The Warsaw Protocol

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The Warsaw Protocol Page 25

by Steve Berry


  Located on Level IX.

  He showed Stephanie the chunk of salt crystal.

  “That was on Olivier’s person when he died,” he told her. “And he had that book, all ready to go in an envelope. It all adds up. 9 Bobola. That information is hidden in the mine, where that statue is located, on level nine.”

  He thumbed through the oversized picture volume, finding a schematic of the mine’s various levels. Not a lot of detail, but enough to get the idea that it was a huge underground complex.

  He placed a period on his line of thoughts. “I think that Eli Reinhardt knows this, too.”

  “He’s going after it?”

  “You tell me. Do you know him?”

  She nodded. “He’s an information broker, just like Olivier, but his reputation is not the best. He and Olivier were active competitors, and that information on Czajkowski is still worth a lot of money. So yes, if he can, he will go after it.”

  “He may already be on the way to that mine, trying to find a way in.”

  They were inside the same office used yesterday, with the door closed. The afternoon sun, still hazy, slanted through the blinds.

  “We ought to preempt him,” he said.

  He could see she was intrigued by the possibility.

  “And what do we do if the information is there?” she asked.

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  Neither one of them was comfortable with any of this. Stephanie was defying her employer. He was offending Sonia. But the thought of allowing that information to fall into the hands of Reinhardt seemed repugnant. No telling what would happen then.

  “You think Ivan knows?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “He seemed genuinely pissed when Sonia killed Olivier.”

  The phone on the desk rang.

  Stephanie answered, listened, then pressed a button activating the speakerphone, hanging up the receiver.

  “Mr. Malone, this is Warner Fox.”

  Cotton sat up on the edge of his chair.

  “What happened?” the president asked.

  “Exactly what you should have anticipated. The Russians killed everyone.”

  “Including Tom?”

  “He’s not here, is he?”

  “You’re telling me everyone, including Olivier, is dead? Except you?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. And before you ask, I’m only here because I got lucky. The Poles were working with the Russians, and both of them were one step ahead of you the entire way. Your lies only infuriated both Warsaw and Moscow.”

  “I did what I thought necessary.”

  “You have no idea what you’re doing, and a lot of people are dead now thanks to you.”

  “You won’t be paid a dime for your work here,” Fox said.

  He shook his head. “You know where you can stick that $150,000.”

  “You have no respect for this office, do you?”

  “Actually, I have a tremendous respect for the presidency. What I lack is any semblance of respect for you.”

  “Stephanie, what about the information on Czajkowski?” Fox asked, ignoring the jab. “Any idea where it might be?”

  She glanced his way and he shrugged, signifying it was her call.

  “None at this time,” she lied.

  “I’m about to speak with the president of Poland,” Fox said.

  “Who knows you lied to him,” Cotton said.

  “Can anything be salvaged?”

  “Maybe some pride, if you apologize to Czajkowski,” Cotton said.

  “Your impertinence knows no bounds,” Fox muttered.

  “Did Tom Bunch have a family?”

  “A wife and two children.”

  “Give them the $150,000.”

  And he meant it. Bunch had been a blind fool, but his wife and children were another matter.

  “Stephanie, please answer my question,” Fox said.

  “Nothing I’m aware of can be salvaged. This is over.”

  “Then explain to me why the Russians think otherwise.”

  Damn. Fox had practiced the old adage that every good trial lawyer knew. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to, unless you don’t care what that answer may be.

  And he clearly had not.

  Truth or lie, he had her.

  “The NSA detected a message from a Russian SVR agent named Ivan Fyodorov, currently in Kraków, confirming to the Kremlin that the information may still be in play.”

  Neither of them said a word.

  “I’m going to assume that you both know more than you’re willing to share,” Fox said. “That’s fine. Doesn’t matter. You’re both off this operation. It will be handled by others, who are on their way to Kraków now.”

  Stephanie shook her head.

  Cotton knew what was coming.

  “Stephanie, you’re relieved of duty, pending termination. I’ll leave it to the attorney general to decide your fate.”

  “Like that decision is in doubt,” she said.

  “No. It’s not. Unlike you, he understands loyalty.”

  “He’s an idiot,” she said.

  “I won’t miss you,” Fox said.

  “Nor me you.”

  And she ended the call.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Czajkowski allowed his cell phone to keep ringing. Sonia smiled at his impertinence toward the president of the United States.

  Finally, he answered.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. President,” Czajkowski said on speaker.

  “You’re not going to win this,” Fox declared.

  “I wasn’t aware that we were in competition.”

  “Tom Bunch is dead. Murdered in cold blood.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What a terrible tragedy. But that concerns me how, Mr. President?”

  “You will not get away with this.”

  “I’m at a loss. What are you referring to?”

  “I’m referring to whatever you had or allowed to be done. Malone reported that everyone was killed and that you and the Russians were working together.”

  “Our interests do align relative to this issue.”

  “I’ll have every dime in foreign aid cut off to Poland in retaliation.”

  He laughed. “Really? All ten million euros’ worth? Go ahead. We shall not miss it.”

  The United States had never been generous with Poland when it came to foreign aid. True, they considered the country of strategic importance and were always willing to provide military assistance, but that always came with some ceding away of pride or possession. With the constant looming threat from Russia, previous Polish administrations had been willing to make that deal. He was not.

  “I was referring to the $150 million in military sales we allow to Poland,” Fox said.

  He’d been warned about Fox by other European leaders who’d already dealt with him and made their own assessment. Rude. Pedantic. Arrogant. Willfully uninformed. Quick to anger, especially when challenged. Big on threats. Like now.

  “May I ask what would be the basis for cutting off those military sales?”

  “Your refusal to cooperate with an ally. If our missiles aren’t good enough for you, then our military hardware should be treated the same.”

  “That would be unfortunate,” he said. “But we will just buy those arms elsewhere. I’m sure the Chinese, or the French, would appreciate the business.”

  “That’s not the same as made in America, and we both know it. Our weapons are the finest in the world.”

  Another assessment he’d been told about Fox was an irrational belief that all things American were best.

  “I’m sure the Chinese and the Europeans would disagree with your statement. No matter, I will not be coerced by you, or anyone. There will be no missiles on Polish soil. None at all. You are putting this country at risk, and that will not be allowed.”

  “Nor will I suffer the insult of a refusal from a second-rate, barely-above-a-third-wo
rld nation. If it weren’t for us, all of you would be speaking German.”

  His gaze met Sonia’s and her eyes signaled for him to keep his temper.

  Play this out.

  Calmly.

  He nodded, then said, “As I recall, Mr. President, it was the Soviets who liberated us. Then your country, and England, allowed Stalin to steal our nation and subject us to forty-five years of brutal oppression.”

  “Ungrateful. That’s what you are, Czajkowski. Ungrateful. You, and all Europeans. We saved your ass. All we ask is a little loyalty. We have a serious situation here. Representatives from several sovereign governments were murdered today—”

  “Trying to buy information with which to blackmail me, yourself included.”

  “Don’t interrupt me.”

  “The last I looked, Mr. President, I was the duly elected head of a sovereign government. We are equals.”

  “That is the one thing we are not. Tom Bunch was gunned down. That’s not going to go unanswered.”

  “I was there,” Sonia said.

  “Who is that?” Fox asked.

  “The person who killed Jonty Olivier,” she said. “The rest were killed by the Russians. Good luck answering that insult, Mr. President. Are you prepared to start World War III?”

  “Killing Olivier was stupid,” Fox said.

  “No. Trying to blackmail the president of Poland was stupid. We just countered that.”

  “I have agents on the way there,” Fox said. “This will be dealt with. Decisively.”

  He’d had enough. “And if those agents violate any law of this country, they will be arrested and imprisoned.”

  “I’m sure the Slovaks would love to know what happened within their jurisdiction today. My next call will be to them.”

  Interesting that Fox did not seem to have a full grasp of the situation, unaware that the site had been sanitized. He could see that Sonia had come to the same conclusion. She mouthed Malone. He nodded. Made sense. He’d made a report, but Malone would not have known what subsequently happened, either.

  “I would encourage you to do whatever you deem necessary,” Czajkowski said. “After all, you are the president of the United States, and who am I to argue. I’m just the leader of a second-rate, barely-above-a-third-world nation.”

  “I’m going to have those missiles in Poland, one way or another. Either you’re going to do it, or your successor. There’s something you don’t know.”

  They both waited.

  “You failed. The Russians say the information on you may still be in play. And they’re going to get it. But not if I can help it.”

  He was instantly concerned but knew better than to let on. “Good luck with that, too, Mr. President.”

  And he ended the call.

  “Is that possible?” he asked Sonia.

  “Olivier said repeatedly he was the only one who knew the location. And that made sense. Why would he trust it to anyone else? He said that not even his man, DiGenti, knew the location. But DiGenti is dead.”

  “Did that man talk before he died?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Could the Russians be bluffing just to keep Fox off guard? They could manufacture documents. They’ve done it before.”

  He could see she was thinking, her mind racing.

  “I need to make a call.” She found her phone, punched in a number, spoke for a moment, listened, then said goodbye. “Cotton and Stephanie Nelle left the American consulate together twenty minutes ago. We watch the building daily. And we caught a break. Cotton used the car I found at the castle with the spear and the other Arma Christi relics inside. After I retrieved the spear, I tagged the car with a tracker. I thought we might want to know where the remaining relics ended up.”

  Sonia’s phone buzzed.

  She answered, then muted the call.

  “The car is moving out of town, east toward Wieliczka. I need to head that way.”

  He nodded.

  She unmuted the call and told her man to keep her posted. Then she turned for the door to the small office.

  “Wait,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Cotton drove, with Stephanie in the seat beside him. He sympathized with her untenable position. Of course, none of it mattered any longer since she would soon be unemployed. True, he did not know her exact age, but it was definitely past sixty-five. So she could retire, travel, enjoy herself. Visit more with her son, Mark, who lived in southern France. Build on her relationship with Danny Daniels. But he knew none of that was going to happen. Stephanie was an intelligence officer through and through. Her husband had died long ago and her career had become her life. Was that a good thing? Maybe not. But it was a fact, and she seemed content with the choices she’d made. He knew of countless situations where her cool head and hard decisions had made all the difference. Where the United States owed her a debt of gratitude. Hell, she’d even been shot in the line of duty. And what had she received?

  A pink slip.

  “The good thing,” he said, “is that Fox’s people have no idea about the possibility of a connection to the salt mine. The bad thing is someone’s tailing us.”

  “I assumed that would happen,” Stephanie said, her gaze fixed out the front windshield. “Fox will want to know what we’re doing.”

  “I’m going to drive past the mine. I’ll lose them on the other side of town. Then we’ll double back.” He paused. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

  “I’ve always wondered how my career would end. Nothing goes forever, and God knows I’ve had a great run and lingered far longer than I should have. So maybe it’s time to walk away. Move on.”

  “Who are you kidding?”

  He caught the grin on her face as she went silent and he checked the rearview mirror. The same car he’d noticed in Kraków remained three back. He assumed it was someone from the embassy. Maybe one of the marines, responding to an order from the White House. Fox had surely wanted Stephanie and him watched. But in his rookie arrogance Fox had not even considered that two experienced intelligence officers would anticipate that move and be ready to counter.

  “I’m kidding myself,” she finally said. “You and I both know that. I’m not ready to leave.”

  Her world had always been about secrets. Nothing was as it seemed. Every word, every act, suspect. That was how an intelligence officer lived life, and it was tough to readjust.

  Which he knew from his own experience.

  “This isn’t over,” he said. “If we find that information, the value of your stock just rose.”

  He entered the small town of Wieliczka. It lay in a valley between two ridges, ten miles southeast of Kraków. Its old architecture blended perfectly with the greenery of its parks and charming alleys. It had historic churches, a market, and a monastery. But its claim to fame was the salt mine beneath it, which he specifically avoided, easing through the center of town, then out the other side, still headed southeast.

  Traffic thinned.

  Their pursuer stayed about five hundred yards back, no cars between them now.

  Enough cat and mouse.

  On a flat stretch of pavement he eased off the gas and allowed the other vehicle to come close. It approached the left rear quarter. He swerved into the opposite lane, slowed a bit, and allowed the car to draw parallel.

  A gun appeared.

  He and Stephanie slumped down.

  “That’s no marine,” she said.

  He agreed and played the steering wheel, slamming the right side of his car into the left of the other, momentarily preventing any shooting. Then he pumped the brake and allowed the car to skid to a stop, the other vehicle speeding ahead, where it executed a smooth U-turn and headed back in their direction.

  He stamped the accelerator and yanked the steering wheel hard left. A quick roar of an engine came before the skid of rubber as the rear wheels caught the pavement. The car spun, the rear end swinging to change places with
the front. He straightened out the hood, giving the engine more gas. He reminded himself that the backseat was loaded with precious relics, which were bouncing around unimpeded.

  “Like a damn roller-coaster ride,” Stephanie said. “Good to see your skills are still sharp.”

  He grinned. “We’re just getting started.”

  The gun from the castle lay on the console between them.

  “Get ready to fire,” he told her.

  Stephanie grabbed the pistol.

  They were now headed back toward town down two lanes of asphalt. Their pursuer shot out of his lane and crossed the double line into a hole in incoming traffic, trying to get to them.

  Horns blared.

  The car swept back into their lane, now directly behind them. Cotton was doing nearly 120 kilometers an hour. They would run out of highway a few miles ahead when they reentered Wieliczka.

  But their pursuer seemed without fear.

  Or brains.

  The car closed straight on and popped them in the bumper. Cotton’s right foot slammed the brake, which caused another collision. But he was ready for it, spinning the wheel left into the other lane and braking again, allowing the other vehicle to draw alongside. Stephanie rolled down her window and fired twice. Once into the driver’s-side window. The other into the front left tire.

  Which burst.

  Cotton floored the accelerator, knowing what was coming. The other car veered hard left, off the road, into the trees.

  “Nice shooting,” he said to her.

  “I still have some talent.”

  That she did.

  * * *

  He parked in a paved lot specifically for visitors to the Wieliczka Salt Mine, in a space that provided quick access out. They crossed the street and headed for the Daniłowicz Shaft, which a placard informed them was the only way down for general visitors. The mine complex, at ground level, stretched for acres, its various buildings incorporated into the town, which had been built centuries ago to accommodate the miners and their families. They’d left the consulate in a hurry, speaking to no one. But Stephanie had made one call before they fled the building.

  One she hadn’t elaborated upon until now.

 

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