by Steve Berry
His cell phone vibrated.
He found the unit and saw it was Sonia.
“I hope you have good news,” he said, answering.
“The tracker worked,” she said. “The auction is occurring at Sturney Castle, inside Slovakia. Not that far away.”
No, it wasn’t. “Where are you?”
“Positioned about half a kilometer away, among the trees. I’ve watched as three cars drove inside, all similar to the cars that brought Cotton and Bunch.”
“You still think Malone knew you would be following?”
“Absolutely. You have to think that whoever transported Malone and Bunch to the castle guarded against being followed. Yet Cotton made sure that tracker stayed active. I was able to stay a long way back. Now I just have to figure out how to get inside, undetected.”
“What do you plan to do, once there?”
“Improvise.”
“Be careful.”
“You sound like you care.”
“I do.”
He heard the smile in her voice.
“Which is wonderful to hear. I’ll check back when I have something to report.”
The call ended.
He considered having Mirosław “Father Mirek” Hacia arrested and a full-scale search instituted for his so-called proof. Maybe tie him naked over a stool? He hated himself for even thinking such a thing. Was that desperation? What else could it be? It drove the communists, but it would never motivate him. He was the duly elected president of the Republic of Poland. Entrusted with looking after the welfare of the nation. His job was to make smart, informed decisions that advanced the greater good. Only this was personal. No other way to view it, since everything was being directed his way.
“Do you wish to go to the airport?” one of the security men asked.
They were headed south back toward Kraków and would pass the airport on the way. But he could not return to Warsaw.
Not yet.
“No. To the hotel, please.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Eli Reinhardt stood just inside the open bedroom door, listening to what was happening past the second-floor railing, down in the great hall. It seemed everything was about to begin.
He turned to Munoz. “Are you ready?”
His associate nodded and walked over to the bed. A black Louis Vuitton duffel bag lay on the woven spread. They’d brought it with them when they arrived last night at the castle. Jonty had been overly accommodating and not searched anything. Eli had been counting on a drop in guard, hoping Olivier would be trying as hard as he could not to antagonize anyone. That was why he’d made such an inviting offer to seal their “partnership,” conceding away half of the hidden cache and defraying any financial interest in the auction save for a relatively small cash payment. Of course twenty million euros was not necessarily “small,” but he had to display some semblance of opportunism. Otherwise, Jonty definitely would have become suspicious. Now here he was, exactly where he wanted to be.
He listened as Jonty called for the first round of bids. He heard fifty million euros. Then sixty. Seventy.
“We need to deal with Mr. DiGenti,” he said to Art. “While things progress below.”
Munoz reached into the duffel bag and removed two Uzis with extended forty-round clips. An old-school weapon, but proven and reliable. He laid them on the bed, then found two pistols, with sound suppressors attached to their short barrels, inside the bag. Eli grabbed one of the pillows and handed it to Munoz. They slipped from the room, staying close to the inner wall, the second-floor railing three meters away. No way they could be seen from below. They left the gallery and found a corridor at one end that led deeper into the castle. DiGenti was holed up in one of the second-floor bedrooms in a makeshift command post, monitoring the closed-circuit cameras that watched the main gate and other points beyond the walls, waiting for the auction to conclude. The jammer was located there, too, which cut off all communications in and out. A single laptop was the exception, hot-wired to a direct internet line to be used shortly to verify the high bid and transfer funds. Jonty had seemed quite proud of all the preparations when he’d shown them off earlier.
They approached the closed door.
He signaled for Art to position himself to one side while he grabbed the knob. His minion gripped the gun, nestling the suppressor’s end into the pillow. What was about to happen would be irrevocable. No turning back. But he’d known that would be the case when he agreed to all of this in the first place.
He gripped the knob and slowly turned, pushing the heavy panel inward. DiGenti reacted to the intrusion by springing to his feet, where he sat before video monitors, and turning toward the door, reaching for a weapon in a shoulder holster. Art never hesitated, firing the 9mm twice and sending the thin, wiry man to the floor. They entered and Eli closed the door. Art fired one last time through the pillow, planting a third round into DiGenti’s skull.
Little sound had escaped.
Perfect.
He approached the monitors and studied the images, each a different swath of the outer walls and the road into the castle. Leaves on the birches and oaks hung motionless in the midday sun.
DiGenti was all Jonty had for protection inside the castle. The staff had left just before the auction began, as had all the chauffeurs. No chance for any prying eyes or ears to see or hear anything. A wise precaution, but it also provided the perfect opportunity.
He found the signal jammer and switched it off.
Then he sent a text message out over his phone that all was clear.
One more thing.
He stepped over and searched DiGenti’s pockets, hoping. Jonty had told the participants that his man would be available to lead the winner to the prize, saying that his associate was not yet aware of the information’s location.
That had to be a lie.
Jonty would never have done that all by himself.
Perhaps there was some written record of that location? And in the front pocket he found a folded sheet of paper. On it was written 9 BOBOLA.
Was this it?
Could be.
He pocketed the paper.
“Let’s return to the auction and see where it goes,” he said, his voice low. “And finish this.”
* * *
Cotton was impressed.
The latest bid was 120 million euros from the Iranians. The French and the Chinese seemed to have hit their limit, as they’d not upped the ante once it topped one hundred million. The North Koreans also were beginning to go silent. It seemed to be a battle between Russia, Iran, and the United States, the three with the most skin in the game.
“One hundred fifty million,” Bunch said in a firm, decisive voice.
Quite a jump.
Thirty million euros in one swipe.
“One hundred sixty,” the Russians bid.
Olivier was directing traffic in a calm, collected manner, keeping things moving, not allowing a lot of time for the participants to hesitate. He could, at any moment, bring things to a close, and none of the three still in the game would want that to happen. Not unless, of course, one of them was the high bidder.
“One hundred seventy-five,” the Iranians said.
“Two hundred million,” the Russians countered.
“Two fifty,” Bunch called out.
A quarter of a billion euros. Cotton wondered if any piece of information was worth that much.
But apparently so.
“You do realize,” one of the Russians said, “that we have lots of money, too.”
“Then spend it,” Bunch said. “Two hundred and fifty million euros is America’s bid.”
“Three hundred,” the Russian said, his face defiant.
“Three fifty,” Bunch countered.
“Four hundred,” the North Koreans said.
Which momentarily jarred the room.
Cotton wondered where the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea would get nearly half a billion euros. That w
as a substantial sum for anyone.
No one countered.
“What’s the problem?” he whispered to Bunch.
“It’s getting out of hand.”
“You think?”
“Four hundred and fifty million,” the Russian said in a calm voice.
Something was wrong. The bidding was progressing in unusual leaps. No one was interested in inching the price upward. Instead they all seemed intent on preempting the others with outrageous numbers. He stared at the participants hoping to transmit some of his own suspicions to them.
“Five hundred million,” Bunch said.
Silence reigned.
The two Russians stood from their chairs. “We are done. Have a car brought for us.”
“I must conclude this auction first,” Olivier said.
“This auction is over for us.”
“What’s the matter,” Bunch said. “Sore loser?”
The taller of the two Russians glared at Bunch, then said, “Mr. Malone. You met a man in Bruges. Did he not tell you what our intent would be.”
We not know where auction will occur. But when we do, we will act. Tell Stephanie Nelle that I do not bluff.
Ivan’s words right before he fired the Taser.
“That intent has not changed,” the Russian said.
Cotton caught another pinprick of trouble in the man’s cutting black eyes, a spark that flared a warning.
Not good.
“We wait outside.”
The two Russians marched from the hall.
“Are there any more bids?” Olivier asked.
No one replied.
“Last chance.”
More silence.
“Then I declare the United States the winner.”
“Hot damn, Malone,” Bunch said. “We did it.”
But what exactly had they done?
* * *
Eli had listened to the entire proceeding.
Half a billion euros.
Jonty must be ecstatic.
There was talk coming from below as the auction wound down. He glanced out the doorway and saw the two Russian bidders who’d exited the hall appear at the top of the staircase.
He motioned for them to wait there, out of sight.
He and Munoz lifted an Uzi from the bed, then fled the room, staying away from the railing and easing toward the staircase, where they handed over the weapons. The two Russians then stepped across the second-floor gallery to the balustrade—
And opened fire.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Czajkowski reentered the Sheraton Grand Kraków through a back door that the hotel had made available for his exclusive use. Two of the hotel’s security men staffed the entrance and opened the metal door for him as he approached. He was taking a huge chance lingering. His ruling coalition teetered on collapse almost every day, one faction or another always demanding something. His job was to keep them all happy and his chief of staff had already told him that people were asking questions. His answer was that he was working on the next election, cementing what would be needed to carry Kraków and Małopolskie province. Which was not far from the truth. That should hold them off for another day, which was all he needed. This would be over, one way or another, soon.
He took an elevator up and walked back to the Royal Wawel Suite, his two BOR security men in tow. Once inside, he’d have privacy, which he’d need if Sonia called. His watch read nearly 1:00 P.M. and he wondered what was happening at that auction. Frightening that his entire future was being decided by strangers trying to outbid one another for the chance to destroy him. He flushed all that negativity from his mind, reentered the suite, found his phone, and called Sonia.
“I only have a moment,” she said. “I’m inside the castle.”
“What’s happening?”
“Trouble. A car arrived a few moments ago. I could not see who it was, but I followed it in on foot.”
“Have you seen the auction?”
“Not yet. But I’m going to find it now.”
He heard rat-tat-tat through the phone.
Then more.
“Is that gunfire?” he asked.
“I have to go.”
* * *
Jonty’s emotions went from a mountainous high of five hundred million euros, and how his life was about to irrevocably change, to the horrifying fear that his life could be over.
Gunshots.
From the upper gallery.
A deafening volley raked the hall.
He looked up and saw the two Russian bidders, who’d left, firing automatic weapons below. The people remaining in the great hall reacted to the attack and sprang from their seats, scattering, but with no cover they were simply cut down. One after another. The bodies of both Chinese erupted in splattering wounds, their muscles contorting in a drunken dance that ended with them smashing facedown to the stone floor. A similar fate met the French and Iranians.
Jonty stood, frozen with indecision, a nauseous feeling of panic surging toward his throat. Running seemed stupid.
But he should do something.
Fright welled in his throat and forced his breath to come in choppy gasps.
He dropped behind the big-screen TV and its wooden support, seeking cover.
* * *
Cotton reacted with reflexes that had been trained and conditioned long ago, springing from the chair and reaching for Tom Bunch. They were totally exposed in the center of the hall, at least fifty feet between here and where they’d be beyond the shooters’ angle above. He yanked Bunch toward the right side of the hall, beneath the upper gallery.
But Bunch resisted and pulled away. “Olivier. We have to get to him.”
Two new sounds entered the hall.
Gunshots from a different weapon.
A pistol.
Which momentarily stopped the Uzis.
His head whipped to the right and he saw Sonia rush into the hall, firing upward. He took advantage of the moment she’d bought him and lunged left, through an arch beneath the overhead gallery, out of the line of fire. The gunmen above resumed their attack, cutting down three more of the auction participants. Bunch foolishly moved toward Olivier, who was nowhere to be seen.
Above, Cotton caught sight of the two gunmen, at the railing, their weapons aimed downward.
The two Russian bidders.
“Halt,” one of them yelled out.
Bunch froze.
He heard clips being ejected and fresh ones inserted. Everyone else who’d been part of the auction lay dead in ever-growing pools of blood. Only he and Bunch were unharmed. Along with Jonty Olivier, whom he now saw was crouched behind the TV. Sonia was across the hall, with no shot upward as the gunmen were directly above her. One of the Russians above let him know they were watching by unleashing a short barrage of rounds that obliterated the stone supporting the arch he was using for cover.
He managed to steal a quick peek around the edge and saw the older man from earlier staring down at him, another younger man standing beside him. Both gripped pistols. He also noticed that Sonia was no longer on the far side, most likely headed up to deal with the problem.
So stall them.
“Could you explain the point of all this?” he called out.
“The point obvious,” a new voice said from above, with a Russian accent.
One he recognized.
Cotton glanced up to see a new face standing at the railing.
Ivan.
Who’d apparently found a way here, too.
“You were warned, Malone. Clear. Emphatic.”
“We don’t take orders from Moscow,” Bunch yelled. “Not now. Not ever.”
“Shut up, Tom,” Cotton said, hoping the use of the first name would strike home.
He needed to buy Sonia more time, so he said, “Okay, Ivan, I get it. Point made. What now?”
“That depends on Olivier.”
Cotton shifted positions to the other side of the pillar so he could see Olivier and Bunc
h more clearly. They both stood near the large-screen TV, their heads cocked upward. Concern filled Bunch’s face.
“I should have known better,” Olivier said. “You’re no good.”
“I rather think my performance was masterful,” the older man holding the pistol said.
“What do you want, Eli?” Olivier said.
“I have what I want.”
That didn’t sound good.
“You had your people run the price up during the auction, didn’t you?” Cotton asked, interrupting, calling out to Ivan. “Since you knew they were all going to die, why not bid hundreds of millions of euros?”
“Americans think money solves everything,” Ivan said.
He caught Bunch’s gaze with his own and motioned for him to stay quiet.
“Your president told Kremlin that you would not even be here,” Ivan said. “All lies.”
“It was necessary,” Bunch said. “To deal with you.”
One of the Uzis erupted in a brief rattle of fire.
Bunch’s body jolted from the impact of the rounds, his face frozen in shock, his arms flailing, trying to maintain balance.
Then he collapsed to the floor.
Dead.
“That necessary, too,” Ivan said.
Cotton shook his head.
Dammit.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Eli stared down into the great hall.
Odd how thinking like a villain both worried and stimulated him. He faced the Russian named Ivan. His benefactor was short, heavy-chested, with grayish-black hair. He wore an ill-fitting suit that bulged at the waist. The deal had been to not only smuggle in the weapons but also lead the Russians to the site. That had been accomplished yesterday when Ivan had tracked the car he and Munoz had used to get to the castle. Again, Jonty had been far too accommodating. Then, once DiGenti had been eliminated, a text told Ivan the coast was clear for him to arrive.
“Malone, my friend,” Ivan called out. “We must talk.”
The American remained hidden behind the arch.
“You waiting for Sonia to act?” Ivan asked.