by Steve Berry
And a gun fired.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Czajkowski sat at a long wooden table inside a spacious hall adorned with salt chandeliers, the room available to rent for large cultural and business events. He’d once attended a concert here—the Wrocław Philharmonic, if he recalled right, with a wonderful cello concerto—a treat at 125 meters underground, the acoustics near perfect. Adjacent to the hall was the miners’ tavern, hacked from more gray salt, which served an excellent array of Polish food. Two years ago he hosted a dinner here for participants in a European energy summit. He especially recalled the chocolate tart served that day. What a delight. Nobody was in the hall, or the café, at the moment, as business was clearly winding down early thanks to the mine manager.
Incredibly, there was cell phone service courtesy of hard lines from the surface and repeaters stationed throughout the tourist levels. Which made it possible for him to speak with his wife, who’d called.
“I just left Jasna Góra,” she said to him through the phone. “Brother Hacia and I had a lovely chat.”
He could only imagine. “Is he still refusing to cooperate?”
He kept his voice low and a hand up, covering his mouth.
“Once he knew that I knew the truth, his attitude changed. Of course, he berated you for telling me and simply denied everything. What he didn’t know is that while we were chatting, I had the BOR search his room.”
He smiled. Nothing about her was subtle or sublime. “Find anything?”
“A thick file.”
He was shocked. “You have it?’
“I do. And by the way, you two are a lot alike. But I assume you already realized that fact.”
Long ago, in fact. He was perhaps one of the few people in Poland who could call the Owl a friend. But that had seemed to count for little.
He decided to keep to himself what was happening in the mine. There was nothing she could do about any of it. But if things went wrong here, having a record of the Warsaw Protocol could prove helpful.
“You did good,” he told her. “I appreciate it.”
“Just doing my part.”
And she ended the call.
He stared around at the hall and its stage at the far end. What an amazing place. A huge cavity, carved entirely from salt. A hole in the earth, which reminded him of Bolesław the Brave and the legend of the sleeping kings. Every schoolchild knew the tale. Once a year, at midnight on Christmas Eve, the mighty Sigismund bell rung, and the Polish kings woke from their eternal sleep and gathered in a grand underground hall. A place with plenty of light, like a cathedral. Some say it lay beneath Wawel Castle, but others said it was much farther south, in the Tatra Mountains. Or maybe it was here, in Wieliczka?
Who knew?
They came dressed in their coronation robes, sitting before a round table, discussing the fate of the country. Bolesław himself presided, holding the famous Szczerbiec, Poland’s coronation sword.
What a sight that would have been.
But they were not the only ones who arose that night.
The Sleeping Knights of the Tatra also roamed on Christmas Eve. They would leave the mountains on their white horses and ride off in search of the kings. Once found a loud knock would come to the hall’s door. Then again. And one more time. Always three. The kings would fall silent as Bolesław opened the door, telling the knights, No. The time has not yet come.
He smiled at the drama.
And irony.
Men there, ready to fight, ready to serve Poland.
But the time had not yet come.
Before the kings resumed their council they would listen to the fading hoofbeats as the knights rode back to their icy caves. Once there, the knights fed their animals then fell asleep, leaning against their saddles in readiness.
For when the time comes.
What a glorious tale.
His phone buzzed.
A text.
From his private secretary.
He’d left instructions with his BOR detail to return to the Sheraton in Kraków and pretend he was back inside the Royal Wawel Suite. He’d called his private secretary and told him that he was going to rest for a few hours and did not want to be disturbed.
Unless vital.
He read the message.
UNITED STATES ISSUED STATEMENT THAT DEPUTY NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER THOMAS BUNCH IS MISSING SOMEWHERE IN POLAND. HE WAS HERE ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS, UNDER DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY, AND WASHINGTON HAS CALLED ON WARSAW TO ACT IMMEDIATELY AND ASCERTAIN HIS WHEREABOUTS. THE FOREIGN MINISTRY WANTS TO KNOW OUR RESPONSE.
Fox had tossed the first salvo, shining a light. But the statement’s wording allowed room to maneuver.
He typed his reply.
TELL THE AMERICANS WE ARE SYMPATHETIC TO THE SITUATION AND WILL INVESTIGATE. ALSO, HAVE THE FOREIGN MINISTRY INQUIRE AS TO THE EXACT NATURE OF THE “OFFICIAL BUSINESS” THE DEPUTY WAS ENGAGED IN. WE REQUIRE DETAILS TO AID IN OUR INVESTIGATION.
He smiled.
That should slow Fox down.
Enough, so that what was about to happen—
Could play itself out.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Cotton reacted to the sudden bang that reverberated off the salt, throbbing his eardrums.
Which hurt.
The sound surprised him, so out of place given the constant silence. Patrycja screamed and his gaze shot to the outer chamber as a large form materialized from the darkness, seeking cover behind one of the pillars. They were sitting ducks in this confined space, their headlamps beacons upon which to aim. So he reached for the battery pack at his waist and switched off the power. Stephanie followed suit, but Patrycja lagged. He lunged and brought her down to the floor, switching her light off, too.
Darkness now engulfed them.
He heard movement in the outer chamber, feet scuffing across brittle salt. He reached out for the overturned pew to use for cover. Their assailants’ headlamps were also off. But nothing would prevent them from strafing the chapel with gunfire. The pew could offer some cover, but not much.
“Nowhere to go, Malone,” a voice said from the blackness.
Ivan.
Hard to tell exactly where, thanks to the echo and the black ink, both of which disoriented the senses with a lack of reference points.
“Get over here,” he whispered to Stephanie and Patrycja. “And stay low.”
He reached out into the blackness, guiding them behind the pew.
“We meet again, Mr. Malone,” an older voice said.
Reinhardt.
“You know what I want,” Ivan said. “I saw what you found.”
But he wasn’t ready to concede just yet. The darkness worked both ways, though it was a long way from where they crouched to the exit tunnel in the outer room, and their assailants’ lamps, if switched on, would illuminate them like a deer in headlights.
“I could kill all you,” Ivan said. “Then come get it myself. Be reasonable, Malone. I really not want to shoot you.”
Like he believed that one. Ivan would do whatever he had to do in order to get what he wanted. All those dead bodies back in Slovakia were proof of that. He and Stephanie were pros. They knew the risks. But Patrycja was another matter. He owed her safety.
“All right, Ivan. Here it is.”
And he tossed the packet toward where he thought was the chapel entry.
A light went on.
He shielded his pupils and saw a black form beneath a headlamp retrieve the packet. In one hand he spied a pistol. A quick flash of the face showed the form to be Munoz, Reinhardt’s man. Shapes hard to discern moved in the darkness.
The light extinguished.
“We leave now, Malone,” Ivan said. “Stay where you are.”
Obviously there was another way to this point through Level IX, since they’d encountered no one on the trip here. He assumed Ivan and company would utilize that path back out.
So he was surprised when four lights came on, then disappeared into the tunnel through which
Patrycja had led them.
“Why that way?” he asked her.
“Much quicker to an elevator. They probably came down from the Regis Shaft, which is about a kilometer away.”
They continued to sit in the dark.
“I’m going after them,” he said. “Stephanie, you and Patrycja head back the way we came.”
“Like hell,” his old boss said.
“I agree,” their guide added.
Stephanie he could understand, but the young Pole was being foolish. “Patrycja, this is about to get real messy.”
“And you don’t have a clue where you’re going without me. I saw the face of one of the men who just left. He’s a miner who works as a guide. They have help. You need it, too.”
She had a point. And he admired her bravery.
“All right, let’s go. One light only. Mine.”
Which would make him the first target.
“They should be far enough down the tunnel that we can head after them. You don’t happen to know another way back to that elevator that doesn’t involve the tunnel they took?”
“Actually, I do.”
* * *
Eli followed Ivan.
Thankfully, the Russian had volunteered to stay in front of him. The big man carried a gun in one hand and the sealed packet in the other. Munoz had handed it over back in the chamber.
He debated whether to kill the fat Slav and take his chances with anybody waiting above. But the Russian foreign service, the SVR, was every bit as ruthless as its predecessor, the KGB. Its staff and resources were endless, and there would literally be no place to hide anywhere on the globe. Not to mention the Americans, French, Iranians, North Koreans, and Chinese who would want to exact revenge for their losses, too. The smart play, the only play, was to allow Ivan his moment and get out of this mine, and away, with his five million euros. The Pantry was still one level below him and he could barter it to the Poles.
Personally, he would have killed Malone and the others back in the chamber. But Ivan had made it clear that was not to happen. He did not want to antagonize the Americans any further by generating another martyr they could rally behind. Better to let Malone and Stephanie Nelle be embarrassed over their failure to secure the information.
They kept walking, following Konrad down the dark tunnel, their lights illuminating the way. The chilly breeze in their face felt good and brought the anticipated comfort of fresh air above.
Around two bends and they came to the elevator.
Konrad stopped before the closed doors. “When do I get paid?”
“That not my problem,” Ivan said.
Konrad pointed at Eli. “It’s his problem. One hundred thousand euros. And no one said anything about guns and shooting. Weapons are not allowed here. We could all be in trouble if anyone heard that shot.”
“But apparently no one did,” Eli said.
“You said I would be paid once I led you to that statue. It’s done. Where’s my money.”
Ivan raised his gun and fired.
* * *
Cotton heard a shot.
From somewhere in the echoing darkness.
“How far to the elevators?” he asked Patrycja.
“Just ahead.”
* * *
Eli motioned and Munoz dragged Konrad’s body back down the tunnel and into one of the offshoots they’d just passed.
“Was that necessary?” he asked Ivan.
“We can’t afford that witness.”
But he needed Konrad to get back to the Pantry. Now another way would have to be found.
Damn Russians.
“Can you afford me as a witness?” he asked.
Ivan chuckled. “I was told to leave you be. You have friends in Kremlin who like doing business with you. No worry.” Ivan motioned with the packet. “We have what we want.”
Some comfort, but not enough, since Russians lied.
Munoz returned.
He wondered how long it would be before the body was found. Hours? Unlikely. Days? Probable. Which was fine. He’d already thought it all through and saw Munoz had been thorough, handing over Konrad’s fob that activated the elevator.
“We go up to Level III and blend in with the tourists leaving for the day. That way”—he motioned with the fob—“this gets recorded as having been used to leave from down here. We remove these coveralls and walk right out with the rest of the visitors. Nobody the wiser.”
Ivan smiled, then reached out and clamped a paw on his right shoulder.
“Good plan.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Czajkowski still sat at the table in the meeting hall. A few people had wandered in and out, but no one had paid him any attention, thinking him a mine employee thanks to the coveralls. Sonia was dealing with the mine manager, checking out the situation and determining how they would proceed. She’d thought it best he wait here, which had given him time to speak with Anna.
Interesting how his fate might rest in the hands of two women, one his estranged wife whom he’d once loved, the other a woman whom he now loved. Both working in concert, their goal the same.
To save his ass.
Some men might see that as emasculating. Not him.
His entire life he’d tried to do the right thing. But defining right had sometimes proven tricky. Dealing with the communists had required extreme measures. Both offensive and defensive. Back then they’d lumped it all under the label of “resistance.” An easy thing to describe. Difficult to understand, since its actions took many differing forms. Eventually, he’d come to learn the difference between revolution and resistance. Revolution looked ahead to what could be. Resistance dreamed of the past and a restoration of what once existed. Both, though, were paid for in exile, prison, torture, and death. He, and millions of others, had resisted the communists, wanting nothing more than a free Poland restored.
It had been a war.
Exactly how the communist government described it, declaring that there will be no turning back from socialism. And the government supported that declaration with fifty thousand SB internal security forces deployed throughout the country, who broke strikes, coerced, and intimidated the people with death, violence, and fear. Spies played an integral part on both sides.
It truly was war.
And there were casualties.
On both sides.
Sitting here now, over three decades later, within the cocoon of an underground hall, it all seemed like yesterday. But lately, his mind had stayed deep in the past. The government had been so stupid. So foolish. Adhering to what Stalin had practiced. The people who cast votes decide nothing. The people who count votes decide everything.
Which, luckily, evolved into a disaster for them.
He could not repeat those mistakes, nor allow others to do so.
In truth, he was replaceable. He could be gunned down at any time, in any crowd, and the police would have his blood hosed from the pavement and traffic flowing again by nightfall.
Sad.
But not a lie.
In Poland, no one person controlled much of anything.
Everything was a consensus.
Nothing good would come from revealing the Warsaw Protocol. Any defense he might mount would be drowned out by a screaming opposition. There was no internet in the 1980s. No social media. No Twitter. Information could actually be contained. The backlash today would be relentless. A multitude of Polish political parties, who could not agree on a single thing, would unite under one common theme.
Removing him from office.
And they would succeed.
His entire ruling coalition revolved around the other side staying fractured since, sadly, creating unity within Poland always seemed easier when confronting a common enemy.
This time that would be him.
He shook his head.
What a quandary.
Made worse by another reality. Hastily planned operations nearly always came with problems. He had a bad feeling t
hat some detail, now tiny, could later reveal itself and grow into something fatal. Something out of his control. But he realized that doubt always accompanied responsibility. So he sucked in a few deep breaths and steeled himself.
Sonia appeared at the entrance and walked toward him across the parquet floor. “The elevator is coming up from Level IX.”
He stood. “I’m not waiting here. So don’t tell me to.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“You have any idea who’s coming up?”
She shook her head. “Let’s hope whoever they are have what they came for.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we’ll go find it.”
He loved her determination. Never an ounce of pessimism. “I think I need a divorce.”
She smiled. “That’s the anxiety talking.”
“It’s a man who loves you talking. Why can’t I be happy, too?”
“Because you’re the president of this country and Poland will never tolerate a leader who divorces while in office. You know that.”
“I’m tired of living a lie.”
“It seems you’ve been doing that for a long time.”
She knew nothing about the protocol, only fleeting references here and there. He needed to tell her, but now was not the time. So he only said, “There’s more to this than you think.”
“That’s always the case.”
“We’ll talk. Once this is done.”
“Janusz, I don’t care what you did. I’m sure, whatever it was, you did it out of necessity. I was ten years old when the Soviet Union collapsed. Those were tough times. People did whatever they had to do in order to survive. Me, you, no one can judge them by today’s standards.” She paused. “And who am I to judge anyone. I shot a man in cold blood today. And he was not the first. So I really don’t give a damn what you did.”
He smiled.
So practical, too.
“Come with me,” she said. “There’s a place where we can watch that elevator when it arrives.”
And he followed her from the hall.
CHAPTER SEVENTY