The Warsaw Protocol Page 3

  He stared around at the old library.

  Sturney Castle seemed perfect. A 13th-century neo-Gothic fortification, it featured three wings situated around a pentagonal courtyard, enclosed on the fourth side by a stately main gate. It occupied strategic real estate, built into a rolling rock formation close to the River Orava, fifty kilometers south of the Polish border, safe within Slovakia. Five towers, each crowned with a cupola, topped the corners, a balcony ringing the highest conjuring images of a princess in peril. It had been able to resist the attacks of Turks, Cossacks, and Hussites who’d swept in regularly for centuries. It seemed a place that had never known poverty, as every room was chock-full of tapestries and antiques from its prosperous past. The Polish crown jewels had been hid here when the Swedes invaded in the 17th century. Then, in the 18th, the future king of Madagascar had been imprisoned here. Once owned by local aristocracy, it was taken over by the communists in the 1950s as part of a land reform policy. Thankfully, documents in the official registry were never changed, so after democracy was restored the property was returned to its former owners, who proved incapable of maintaining it. Now it was a high-end rental, with a staff and caterers, available to corporations and individuals who could afford the hefty price tag.

  He walked over to the French doors and stepped out onto an upper terrace. Potted plants, full of color, lined the outer half walls. Birch, fir, pine, and spruce trees stretched as far as he could see through an ancient Jurassic valley. Northern Slovakia was spectacular. The Tatras, the highest range in the Carpathian Mountains, touched the northern sky, snow dusting the highest peaks, a mecca for hikers and skiers.

  Out of necessity he lived a solitary life. He was philosophical about his failure with women, which seemed a recurring theme, and men did not interest him. Finding the hard to find? Then making a sale? That he loved. And unlike Reinhardt, he preferred to manufacture his own business opportunities instead of preying off others. There’d been too many deals to count, each one profitable in its own way. He skirted the law, for sure, but never had he been considered an official threat. He tried hard to stay apolitical, taking no sides, harboring no ideals. He was the embodiment of Switzerland. Neutral in all that mattered, save for profit.

  He’d definitely come to enjoy the finer things of life. Never having to worry about money, buying what he wanted, when he wanted? Going wherever? Francis Bacon had been right. Money was a great servant, but a poor master. And now he was about to close the biggest deal of his life.

  A soft jangle signaled an incoming call. He found the phone in his pocket. Today’s cellular unit. He changed every three days, all part of an institutionalized paranoia and the embodiment of a maxim he’d long lived by. Nobody really needed to find him unless he wanted to be found.

  “The Holy Blood was taken earlier,” Vic said to him. “I have a confirmation email from the Russians.”

  He smiled.

  Another RSVP. That made five. Only the Americans and the Germans remained.

  “Any issues?” he asked.

  “It seemed to be a clean theft in Bruges.”

  Good to hear.

  “We need to make sure that nothing has been compromised,” he told Vic. “I’m concerned about our guest in the basement and who sent him.”

  They’d been extra careful leaving Bratislava, with the spy tied and gagged in the rear seat, ensuring that they were not followed and that their car had not been electronically tagged.

  “Be right on this, Vic,” he said. “Reinhardt is way too close for my comfort.”

  “I understand. I’ll have more information shortly.”

  “And what of this evening?”

  “It’s all arranged. I’m headed north in a few hours.”

  That was good to hear.

  He ended the call and returned inside, depositing his empty glass on the walnut sideboard. He’d chosen this locale for a variety of reasons. First, it was gorgeous. Second, it was within two hours of Kraków, but safely over the border in another sovereign state. Third, no one lived within ten kilometers. And fourth, it came with lots of space. A ballroom with an upper gallery, dining hall, a dozen upstairs bedrooms, an ample kitchen, and, most important, servants’ passages that offered a concealed way to move from one room to another.

  He loved secrecy.

  What a thrill to know things others did not. And here he knew something nobody else in the world knew. All others privy to the information were long dead. A fortuitous piece of knowledge that had dropped into his lap. Unimportant at first. Beyond value now. Living by his wits had always intrigued him, as did the danger and glory that intrigue spawned. Not to mention the rewards. But the clammy, tight band of fear that could sometimes encircle his gut like a snake? That he hated.

  Reinhardt.

  A problem.

  One he’d deal with, if necessary.

  But first he had to destroy the president of Poland.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WARSAW

  6:30 P.M.

  President Janusz Czajkowski fled the palace and headed for a waiting car. He’d timed this excursion carefully, freeing his calendar for the rest of the day on the pretense of a rare evening off when he could have dinner and retire early. Consequently, no coterie of self-important aides accompanied him. No media. No one, other than his security detail, all agents of the Biuro Ochrony Rządu, the BOR, Government Protection Bureau. He’d been assigned two armed men and a nondescript Volvo for the off-the-books trip.

  The latest incarnation of the Republic of Poland came about in 1989. So as far as countries went, this one was relatively young. There’d been a previous version, but World War II and the Soviet occupation interrupted its existence. Since its rebirth there’d been nine heads of state. The constitution provided for a five-year term with the possibility of a single reelection, but only one of his eight predecessors had managed a second term.

  Polish politics, if nothing else, stayed fluid.

  Most of the everyday work was done by a prime minister, usually the head of the majority party in Parliament—but in theory it could be anyone. The national constitution provided the president with an executive veto, which could be overridden by a three-fifths majority in Parliament. The president served as the supreme commander of the armed forces, able to order a general mobilization. He nominated and recalled ambassadors, pardoned criminals, and could override certain judicial verdicts. Pertinent to the current predicament, the president was also the supreme representative of the Polish state, with the power to ratify and revoke international agreements.

  Lucky him.

  He climbed into the car and they motored away from the palace, leaving through a side exit.

  His first term was drawing to a close.

  The qualifications for president were simple. Be a Polish citizen, at least thirty-five years old on the day of the first round of the election, and collect the signatures of one hundred thousand registered voters. The winner was chosen by an absolute majority. If no candidate achieved that threshold, a runoff was held between the top two. He’d won his first term after a close runoff and another battle loomed on the horizon, as various opponents were emerging. A former prime minister. A popular lawyer. Three members of Parliament. A punk rock musician who headed one of the more vocal minor political parties. A former government minister who’d declared he would run only if Czajkowski pissed him off. Apparently that was now the case as the loudmouth was gathering his hundred thousand signatures.

  The coming political season looked to be a lively one.

  Thankfully, he was somewhat popular. The latest opinion polls showed a 55% approval rating. Not bad. But not overwhelming, either. Which was another reason he now found himself in a car, watching the kilometers glide by, as he was driven west toward the village of Józefa. After three weeks of searching the source of the problem had been found. A former communist-era loyalist who’d been dead for over a decade. It had been too much to hope that he took whatever he knew to the grave. Instead, s
ome old information had surfaced. And not just random facts and figures. This was something that directly affected him. In fact, it could ruin him. Especially with a hotly contested election on the horizon.

  Foolishly he’d believed the past dead and gone.

  But now it seemed to be threatening everything.

  Time for him to deal with it face-to-face.

  * * *

  The car passed through Józefa, perched on a cliff overlooking the River Wisła. It had a long history and an attractive old center, boasting a castle ruin and a cathedral, but its main claim to fame was a nearby refinery that employed hundreds. The house he sought was south of town, on a side road that led away from the river. His driver parked to one side, away from the street, among the trees, where the car would not draw attention. He stepped out into the warm evening and walked toward the front door. A man waited, dressed in a black suit and black tie, with an inscrutable expression that was proper but cold. Michał Zima. The head of the BOR.

  He entered the house.

  A simple place, similar to the one in which he’d been raised in southern Poland, close to Rzeszów, his parents farmers, not revolutionaries. But that all changed in the 1980s. Private landownership had never been allowed. To appease a growing unrest, everyone was promised ownership through purchase or inheritance. But it was all a lie. Eventually his parents and most of the other farmers rebelled and refused to sell food at the undercut government-set prices, instead donating their crops to strikers.

  A brave act that had made a difference.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “Out back.”

  “And the other?”

  Zima motioned. “In there.”

  “Tell me how you found this place?”

  “A bit of luck, actually. But sometimes that’s all you have.”

  He caught the message. Don’t ask too many questions.

  His gaze raked the room and he noticed an array of framed pictures on a table. One caught his eye. He walked over and studied the image of a man dressed in a uniform. A major in the Polish army, with the insignia of the SB, the Security Service, on his shirt. He recognized the nondescript face, with razor-cut hair and manicured mustache, the same man from Mokotów Prison.

  Aleksy Dilecki.

  He’d neither seen nor heard anything of the man in decades.

  World War II destroyed Poland, everything bombed and gutted to oblivion with no resources and little manpower left to rebuild. The Soviets promised a rebirth and many believed them. But by the late 1970s, the lies were evident and the country’s patience had come to an end. By then everyone worked long hours, found little food in stores, and was constantly cold from a lack of coal and clothing, including coats. They were spied on all the time, fed propaganda, their children brainwashed. The threat of force never ended. Nor had hunger, with the government even dictating how much a person could eat through ration cards. We all have equal stomachs. That’s what many had echoed. And when people were hungry, when their children were hungry, they would do anything to calm the pain.

  And they did.

  He liked what Orwell wrote.

  All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.

  That had been Aleksy Dilecki.

  Politicians and police were always favored. They received more rations. They shopped at special stores. They lived in better housing, with more privileges. They even had a name. Nomenklatura, a Soviet term for the list of government jobs always waiting to be filled. People were selected not on merit, but solely on loyalty to the regime. They became an informal ruling class unto themselves. The Red Bourgeoisie. Corruption and cruelty were constant means to their ends.

  And he was staring at one of the participants.

  He remembered what was said, all those years ago, in Mokotów Prison.

  Who knows? One day you might be a big somebody.

  He shook his head at the irony, and liked the fact that Dilecki was dead.

  “Do you know him?” Zima asked.

  He’d only briefed one person on the relevant history, and it wasn’t Zima. So he ignored the inquiry and said, “Show me what you found.”

  And he replaced the photo on the table.

  He followed Zima into a small storage room, the space cluttered with remnants of a family’s past. He saw the two rusted filing cabinets.

  “They’re filled with documents,” Zima said. “Reports, correspondence, memoranda. All from the late 1970s to 1990. Scattered dates and incidents. No real pattern to anything. Dilecki worked for the Security Service a long time. He would have been privy to many secrets. Apparently, he removed some of those when the communists fell.”

  So much had been lost during that chaotic period after the Soviet Union collapsed and Poland reemerged. Today few cared about the past. Everyone was just glad it was over. The future seemed to be all that mattered. But such shortsightedness was a mistake.

  Because history mattered.

  “Has anyone examined those files?” he asked.

  “Only me. And my review was quick and cursory. Just enough to determine that it might be what you are looking for.”

  He was curious. “How do you know I’m looking for anything?”

  “I don’t. I’m merely assuming, based on what I know so far.”

  He should inquire about the extent of what this man knew. But not now. “Have everything in those two cabinets loaded into the trunk of the car I came in.”

  Zima nodded his understanding.

  “Did Dilecki’s widow sell any of the documents?” he asked.

  “No. Their son did. We have him in custody.”

  That was new information.

  “We arrested him a few hours ago.” Zima motioned and he followed him back to the parlor. A blue nylon duffel bag lay on the sofa. Zima unzipped the top to reveal stacks of zlotys. “Half a million. We recovered it from the son’s house.”

  Now it all began to make sense. The parents were good, loyal communists, the son not so much. Decades had passed. The father was gone, the mother aging. Two file cabinets might hold the key to changing everything, especially when some of those documents mentioned the name Janusz Czajkowski. All you had to do was find a buyer.

  “Has the son admitted to anything?”

  Zima nodded. “He made a deal with a man named Vic DiGenti, who is a known associate of Jonty Olivier.”

  “You say that name as if you know him.”

  “We do. He peddles information. Somewhat reliable, too. Our intelligence services have used him on occasion. The mother was totally unaware of what the son did. She only found out last evening, when he offered her some of the money. She was not happy. They had a bitter fight, just a few hours before we arrested him.”

  “Show me the rest,” he said.

  Zima led him out the back door to a small corrugated-roof barn. Trees and shrubs shielded the structure from the nearby highway. Its door hung open and he entered. A weak electric lantern dissolved the shadows. Not much there. A few tools, a wheelbarrow, an old rusted car, and a woman, hanging from the rafters, her arms limp at her side, the neck angled over in death.

  “She did it during the night,” Zima said. “Perhaps after learning of her son’s arrest. Or maybe out of a sense of loyalty to her husband. We’ll never know.”

  She’d apparently climbed atop the old car, tied off a short length of rope, then stepped off to oblivion.

  He shook his head.

  Now everything depended on Belgium.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cotton sat in the cell, still damp from his canal swim. He really should take a shower, though this wasn’t the Four Seasons. But as far as cells went, it wasn’t so bad. Roomy. Clean. With a toilet that worked. He’d been locked inside far worse.

  So much for owing the Catholic Church one.

  It was nearly 7:00 P.M. He’d been here alone for several hours. The Bruges police had not been in the best of moods when they fished him from the canal. They’d promptly cuffed his ha
nds behind his back and tried to question him. But he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Of course, at some point he was going to have to explain things. Hopefully the priest from the basilica would tell them that he’d been the one to ask him to go after the reliquary. So far all they knew was that he’d stolen a boat and crashed it in the canal. By the time the cops arrived the shooting had stopped and the Three Amigos were gone.

  He was the only problem.

  The police had taken his wallet. His passport was back at the hotel. They at least knew his full name, Harold Earl Malone. The nickname Cotton was nowhere on his Danish driver’s license, or anything else official. People liked to ask where the label came from and his answer was always the same. Long story. And it was, one that involved his father. He still recalled the day when he was ten years old and the two naval officers came to the house and told him and his mother that his father’s submarine had sunk, all hands lost. No body. No funeral. Everything classified. It took him nearly four decades to discover the truth, and the whole experience had bred an extreme distrust for government, no matter the level.

  Which further explained why he hadn’t spoken to anyone.

  When the time came he hoped the truth would work best—after all, that was all he had to work with. Surely, by now, the Bruges police knew of the theft. The Holy Blood was the most important object in the city. Hundreds of thousands came every year to see it. Since the 14th century, they’d paraded it around the town in a huge annual celebration. But if they knew it was gone, why had they not come for a chat? Seems they’d want to know what he knew.

  Or maybe not.

  A clang disturbed his thoughts.

  One of the metal doors down the hall opened, then closed.

  Footsteps echoed as they approached. A slow and steady clack.

  He looked up and spotted a woman.

  Petite, with a confident face and dark hair streaked by threads of silver. She was in her mid-sixties, though he knew Justice Department personnel records, which he’d once seen, contained only N/A in the space reserved for date of birth. Everybody was touchy about something. For her it was age. Two presidents had tried to make her attorney general, but she’d turned down both offers. Why? Who knew? She tended to do what she wanted. Which made her really good at what she did.