The Warsaw Protocol

by Steve Berry

  “There are two relics of the Arma Christi left,” he said. “And less than twenty-four hours to RSVP. One of those involves the Americans. What if they refuse to participate? I took a chance making personal contact and extending them a special invitation. Maybe that was foolish.”

  He wondered if Washington was responsible for Reinhardt’s presence. But how could that be? A leak? That was possible. An old Persian proverb came to mind, one he’d come across in his readings. The man who knows not, but knows not that he knows not, is a fool. Shun him. A wise precaution. The man who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is a student. Teach him. Definitely. The man who knows, but knows not that he knows, is asleep. Awaken him. That was where he currently found himself. But the man who knows, and knows that he knows, is a teacher. Learn from him.

  Absolutely.

  “When do you leave to head north?” he asked Vic.

  “Shortly.”

  Originally, Vic would have handled things tonight alone.

  But Jonty decided on a change in plan.

  “I want to go with you,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Accumulation of Holy Relics started with Helena, The mother of Constantine the Great. She was granted the high title of Augusta Imperatrix and allowed unfettered access to the imperial treasury so she could secure the precious objects of the new Christian tradition.

  To fulfill her mission, in A.D. 326, at the age of eighty, she traveled to Palestine as the first Christian archaeologist. In Jerusalem she ordered a temple that had been built over the site of Christ’s tomb near Calvary torn down and a new church erected. According to legend, during the construction, remnants of three different crosses were discovered. Was one the cross upon which Christ died? Nobody knew. To find out, the empress commanded that a woman who was near death be brought to the site. When the woman touched the first and second crosses her condition did not change. But when she touched the third she immediately recovered. Helena declared that to be the True Cross and ordered the building of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher at that spot.

  And so began the veneration of objects.

  From its inception Christian belief depended on the miraculous, with Christ rising from the dead. Relics became a part of that belief, filling a void after pagan idols were banned. They were common prior to A.D. 1000, but the Crusades brought a new wave of relics into Europe. Thousands of objects, everything from teeth to appendages, bones, blood, even entire bodies. For a church to possess a relic meant that pilgrims would come, and with them a constant revenue stream. Not surprising then that so many faux relics appeared, as it was much easier to create your own than travel to find one.

  The Protestant Reformation brought change, as relics horrified the reformers. John Calvin said that if all the fragments of the True Cross were gathered together they’d fill a large ship. Yet the gospels testified that a single man was able to carry it. After 1517 Martin Luther relics lost much of their importance, but eventually seven attained special status.

  The True Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the Pillar of the Flogging, the Holy Sponge, the Holy Lance, the Nails, and the Holy Blood.

  The Arma Christi.

  Weapons of Christ.

  Instruments of passion.

  According to Corinthians, to those who renounced the “weapons of this world,” the Arma Christi were a great protection against temptation.

  * * *

  Cotton listened as Stephanie explained.

  “The Arma Christi still exist, though there is debate as to which are the true relics and which are fakes. But the Vatican solved that problem by compiling its own official list.”

  Pieces of the True Cross were everywhere. The largest, and most notable, sat in the Monastery of Santo Toribio de Liébana in Cantabria, Spain. The Crown of Thorns seemed equally scattered, many claiming that their thorn was authentic. But the one in St. Anthony’s Chapel in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, had acquired a stamp of authenticity. A segment of the Pillar of the Flogging, supposedly retrieved by Helena herself, remained in Rome’s Basilica of St. Praxedes. The Holy Sponge moved from Palestine, to Constantinople, to France, ending up in Notre-Dame.

  Whether Christ was crucified with three or four nails had been long debated. But legend said that Helena, while in Palestine, found four Nails. She supposedly cast one into the sea to calm a storm, a second was mounted into Constantine’s battle helmet, a third was fitted to the head of a statue, and a fourth was melted down and molded into a bit for Constantine’s horse. Yet there were dozens of Nails scattered across Europe. The Vatican ended the debate by blessing the one on display at the cathedral in Bamberg, Germany, as authentic.

  “The sixth relic, the Holy Blood, was here in Bruges,” Stephanie said. “Or at least it has been for the past nine centuries. The seventh is the Holy Lance.”

  “People are stealing these relics?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Over the course of the last three months five have been taken. Two remain. The Nail and the Holy Lance.”

  What had Ian Fleming written? Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.

  “We need to go,” she said, and they left the market square, walking back toward where the Basilica of the Holy Blood stood. From there Stephanie led him down an enclosed path identified as Blinde Ezelstraat, Blind Ass Street, which emptied into a small plaza that accommodated a columned, concrete arcade.

  The fish market.

  He knew the story. For centuries fresh saltwater fish had been sold in Bruges’ main square. Centuries ago the delicacy was expensive, available only to the rich. The common folk complained about the stench, so in the early part of the 19th century the merchants moved here, away from the crowd. It remained in use to this day, but no one was hawking their catch this evening. A placard informed them that the market was only open a few days a week from eight until noon. A crowd had collected beneath the colonnade, taking advantage of the empty concrete tables. Children played on the cobblestones beyond.

  “Are we going somewhere in particular?” he asked Stephanie as they walked.

  She stopped near the pavilion. “We have a serious situation developing in Poland.”

  He heard the concern in her voice.

  “The Fox administration wants to bring back the European Interceptor Site.”

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  In 2007 the United States opened talks for a missile defense system to be located in Poland. It would consist of ten silo-based interceptors to be used in conjunction with a tracking and radar system to be located in the Czech Republic. The idea was to protect against missiles from Iran, but Russia strongly objected, interpreting the move as a test of American strength. In retaliation the Russian president threatened to deploy short-range, offensive missiles in Kaliningrad to counter any supposed defense system. Europe likewise expressed deep reservations. France, Germany, and Italy all opposed the move, thinking it more provocative than strategic. The uproar continued until the Obama administration finally canceled the proposal.

  “They really want to step into that ant pile again?” he asked.

  “They definitely want to go there. The thinking is to send a message to Moscow that there’s a new sheriff in town. Things are going to be different. A way to show the world that Fox is a man to be reckoned with.”

  “Talk about poking the bear. As I recall, the uproar against the missiles was nearly uniform. Nobody thought it was a good idea.”

  “Fox hates the European Union and NATO. He’s spent the last few months antagonizing nearly every ally we have. He doesn’t give a damn what the EU or Russia wants.”

  They stood on the backside of the high-pitched roof of the old town hall, its pinnacles, turrets, and spires giving play to fanciful light and shade. The path ahead, past the fish market, was lined with bars and cafés preparing for another night’s business. Tables dotted the cobbles, many already filled with folks enjoying supper. The time was approaching 8:00 P.M., and he was a litt
le hungry himself.

  “The key to everything this time,” Stephanie said, “is the president of Poland. He alone will make or break any decision about the deployment of those American missiles.”

  “He wants them?”

  “That all depends,” she said.

  An odd answer, so he tried, “What do missiles in Poland have to do with the Arma Christi?”

  “Quite a bit. Those thefts happened for a reason. A rather strange reason, but definitely a reason.”

  He could tell that there was more to the story. “When are you going to tell me?”

  “Right now. Follow me.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cotton walked with Stephanie past more cafés with tables and wicker chairs under colorful awnings. She avoided all of them and headed for one of the ivy-clad buildings that fronted a canal. An iron sign attached to the brick façade read LA QUINCAILLERIE. Hardware store. An odd name for a restaurant.

  Inside was strictly Old World with smoke-blackened beams, marble-topped tables, and waiters in starched black aprons. The rough-brick walls were adorned with prints and mementos collected over the generations. The windows were open to the evening, facing the same canal he’d sped down earlier. Across the water were more brick buildings with terraces and diners.

  A man waited at one of the window-side tables. Medium height with a thin, quiet, clean-shaven face, sallow skin, and modest brown hair. He wore a dark suit and tie and stood as they approached.

  “Cotton,” Stephanie said. “This is Tom Bunch. He works with the White House.”

  Handshakes were exchanged and they sat.

  “Tom is the deputy assistant to the president and the deputy national security adviser,” Stephanie said.

  Cotton caught the emphasis on the word deputy, repeated twice surely on purpose, knowing how she felt about that label. The Magellan Billet’s bureaucracy was simple. She had total control. No deputies. No seconds in command. All decisions from one source.

  “Tom is the reason I’m here in Belgium,” she said. “The Justice Department was asked to assist the White House with this matter, and the attorney general delegated it to the Magellan Billet, with specific orders to work with Tom.”

  That meant the president had wanted the task given to the Billet. The more important question, which Stephanie surely had asked herself, was why, considering how Fox felt about her and the Billet.

  A waiter appeared with menus and asked for drink orders. Bunch requested a rather expensive French red wine. Stephanie opted for sparkling water. Cotton chose the still version. Carbon dioxide immersed in liquids had never been his thing. Alcohol was also something he’d never acquired a taste for, along with coffee, cigarettes, or almost anything that came from a pharmacy.

  Bunch scanned the menu, so he decided, what the heck, why not. He was hungry, and the offerings appeared robust and filling. No gourmet fare. Thank goodness. The kalfsblanket, veal in a creamy sauce, caught his eye. He also saw there was a Dame Blanche for dessert. The waiter returned with their drinks, and Bunch asked that they have a few minutes before ordering.

  “You look a little wrinkled,” Bunch said. “Stephanie said you took a swim in the canal.”

  “It’s part of the tour excursion I booked. A chance to experience the canals firsthand,” he said, trying to make light of things.

  But Bunch did not seem amused. “I don’t know anything about you. But Stephanie says you’re the man for this job. I assume you know about Jonty Olivier?”

  The question came with an aura of self-importance, as if everyone knew the name.

  “Why don’t you enlighten me,” Cotton asked, and he caught the grin on Stephanie’s lips at his self-restraint.

  “I’m a little surprised you’ve never heard of Olivier.”

  He caught the smugness. This guy wasted little time getting on people’s nerves.

  “Jonty Olivier,” Stephanie said, “is a broker.”

  “We talking books, art, real estate?”

  Bunch chuckled. “You really are out of the loop. How long have you been retired?”

  “How long have you been a deputy national security adviser? Since January? Six whole months. What did you do before?”

  “That’s not relevant. I’m now with the White House, and I’m in charge here. That’s what matters.”

  He slid his phone from a pocket—waterproof, so it had survived the swim—and opened to a search engine. He typed TOM BUNCH, WHITE HOUSE and found many references. He decided on the Wikipedia link. Why not? Might as well see what the masses thought of him. He touched the screen and called up the page, which was, not surprisingly, short.

  Bunch, throughout the presidential campaign, wrote a number of pro-Fox articles under a pseudonym, E Pluribus Unum. He was critical of the left and right, but never the pro-Fox conservatives. He portrayed the election as a battle to save America, and in one article, described it as the “Flight 93 election,” referencing the plane that was hijacked on September 11, 2001 but which crashed after passengers fought back against the hijackers. “Charge the cockpit or you die,” he wrote. Then he went on to say, “You may die anyway. You—or the leader of your party—may make it into the cockpit and not know how to fly or land the plane. There are no guarantees. Except one, if you don’t try, death is certain.” The true meaning of that statement remains unknown. Before coming to the White House, Bunch worked for Burdi Macro LLC, which manages the personal capital of Rich Burdi, a huge financial supporter of Warner Fox during the election.

  “What are you doing?” Bunch asked.

  “Reading about you.”

  Bunch glanced at Stephanie. “This is a waste of time. He’s unacceptable.”

  “I was thinking the same about you,” Cotton said. “And now I know why.”

  His eidetic memory kicked in and he recalled press accounts about President Fox’s attitude toward the National Security Council. Too big. Too diverse. Unwieldly. In need of trimming. Fox favored fewer meetings, less input, less paperwork. The pundits had translated that into him wanting total command of foreign policy, with little to no input from others. Several senators had publicly proclaimed the White House incompetent, insular, and indecisive. Decision making was slow to nonexistent, and usually wrong. The goal seemed to be to please the boss, not enunciate and implement clear national security goals. The best explanation for why all of that was happening? Unqualified people, in positions of authority, kissing ass. A perfect example of which was sitting across the table.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” he asked Bunch.

  “I have the ear of the president of the United States. I’m here at his personal direction. That’s all you need to know.”

  He should leave. Forget the $150,000. Head back to his hotel, take a shower, go to bed, and attend the book fair tomorrow as planned. This was not his problem. He’d already done way too much. The older he got the more he found that he suffered no fools, was impatient with mediocrity and disdainful of subtlety. But three things kept his butt in the chair. First, the look of frustration in Stephanie’s eyes. Second, he was hungry and the veal in cream sauce sounded wonderful, not to mention a White Lady for dessert. And third. That was the kicker.

  But first.

  “Tell me about Jonty Olivier?” he asked Stephanie, returning to the issue at hand and ignoring Bunch.

  “He’s British, but holds a dual passport with Switzerland, thanks to a Swiss mother. He was fairly nonexistent until about fifteen years ago, when he emerged as a broker who accumulates and trades information. I’m told the CIA and NSA have regularly used him. He’s proven both reliable and reasonable. He has no political affiliations, no personal causes, no morals, no scruples. He’s just a businessman. Buying and selling. Trading. Making money. He deals with people, corporations, governments. Doesn’t matter to him. Reports say he’s a man of patrician tastes and earthy language.”

  He smiled. “Where is he based?”

  “He moves around constantly,” Bunch sa
id. “He prefers renting luxury condos and staying in five-star hotels to owning mansions. He generally keeps a low profile and works through the internet, wire transfers, and intermediaries.”

  Cotton noticed that Bunch spewed out facts about a bad guy the way someone who’d never served in the military told war stories.

  “He also avoids breaking laws,” Bunch said. “He skirts close, but always stays just on the legal side. Olivier recently made contact with the White House. He and the president know each other from before the election.”

  Interesting. “They’re friends?”

  “They’ve done business in the past. Olivier talked directly with the president about this matter.”

  “Was that wise?” Stephanie asked, clearly surprised. “This whole situation is just grandiose extortion.”

  What situation?

  “The president knows how to make a deal,” Bunch said, clearly annoyed. “It was his forte in business. He prefers personal contact and personal assessment.”

  “You really don’t have any idea what you’re doing,” Cotton declared.

  “I resent your insubordination,” Bunch said.

  He shrugged. “Last I looked, I don’t work for you.”

  “And I doubt you will.”

  Time for that third thing.

  The kicker.

  They sat adjacent to an open window. A bronze wind chime just outside sounded a mournful pentatonic. Occasionally one of the tour boats cruised by beneath on the canal, the city’s fleet one short tonight. White swans dotted the calm brown water. Long-necked, heavy-bodied, big-footed birds whose gracefulness belied their cantankerous personality.

  Across the canal he caught sight of a familiar face.

  One he’d noticed a few moments before.

  Another swan of sorts.

  Slim and lean. Cool and sleek. Sure of herself. Ash-blond hair falling in casual disarray to thin shoulders. Her full mouth was a little wide for her nose, a small imperfection that, to him, only added to her allure. He knew her to be almost wolflike, with the blue eyes to match. In many ways she was a fortress, often scaled and assaulted, but never conquered.