to be more open-minded and agreeing to keep Stephani
e on as head of the Magellan Billet, though the new president had initially tried hard to eliminate both her and the agency.

  She shook her head. “Even our successes have been met with skepticism. My budget has been hacked by a third, which has handicapped what I can effectively accomplish. But that’s the whole idea. They want me gone.”

  He got it. “But they’re afraid of Senator Danny Daniels.”

  “He’s a force to be reckoned with. A bad enemy to have, but a good ally.”

  “And boyfriend?”

  She smiled. “That too.”

  “He makes you happy?”

  “Every day.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  And he meant it. Stephanie had lived a solitary life. Her husband died long ago, and her son lived in France fairly inaccessibly. He knew of no close personal relationships, until Danny came along. Cotton firmly believed there was somebody for everybody. His own life seemed proof of that. He’d been divorced from his first wife for a number of years and thought love something of the past. Then Cassiopeia Vitt came along and changed everything.

  “How is Cassiopeia?” she asked, seemingly reading his mind.

  “Feisty, like always. She’s coming to Copenhagen this weekend.”

  “So you need to be done by Friday?”

  “Something like that.”

  People filled the square, out for an early dinner or finishing off a day of sightseeing and shopping. He scanned the faces and tried to assess threats, but there were simply too many to know anything for sure. This wasn’t like inside the cathedral where things had been more contained, the people easier to compare and contrast.

  “Something strategic is occurring,” she said. “What you saw in the basilica is not the first theft of a holy relic.”

  He waited for more.

  “There have been four others.”

  Interesting.

  “All have been kept secret,” she said. “For the record, I didn’t agree with that tactic, but chalk it up to the all-knowing Fox administration, which stepped in and imposed that strategy.”

  “Did other locations with relics at least beef up security?”

  She shook her head. “None were advised. The know-it-alls decided it would only attract more attention.”

  “Obviously not a smart decision, given what happened today.”

  “There’s been a lot of those made lately in Washington.”

  He could see she was frustrated, which was not normal. This woman was usually a model of self-control. Direct. Pragmatic. Truthful to the point of pain. Honest to the point of nuisance. She almost never lost her cool. And there wasn’t a political bone in her body, which could be both an asset and a liability.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “What do you know about the Arma Christi?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jonty entered the castle’s dining hall and sat at the stout table. The room stretched in a long rectangle, facing west and the vanishing sun. The table was an oak monstrosity that could accommodate at least twenty people. He loved the ornately framed, brilliantly colored paintings that adorned the walls. Lots of warriors, holding swords and spears, fighting epic battles. The rich colors conveyed strength, the free and forceful sweep of the brush illustrating a sense of exuberance. Sadly, no one was joining him for dinner. Nothing was more pleasurable than sharing conversation during a meal. But he had to maintain a low profile until the weekend, and part of that involved eating alone.

  The chef had prepared a lovely dish of roasted pork and boiled red potatoes. Much more Polish than Slovakian. But here, so near the border, the cultures mixed. The damn communists had nearly destroyed Eastern European cuisine. What a horrible time. Everything had been rationed. Waiting in long lines became a way of life, hoarding an art form. No one ever knew when food would be available, or if anyone would be allowed to buy it. Restaurants were issued compulsory menus that never changed and deviations were not allowed. Government cooking manuals specified the exact amount and number of ingredients for each dish. Needless to say, creativity was stifled.

  Thank goodness things had changed.

  He sat and spread a black linen napkin into his lap. A glass of red wine had already been poured. With the right prompts, food and drink being two of those, people would tell a stranger nearly everything. Nothing seemed sacred anymore. Facebook, Twitter, and every other social media site seemed proof positive of that. What no one would have ever yelled from their front porch to neighbors across the street was now posted for billions to see for all eternity. Still, he loved the internet. So much could be learned so fast with little effort and no fingerprints.

  He ate his pork, which had been cooked to perfection. He’d already supplied the staff with the hors d’oeuvre menu for Thursday. An elaborate international array of sweet and savory, all fitting for the guests, who would come from around the world. He’d also bought an expensive variety of liquor, wine, and champagne, anything and everything the guests might enjoy. Food and drink went a long way toward enhancing a deal. As did ambience. Which was another reason he’d selected this olden fortress in the woods of northern Slovakia. Everything about it reeked of resolution.

  He finished the entrée and hoped there was more. Being a man of the world, he’d made a point of becoming familiar with the finer things. Sadly, the ones he favored most carried a wealth of calories, which all seemed to go straight to his ever-expanding girth. Weight had become a problem of late. His tailor had been kept busy altering his many suits. He was far too heavy for his height, all thanks to a horrible diet and a hatred for exercise. Physically he’d never been all that much. Flaccid, fleshy lips, a wide nose, and the bright eyes of a man who lived by guile, not brawn. His hair was cut simply and parted in the middle, squared off to either side of his perpendicular temples and whitening prematurely. He was beginning to show his fifty-three years.

  He’d lived an interesting life.

  His childhood was steeped in poverty. His mother, God rest her soul, cried a lot, so much that he began to believe that he was the reason. She also constantly talked about dying, or leaving. He always wondered if she’d be there when he came home from school. Eventually, maturity taught him that she’d used all that as a means of control over him, his brother, and his father.

  And the tactic affected him.

  If his own mother didn’t care for him, why care about anyone else? If she’d leave, anyone would. So his relationships, whether business or personal, had all been superficial, mainly his fault as he preferred to remain obtuse and uninvolved.

  Life, though, had definitely treated him as a favored son, the future an inviting, well-paved highway of opportunity. He liked to think of himself as noble in bearing, virtuous in character, cultured, sophisticated, and charming. But that was all part of the wall of bluff he’d built around himself. He’d grown to love the romance of being hunted, then becoming the hunter. He’d long ago dismissed any definition of goodness that society liked to frame. Instead, he applied a code learned from bitter experience where good meant fighting the odds, clawing upward, spitting in the eye of your enemies, and not asking for help or pity. He’d never been a whiner and never would be. His mantra was simple. Do what was necessary, then force a smile onto your face and take another crack at whatever. Buddha said it best. There is no wealth like knowledge, and no poverty like ignorance. But Einstein added a great caveat. Information is not knowledge. Absolutely true since the most successful person was the one with the best knowledge.

  And an investment in knowledge always paid high interest.

  He liked to tell prospective clients that the price of light was far less than the cost of darkness. Information was like money. To be valuable it had to circulate, which increased not only its quantity but also its worth. Holding information only eroded its value. But thank goodness ready, willing, and able buyers existed for nearly everything.

  He finished his dinner and rang the silver bell that sat next to his wine gobl
et. One of the uniformed staff appeared, and he asked that the plate be removed and a fresh one brought with a second helping of pork. While he waited, he sat in the high-backed, gilded chair and considered the next two days. Nearly everything was ready. But the unexpected was what worried him. Like the man tied up in the basement.

  And Reinhardt.

  He heard footsteps and assumed the server had returned with his food, which was damn quick. Instead Vic entered the dining hall and walked over to the table.

  “Do you want some dinner?” he asked Vic.

  “No, thank you. I’ll eat later.”

  The server returned with his plate.

  “Oh, sit down. Eat. Bring my friend here some pork,” he said, glad to have the company. “Along with wine.”

  He and Vic had shared many meals together, so he knew his acolyte would not argue.

  “So much is at stake on this deal, Vic. More so than on any we’ve ever had. It is all so exciting, wouldn’t you say?”

  He made a point to always use the plural we. Never the singular I. It connoted a team, which made everyone feel included. He amplified that feeling by always sharing generously with the help. That was why so many loved to work for him, and were so loyal. He was especially generous to Vic, whom he counted on in many ways. One of those was as a handy forum upon which to test new ideas.

  “I made a mistake thinking we could keep this venture quiet,” Jonty said, his voice low. “But I truly thought we had everything under control.”

  “If Reinhardt knew we were in Bratislava, he knows we’re here.”

  “I agree. Which is disturbing. So what is he waiting for?”

  “Probably for his man to report in.”

  Good point. “So he’ll soon be wondering what happened to him.”

  Vic nodded. “And there will be others coming.”

  The server returned. He motioned for Vic to eat, but Jonty’s appetite had waned. Assurance was what he needed, and that could not be brought to him on a plate.