The Warsaw Protocol Page 2

  People continued to step up to the reliquary, pausing a few moments for prayer and a sign of the cross. The pair of Amigos who’d stayed back both toted knapsacks. Though many of the others present also carried them, something about these two shouldering them didn’t seem right.

  Twelve years he’d worked for the Justice Department at the Magellan Billet, after a career in the navy and time as a JAG lawyer. Now he was retired, opting out early, the owner of a rare-book shop in Copenhagen, occasionally available for hire by governments and intelligence agencies. He made a good side living from freelancing, but today was no job. Just sightseeing. Apparently in the right place at the wrong time.

  Something was happening.

  Something that every instinct in his nearly fifty-year-old body told him was not good. Old habits were truly hard to break.

  The Amigo in line approached the collection bowl, dropped in a coin, then climbed the short steps to the marble table where the stoic priest remained on guard. The two other Amigos slipped off their backpacks and unzipped them. The clangor of alarm bells inside Cotton’s head took on a shriller tone. He could hear the robot from Lost in Space, the old sci-fi show. Danger, Will Robinson.

  One Amigo removed a gun, the other held what appeared to be a metal cylinder. He pulled the pin and tossed the canister into the side chapel.

  A grenade?

  Smoke immediately billowed out.

  No.

  A diversion.

  Cotton’s thoughts were shattered by the sharp report of the gun being fired twice into the ceiling. Plaster and wood splinters showered down. A wave of panic spread fast. A woman shrieked. Voices were raised. More screaming. People moved in a herd toward the only exit, a richly decorated circular staircase that led down. Maybe a hundred, all rushing out, creating pandemonium.

  Another shot rang out.

  A thick cloud of gray smoke billowed into the main nave, obstructing the view into the side chapel and reliquary. Cotton pushed through the crowd and headed for the smoke. Through the growing haze he saw the Amigo who’d been in line shoving the priest aside. Another wave of excited visitors formed a wall between where he stood and the Three Amigos, who were moving farther against the grain of the exodus. He pushed his way forward, the two other Amigos angling toward the third, who shattered the glass case holding the reliquary. The priest lunged, trying to stop the theft, but one of the Amigos planted a fist in the older man’s face, sending him down.

  What was this?

  A classic flash-and-bang robbery?

  Sure looked like it.

  And it was working.

  Big time.

  The Three Amigos moved toward the side door from which the priest had first entered, which surely led into the back bowels of the basilica. Probably another way down, too. Which meant these guys had done their homework.

  Cotton cleared past the last of the frantic tourists and stepped into the side chapel. He was having trouble breathing, coughing out smoke, his eyes watering. The priest was a concern, so he made his way to the altar and found the older man lying on the floor.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  The guy was groggy, his right eye red and swollen. But the priest grabbed Cotton’s right arm in a tight clamp. “Need to … get it back.”

  The Three Amigos were gone.

  Surely the police were on the way. Somebody had to have alerted them. But they’d be little help in finding the thieves, who were about to dissolve into the busy streets of Bruges.

  He galvanized himself into action.

  Sightseeing over.

  “I’ll get it back.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SLOVAKIA

  Jonty Olivier hated the intimidation aspect of his business. He considered himself a refined gentleman, a man of distinguished taste, a connoisseur of aged wine and good food. A learned man whose studies of the classics dominated his spare time. Even his name conjured up movie royalty. Olive-ee-ay. As in Sir Laurence Olivier. Above all, he was a consummate professional. His specialty? Information. His reputation? One of a man who could provide exactly what someone needed to know.

  Interested in the hidden net worth of a potential business partner or a possible buyer? No problem. How many automatic rifles and how much ammunition had the Boko Haram imported into Nigeria last month? Easy. What will the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia press for at the coming bilateral talks? A bit more difficult, but doable. What were the Hizbul Mujahideen up to in Kashmir, or how will the EU foreign exchange markets value the euro at the close of business today? Both tricky, but the answers would be close enough. Besides, he gave a discount if he wasn’t 100 percent sure, since by and large partial information was far better than none at all. His motto? Scientia potentia est. Sir Francis Bacon had been right.

  Knowledge is power.

  But its acquisition came with challenges. Greed remained a universal motivator, so money usually worked. Bartering also brought results. He didn’t even mind a hard bargain, as that was the nature of the game.

  But spies? Those he detested.

  The arms and legs of the man sitting before him were taped to a metal chair. A wire snaked into the mouth and down the esophagus, its gauge carefully chosen, fine enough not to trigger any gagging reflex, but thick enough to do the job. At its end hung a metallic, conductive beak, while the other end connected to a DC transformer. Amateurs would have worked on the exterior, prying, twisting, beating, or kicking the information out. He preferred a more refined approach. This technique administered a much deeper and more painful discomfort, and came with the added benefit of not leaving a mark.

  He pointed. “Who sent you?”

  No reply.

  He glanced at his associate. Vic DiGenti had worked with him a long time. Their paths had first crossed in his former line of work, where he’d learned that Vic could handle almost anything. And thank goodness. Everyone needed a sidekick. Laurel had Hardy. Martin, Lewis. He had Vic. A thin, gnarly man with straight black hair and narrow gray eyes. A person of few words, but with great discretion and absolute loyalty, all with a total lack of greed.

  He motioned and Vic twisted the transformer control.

  The eyes of the man bound to the chair went wide as electricity surged through the thin line and down his throat. The body convulsed against the straps. Not a sound was made, as one of the side effects of this particular method of persuasion was an inability to scream. Vic knew when to stop and, after five seconds, he switched off the current.

  The convulsions ended.

  Spittle drooled from both corners of the man’s mouth.

  A bit disgusting, but expected.

  “Do you require another demonstration?” he asked. “I can certainly provide it. But I beg you, please don’t make that necessary.”

  The man’s head shook from side to side, his breathing hard and labored.

  The whitewashed walls around him smelled of damp and rot, and he wanted to be gone. “I’m going to ask my question again. It’s vitally important that you answer. Is that clear?”

  The man nodded.

  “Who. Do. You. Work. For?”

  More silence.

  He let out a long exhale of exasperation.

  Vic sent another five seconds of electricity through the man’s body. They had to be careful since DC current, if not delivered correctly, killed.

  This spy had been caught yesterday in Bratislava. He and Vic had been there, ironing out a few last-minute details. They’d both noticed the attention, then used reflections off cars and an occasional glance to identify the pursuer. They then joined a throng of window-shoppers and confirmed that they had a tail. Vic, being ever vigilant, managed to snag the problem without drawing attention.

  “Surely you must see that you’re on your own here,” Jonty pointed out. “No one is coming to save you. Do I have to give you another demonstration?”

  “I was there to check on … you. To find out … what I could.”

  The words came out choked
from the wire down his throat, and with an Eastern European accent to the English.

  “That’s obvious. What did you discover?”

  “Nothing … at all.”

  He doubted that. “Did you report your finding of nothing?”

  “Not yet.”

  All lies, surely.

  “Who do you report to?”

  No answer.

  This one was stubborn.

  He motioned and Vic again turned the knob. The body pulsated hard against the restraints, bucking and stiffening. He allowed the agony to linger a few seconds longer this time, but not enough to paralyze the heart. He nodded and Vic killed the current. The man went limp in the chair, unconscious. Vic brought him around with two hard slaps to the face.

  So much was about to happen. Seven invitations had been extended. Nearly all the invitees had shown interest. Only three RSVPs were outstanding. And the deadline loomed at midnight tomorrow, a little over twenty-four hours away.

  “I don’t like spies,” he said to the man. “They obtain information, then simply give it to their employers. They are my chief competition. Thankfully, you’re not a good spy. I’ve asked three times. If you force me to ask who you work for again, I will leave the current on until you are dead.”

  He allowed his bluff to take hold.

  One rule he always adhered to, though never advertised, was that he killed no one. But he would make this man wish he were dead.

  The coming operation was the most complicated he’d ever undertaken. Two in one, actually. Both intricate, with lots of moving parts, the one dependent on the other. But the rewards? Oh, the rewards. The one deal could yield twenty million euros or more. The other? Hard to know for sure, but it could approach a hundred million euros. Enough that he could do whatever he wanted for the rest of his life. But everything could be in jeopardy thanks to this spy.

  His eyes met Vic’s.

  “No. Please. Don’t,” the man begged.

  His gaze shifted back to the spy. “Answer my question.”

  “Reinhardt sent me.”

  The name sent a shiver down his spine.

  His nemesis.

  The last person he expected to be watching.

  His gaze caught Vic’s.

  And the knob was turned again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cotton fled the smoky chapel through the side door and entered a small anteroom. Ecclesiastical robes hung on a rack, which meant this was where the priests dressed before mass. He’d been an altar boy himself until age thirteen, when all of his questions surfaced. Catholicism was really good at explaining what, but not so much on why. Teenagers were full of questions, and when the answers never came he decided that being Catholic was not for him. So he drifted away. Now, when asked about religion, he always said he was born Catholic but not much of a practitioner. Maybe that explained why he’d jumped into the middle of this mess.

  Did he owe the church one?

  Not necessarily, but he’d jumped in anyway.

  He fled the anteroom into a short hall that ended at another staircase down. This one was nothing like the elaborate main entrance that the crowd had poured toward when the commotion started. Just narrow wooden risers here. He pounded down, found a door that opened outside, and squinted in the afternoon sunlight. A sea of people filled the square that stretched out before the old city hall. Scared tourists from the upper chapel clung together in a nervous knot. His eyes raked the crowd, searching for signs of the Three Amigos. He spotted them at the far end of the cobbles, about to turn a corner and disappear. The reliquary was not in sight, most likely inside one of the backpacks.

  Bruges was a Gothic gem, its egg-shaped historic center light on cars, heavy on people and bicycles. A ring road kept traffic away, but a series of canals crisscrossed the city and gave the place its nickname. Venice of the North. It was Belgium’s number one tourist attraction, with a broad tangle of crooked streets lined with colorful guild houses. The old marketplace once hosted trade fairs, medieval jousts, even executions. Many of the multistory polychrome façades remained. Block after block, in fact, formed a living museum that had earned the distinction of a World Heritage Site designation.

  His record with those was not good.

  Not that he intentionally tried to wreak havoc.

  But crap just happened.

  He took off after the Amigos and turned the same corner. They were nearly a hundred yards ahead, moving between two more rows of gabled houses. Believing they’d escaped they seemed less panicky, more casual. He decided to close the gap and started to run. There weren’t many people on this side street, because it led away from the main attractions, toward the outer ring road.

  He managed to close the distance to fifty yards.

  One of the Amigos caught sight of his pursuit. The guy grabbed the other two and let then know their escape had been noticed.

  They broke into a run.

  Great.

  He bounded forward.

  The street ended at one of the arched bridges, which meant there was a canal coming up. The Amigos made it to the other side and vanished to the right. Cotton bolted into a faster pace and saw that they’d descended a set of stone steps to a quay where a boat waited. The three thieves hopped in and sped off, passing under the bridge beneath him and disappearing out the other side.

  Two of the Amigos tossed him a casual wave.

  On his side of the canal he spotted one of the many open-topped boats with twenty empty seats, waiting for another group of tourists to buy tickets and make their way down for a water tour. A line had formed at the booth, the sales not yet started. He shouldered his way to its head, then kept going. The attendant inside the booth called out. He ignored the command to stop and hustled down clammy stone steps that smelled of mold. A man waited at the bottom, most likely the tour boat’s operator, who reacted to the unauthorized approach by holding up his hands, signaling halt. Cotton brought a knee into the man’s gut, doubling him over.

  “Sorry about that,” he muttered.

  He hopped into the boat, whose engine was idling, and released the two mooring lines. He gripped the throttle and shoved it forward, bringing the diesel’s throaty chug-chug to life. The boat lurched forward and he twisted the wheel, aiming the bow in the direction of the Three Amigos. He’d been on one of these before, having taken a couple of canal tours of Bruges. They usually tooled along at a snail’s pace, seeing the sights, and he’d always wondered if there was more bark under the hood.

  And there was.

  He maxed out the throttle.

  The prop bit and the bow rose, cutting through the brown water of the narrow canal, tossing up white foam in its wake. He passed under the same footbridge, emerging on the other side where the canal doglegged left and wound its way around a stretch of gray-stone buildings softened by clingy vines. Another sharp turn right and the waterway straightened, the stretch ahead flanked by more vine-covered houses and timber façades.

  He passed under the rusted scrolls of another arched bridge.

  The Three Amigos had a solid head start but apparently were not using excessive speed, thinking they were finally in the clear.

  And that was allowing him to gain ground.

  The canal was about fifty feet wide, flanked on both sides by tall stone walls and leaning trees. Another of the tour boats suddenly appeared from the right at a junction. He veered left and passed close to the other boat’s bow. Few of the other occupants escaped a bath from his wake. He waved an apology but kept going, straightening out the wheel and focusing on where the route widened into a large basin at another T-junction. The Three Amigos were waiting in the basin, their boat perpendicular to his approach, two of the men with guns aimed his way.

  They started firing.

  He was headed right toward the bullets at nearly full throttle, the gap closing fast. He ducked below the windscreen and the rounds whined by. The Amigos’ boat jolted forward, blocking any turn to the left. The guns also kept firing.
Too late to go right. Not enough room in the long rectangular basin to make the turn without hitting the barrier wall.

  No choice.

  He leaped into the water.

  The boat sped on, pilotless, but only for another twenty yards before slamming into the stone wall and exploding. He ducked beneath the surface, mindful of something he’d once read. Until the 1980s raw sewage had been dumped into the canals. Hopefully four decades of cleansing had eliminated any hazards.

  He popped his head from the water.

  The Three Amigos were gone.

  Getting out of the canal could prove a problem. He saw no ladders or steps up along the walls that encased the waterway.

  He heard a siren and swiveled around.

  A police boat was racing his way, blue light flashing. His own boat was a burning hulk, sinking into the canal. The police boat swung up alongside. Two uniforms had their guns out and aimed. Neither looked friendly.

  Getting out of the water was no longer an issue.

  But where he would end up?

  That could be a big problem.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jonty poured himself a generous splash of Krupnik. He’d always liked the drink, a unique combination of honey, herbs, and spices, diluted, boiled, then strained before being added to a vodka base. Legend said the recipe was created by Benedictine monks in Belarus and eventually traveled to Poland. Usually it was served warm, but he preferred his at room temperature.

  He sipped the concoction, the strong liquor soothing in a way that seemed to brush away any rough edges. He was still unnerved by the unpleasantness that had happened in the basement. The nosy spy was tied up and would stay there until Thursday. After that, they’d let him go. The information he’d learned was disturbing on a number of levels, and Vic was going to turn his attention to the matter.

  Reinhardt.

  Of all people.

  Gandhi said it best. There is a sufficiency in the world for man’s need but not for man’s greed.

  That explained his archrival.