The Warsaw Protocol

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The Warsaw Protocol Page 27

by Steve Berry


  “Let’s deal with that later,” he said to her, knowing she was thinking the same thing.

  She nodded. “You do know, in 1978, this was one of the first places ever given the distinction of being a World Heritage Site.”

  He caught the significance of her humor. “I’ll try to be careful.”

  And he thought of Sonia. Was she aware of this latest development? The Agencja Wywiadu ranked as a first-rate intelligence agency. If Warner Fox knew the Russians were still in the game, the AW would know that, too. And Sonia would not be confined by rules or fobs.

  He needed to stay alert.

  The plan? In and out. Fast. Clean.

  No mistakes.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Czajkowski walked with Sonia.

  They’d first found the car Malone had used, parked in a public lot, minus the sacred relics Sonia had said were lying on the rear seat back in Slovakia. He didn’t really care about those. Poland’s national treasure had been recovered, the rest were somebody else’s problem. He was worried, though, about being recognized. No street clothes this time like at the monastery. One good thing was that the vast majority of people around him were tourists who had no idea what the president of Poland looked like.

  But he’d feel better once they were inside.

  After locating Malone’s vehicle, they drove farther into the royal free mining town of Wieliczka, to Żupny Castle, where Zima had directed them. Named for the żupnik, the royal administrator of the salt mine, who once lived inside, it had stood since the 13th century but like much of Poland was destroyed during the war. Surprisingly, it was rebuilt during the time of the communists. The attractive Gothic castle now came with a fortified wall, tower, and outbuildings that housed mining exhibitions where visitors discovered the history of both Wieliczka and its mine.

  But they’d not come for the sights or an education.

  They parked in another public lot and walked up a tree-lined, cobbled path to the castle entrance. Waiting for them was a short, stumpy man in a suit who introduced himself as the mine manager. Apparently Michał Zima had some serious connections and had gone straight to the top, conveying the appropriate instructions about not making a big deal over what was happening.

  “I appreciate your assistance,” he said to the manager. “We need to know the exact whereabouts of two people who are here, on site.”

  “That was explained to me by your security people. We have full video surveillance of the entire facility.”

  He was not in the mood for chitchatting.

  “Then please, take us to the monitoring station.”

  * * *

  The central security office sat within the castle walls and looked like something out of the space program with one wall sheathed in high-definition screens. Each displayed a different slice of both the exterior and interior of the mine.

  “There are three main ways down,” the manager said. “We’ve been watching them all.” The man motioned to one of the attendants. “We found the car when it arrived.”

  On one of the screens the crisp image of Malone and an older woman came into view as they exited the vehicle they’d just seen, stopping only to remove the relics from the backseat and place them in the trunk.

  “That’s Stephanie Nelle,” Sonia said. “Head of the Magellan Billet.”

  The two Americans then walked from the parking lot onto the grounds and approached the building that housed the Daniłowicz Shaft. They were met by a petite, blond woman, dressed in tan coveralls, then all three headed away from the tourist area.

  “I’ve learned that the American Polish ambassador was in contact with our communications office,” the manager said. “He arranged for Patrycja, the woman you just saw, to meet the two visitors. She’s one of our guides. She took them to the miners’ entrance where they dressed and descended about five minutes ago. I delayed them as long as I could without drawing suspicion.”

  “Where are they in the mine?”

  “Level IX. There are no cameras there, but all guides carry trackers that we can monitor. Mr. President, can I inquire as to the nature of this?”

  “You can. But it’s a matter of state security. The two people on Level IX are American intelligence agents. It’s imperative they do not wander out of your electronic sight. And we need to go down there.”

  Sonia motioned for them to step aside together.

  They left the room and stood alone out in a hallway.

  “Are you sure about this?” she asked.

  He looked at her puzzled.

  “We?” she said. “Why don’t you let me handle it.”

  “It’s my life that’s at stake.”

  “You’re the president of this country. Act like it.”

  Her tone was sharp.

  So he made no attempt to hide his frustration, either. “You told me this was over. You told me it was handled. It wasn’t.”

  “We have no idea what’s going on here. Yes, it bears investigating, then a decision can be made once we know the facts. Right now we’re speculating. Even worse, we’re guessing. What you’re doing smacks of desperation.”

  “I am desperate. I’ve worked my whole life to get to this point. I won’t allow that opportunity to be taken from me. Not without a fight.”

  These were the first cross words that had ever passed between them, and he hated they were being said. But he meant every one. He’d worked too long and too hard to be cut short now. If salvation waited below, then salvation he would find.

  Her eyes softened. “You’re in my charge. There’s a clear danger here.”

  “From Malone? I didn’t think he was a problem.”

  “We have no idea who’s here. The Russians could be around. I can’t be cavalier about your safety. We should inform the BOR.”

  “There’s little they can do.”

  She reached out and touched his arm. “All the more reason to proceed with caution.”

  He stared at her and saw she could read his thoughts.

  “All right,” she said, resignation in her voice. “We’ll go together.”

  She turned for the door.

  He grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry for blaming you. I know you only did what you thought necessary. Killing Olivier could not have been easy.”

  “I did what had to be done.” She paused. “And if I’d thought for a moment we’d end up here, right now, with this dilemma, I would have handled it differently. I genuinely thought this was over.”

  “I know. Again. I’m sorry.”

  They stepped back into the control room.

  “We’re ready,” he told the manager. “We’ll need a way to track the guide, Patrycja, from down there.”

  “We have handheld monitors.”

  Sonia’s gaze was locked on the screens. Hard to tell which one had grabbed her attention.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Look there, on the fourth one down from the top, right side.”

  He did and saw four men, dressed in coveralls, walking toward an elevator. All wore hard hats with lights.

  “That’s Eli Reinhardt and his man Munoz.”

  He knew the names.

  “The big one is Ivan.”

  He knew that name, too. Fox’s declaration about the Russians had not been idle chatter. He pointed at the screen and asked, “Where is that?”

  “The Regis Shaft. Not far from here.”

  “They can get to Level IX from there?” Sonia asked.

  The manager nodded. “Of course. But it’s a walk.”

  He pointed at the screen. “Who’s with them?”

  The manager studied the screen. “It’s one of our guides. Dawid Konrad.”

  “We’ll need to track him, too,” Sonia said.

  But he doubted that was going to be a problem.

  Since they were all headed to the same place.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Eli rode in the elevator, which purred in a steady, controlled fall to three hundred meter
s belowground. With Ivan around, he was glad to have Munoz with him. They were both armed with the weapons from the castle. Good thing, too, as surely there were Russian reinforcements waiting above. It was doubtful he’d make it away from the mine in one piece if Ivan was challenged. But he was no fool, either. Once the information on Czajkowski was located, no reason existed to keep him alive. On the contrary. Every reason existed for him to die. Ivan had shot two of his own men with no hesitation. He’d already told Munoz to stay alert, and at the first opportunity they’d make their escape, getting lost in the mine and finding another way out. Ivan could have the information for free. He just wanted this to end. What had, at first, seemed a profitable idea had turned into a disaster.

  At least he still had five million euros and the Pantry.

  Which the Russians apparently knew nothing about, as there’d been no mention of its existence.

  The elevator came to a stop and the metal doors opened to a lit foyer and an unlit tunnel beyond. They stepped out into chilly air. The solitude of the uninviting blackness swallowed him as they entered the tunnel, their headlamps illuminating about ten meters ahead.

  “Where you want to go is a long walk from here,” Konrad said.

  “Then let us start,” Ivan said. “I don’t move so fast.”

  Eli had always imposed a rigorous discipline on himself. He’d dealt with Israelis, Americans, French, Congolese, Chinese, South Africans, you name the buyers, anyone and everyone had been a customer. Unlike Olivier, who had an abhorrence for killing, he’d never harbored any such reservations. But killing this Russian would come with dire consequences.

  And Ivan knew that.

  Eli tried to dismiss the disturbing thoughts swirling through his brain, but couldn’t. Like fat on a man who’d always been lean, they slowed him down. But he forced himself to focus and kept following their beams down the wide tunnel.

  “Amazing place,” Ivan said.

  “It shows what forty generations of hard work can do,” Konrad noted. “They just kept digging, making money for the king.”

  Eli was not ignorant of the salt mine. Though there were larger and older caverns in both Poland and Europe, they paled in comparison with this vast labyrinth, hundreds of kilometers long, so like the Minotaur’s lair. Everything about it screamed monumental. Mines had always fascinated him, particularly how the Nazis used them in Germany and Austria in the last war as secret vaults. Here the treasure had been far more practical.

  Salt.

  What a thing.

  A rock, hard but fragile. But also a symbol, a measure of wealth, a spice, and a raw material. Once entire kingdoms depended on its trade.

  Not so much anymore.

  If he’d lived centuries ago and worked the mine, he would have wanted to be a treasurer. They ruled the underground. Miners simply called them He. No name. Just He. It was the treasurer who rewarded hard work and punished the lazy. The treasurer who delivered a harsh slap across the face to any miner who cursed. The treasurer who warned against danger, scampering through the tunnels, examining the ceiling and walls, blocking the path to places where trouble lurked.

  They kept walking down the drift.

  Konrad led the way, Ivan next, then himself, with Munoz in the rear. He wanted to keep the Russian ahead of him where he could see his every move. For whatever good that would offer. He could hear the fat man’s heavy breathing, obviously unaccustomed to a brisk workout. Maybe Ivan would have a coronary.

  He could only hope.

  Eli had not made a name for himself by being either bashful or cowardly. And he wasn’t going to embrace either weakness now.

  Be smart and patient, he told himself.

  The tunnel forked.

  The right side was blocked by a sign.

  WSTĘP WZBRONIONY. No entry.

  Dripping disturbed the silence from down the blocked path. Past a rope barrier, in the combined beams of their lights he saw water seeping from the ceiling. A respectable puddle had formed on the floor beneath. Not a recent leak, either. Crystallized salt, white as snow, painted the walls.

  “Is that okay?” he asked Konrad.

  “It happens all the time. We come down and make repairs.”

  “What would happen if you didn’t?”

  “The water would slowly eat it all away. One salt crystal at a time. But don’t worry, that would take about 150 years. We’re okay.”

  “How far to go?” he asked Konrad.

  “Another few minutes.”

  He turned to leave and his helmet slipped from his head, clattering down the salt wall and finding the floor, the light beam dancing in the darkness.

  “My apologies,” he said, retrieving the headgear.

  Ivan stood facing him. Beneath those coveralls was a gun, too. Probably the same one used to shoot two of his own men back at Sturney Castle. Normally Eli stayed in control. At the head of the parade. Here he was nothing more than a spectator. He tried not to think of the darkness around him and what it might contain.

  But one thing he knew for sure.

  Nothing could be as threatening as a Russian.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Cotton followed Stephanie and their guide down the tunnel on Level IX. The trip into the bowels of the mine had required two elevators, one to Level III, then a second from there to Level IX. Patrycja had used her fob to activate both elevators, confirming her previous observation that not just anyone could descend this deep. She’d also noted that a count was kept of everyone who entered the mine, including every tourist. At the end of each day the ins and outs were reconciled so that nobody could remain. Cleaning crews worked during the day on the upper levels, so at night the mine was essentially shut down, the last tour switching off the lights, everything left in blackness until the following morning.

  The time was approaching 6:00 P.M., another hour and a half before the site officially closed. They needed to work fast, staying ahead of not only the tourists but also the Russians, the Poles, and any new Americans who might show up.

  A chilly, salt-laced breeze blew in his face, helping dissipate any feelings of claustrophobia. It wasn’t enclosed spaces that drove him nuts. It was enclosed, tight spaces he hated. He had to keep telling himself to ignore the fact that over nine hundred feet of rock lay between him and daylight. Patrycja told them that following the direction of the air served as a means of navigation, one the miners still used. The rough floor was full of obstacles and slippery in places. The silence pressed onto him as if the tunnel were collapsing. He imagined the sounds from a former time, when horses moved the heavy salt blocks, their hooves clunking on the hard floor. Railcars eventually replaced them, which came with the screech of metal on metal.

  “You know your way around these tunnels?” Stephanie asked as they walked.

  “I bring groups down here all the time. They grind salt like the miners once did.”

  The whole place had an air that did not speak of things neglected. Offshoots appeared with regularity leading into more absolute blackness.

  “I assume it would be easy to get lost,” he noted.

  “More misdirected,” Patrycja said. “At some point you’ll come to stairs or an elevator leading up. It’s big, but it’s a finite world.”

  He smiled at her sarcasm.

  “Keep an eye out for the White Lady, though,” she said.

  Had he heard right? A Dame Blanche? Obviously not a chocolate sundae. So he asked what she meant.

  “The miners called her Bieliczka. Supposedly a spirit that roams the tunnels looking for a miner she’d once loved.”

  Good to know.

  The tunnel spanned about six feet wide and eight tall, and the steady breeze kept bringing a measure of comfort. The darkness seemed omnipotent and impenetrable, but not frightening. No sunrises or sunsets happened here. No midnights or middays. For those long-ago miners who worked here for weeks at a time, only the light from their lanterns had brought a reprieve.

  He thought of those
miners and how they probably heard down here, for the first time, the sound of their own breath, their own heartbeat. How odd that must have been. But the silence was also threatening since it lulled the brain into a false sense of security. He had to constantly tell himself to stay alert. Trouble could be around the next turn. Or behind them? Hard to know anything for sure.

  If Cassiopeia could see him now.

  She would not be happy.

  But at least he’d be done and back in Copenhagen by tomorrow evening. They’d have a great weekend. Dinner at Nyhavn. Then Tivoli on Saturday or Sunday. They both loved the amusement park. She’d stay until Tuesday or Wednesday, then head back to southern France. Her castle reconstruction project kept going forward. No surprise. She was a determined woman who could do anything she set her mind to.

  He focused on thoughts of her as a way to avoid the obvious discomfort around him. How she painted her bread with butter in short, even strokes covering every square inch until the knife was shiny clean. Salt was always poured into her open palm before being dispensed. Never did she eat ice cream in a cone—too much pressure to perform before it melted. She hated apple juice, but loved apples, green ones especially. And potato chips. She loved them with only spicy mustard.

  Everyone had their quirks.

  God knew he had a long list of them.

  He’d have to come clean about all that had happened this week, and she wouldn’t be happy to have been left out. But she’d understand, like always. That was their way. They both tended to find trouble. And they both always tried to handle it—by themselves. Admitting they needed help seemed a weakness.

  But he trusted no one more than Cassiopeia.

  She’d never let him down.

  Nor would he disappoint her.

  The tunnel drained into a chamber.

  Several shadows, large and fast, detached themselves from the darkness and assumed form in their lights. Two weathered statues, whose florid features had fallen into a portrait of despair. They framed the entrance to a nave cut into the far wall through the salt.

 

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