The Warsaw Protocol

by Steve Berry

  Sonia Draga.

  Sitting alone at a terrace table, her gaze locked across the canal, straight at him.

  “Hold that thought,” he said to Bunch.

  And he rose from the table.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cotton left the restaurant and turned right out the front door, following the cobblestones over another of the footbridges that ended at the ring road. Cars chugged by in both directions. From there the sidewalk led to another footbridge, back toward old town and the buildings that sat on the opposite side of the canal from La Quincaillerie.

  He found an eatery, this one with the more benign name of Le Quai, the quay. A busy tavern that, considering the aromas, specialized in fish. It filled another of the guild houses, diners inside and out. He bypassed the maître d’s stand and headed for the terrace. The table he’d spotted from across the canal was empty, its occupant gone. He was about to leave when he noticed a piece of paper tucked beneath a saucer with his name printed on top.

  He stepped over and slipped it free.

  So lovely to see you again, Cotton.

  He smiled at the feminine script and glanced across the water at the open window in La Quincaillerie. Stephanie was staring his way. Only Tom Bunch’s hands were visible, moving, apparently talking to her, oblivious to anything happening that did not include him. He sympathized with her predicament, forced to deal with imbeciles. Danny Daniels had understood how to get the job done, which was why he’d been the perfect partner in the White House. Daniels and the Magellan Billet had done a lot of great things together. Of course, Daniels was not a guy who craved credit. Results. That’s all he’d ever wanted.

  He left the terrace, retraced his route to Stephanie and Bunch, and sat again at the table. “Where were we? I think you said that Jonty Olivier contacted the White House.”

  Bunch tossed him a quizzical look. “Where’d you go?”

  “Bathroom.”

  Which seemed to satisfy the moron. Stephanie, though, definitely wanted to know more, but his gaze signaled later.

  “That’s right,” Bunch said. “Olivier first made contact with us two months ago. He sent a personal message.” Bunch found his phone, tapped, and handed it over. On the screen was a photo of an invitation with black-and-gold Edwardian script.

  Your Presence Is Requested

  For A Sale Of Information

  Concerning President Janusz Czajkowski

  Of The Republic Of Poland

  If Interested Send A Reply To This Address.

  missilesornot@de.com

  “Seems the sender has something to sell,” Cotton said. He faced Stephanie. “Which concerns the European Interceptor Site?”

  She nodded. “This came about a month after the White House announced the renewed missile objective. By then half of Europe, China, and Russia had all come out against it. Olivier seems to have seen an opportunity and set up an auction for some damaging information that could affect the decision. As I said earlier, this all seems like just grandiose blackmail against the president of Poland.”

  “When the White House replied to the email address,” Bunch said, “Olivier answered personally.”

  “Or at least someone using his name answered,” Stephanie added.

  He caught her tone. The reply had been handled without the appropriate safeguards in place.

  “It was Olivier,” Bunch said. “He and the president spoke by phone. We want that information.”

  “What kind of information?” Cotton asked.

  “The embarrassing, political-career-killing kind,” Bunch said. “James Czajkowski is about to stand for reelection. We need him to win that election, then do exactly what we want. Or to be forced to resign now, since the man who would assume the role of acting president is quite friendly to us. He would be much easier to deal with.”

  Somebody had been reading their intelligence briefs. Kudos to Bunch. But Cotton noticed how the guy pronounced the Polish president’s name. Not Cha-koff-skee, like the composer. More Sha-kow-ski. And he used the English James instead of Janusz. It seemed that a “deputy assistant to the president and deputy national security adviser” would at least know how to properly pronounce a foreign dignitary’s name.

  “What is it, exactly, you want the president of Poland to do?” he asked Bunch.

  “That’s classified.”

  “Cotton has the highest clearance,” Stephanie noted, irritation in her voice.

  “How’s that possible? He doesn’t even work for the government. Getting that kind of clearance takes credentials.”

  “Like the kind that come from posting kiss-ass crap on the internet and working as an assistant financial adviser for a rich fat cat?”

  Bunch’s face went sour. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I currently work for the president of the United States. Maybe this meeting wasn’t such a good idea.”

  The guy stood.

  “You’re not eating,” Cotton asked. “Or at least picking up the tab?”

  Bunch pinched back the sleeve of his jacket and studied his watch. “I don’t think so. On either count. Stephanie, find help elsewhere.”

  “No.”

  Strong. Clear. Emphatic. The tone screaming non-negotiable.

  “Excuse me?” Bunch said.

  “What part of that word don’t you understand,” she said. “I’ve retained Cotton’s services. We’ll be using him.”

  “Do you want me to call the White House?”

  She shrugged. “That’s your decision. But you’re running out of time and Cotton is the best. We caught a break that he happened to be here today.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “You don’t see much of anything,” Cotton said.

  Bunch stared at him.

  “You have an admirer. Her name is Sonia Draga. She works for the Agencja Wywiadu. The AW.”

  He could see that Bunch had no idea what he was talking about.

  “It’s Poland’s foreign intelligence agency,” he said.

  “And she’s here?” Bunch asked.

  “She was. Gone now.” Cotton pointed out the window. “It’s where I went.”

  “She left the table,” Stephanie said, “before you made it over there. But not before tossing me a wave. She definitely has style.”

  “You know this woman?” Bunch asked.

  “It’s my business to know people like her. Cotton’s right. She’s an excellent operative. She came along after Solidarity and went to work for the new Polish republic. Her presence here is a message.”

  Bunch sat back down at the table. “I’m listening.”

  Cotton nearly smiled. Sure he was listening, since he had no friggin’ idea what was happening.

  “President Czajkowski has to be aware of the auction,” Stephanie said. “He may have even been extended an invitation, too. What better way to up the price than to have the proposed victim bidding. So he sent his number one operative to deal with it. Sonia being here, in Bruges, when the Holy Blood is taken? That’s no coincidence.”

  “Did she steal the relic?” Bunch asked.

  Cotton shook his head. “Hardly.”

  Otherwise she’d be long gone. Incredible this idiot could not put two and two together, since this time it only came to four.

  “Obviously,” Stephanie said. “Our problem just amplified.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Czajkowski sat inside his private study. He’d been back at the presidential palace for nearly two hours, secluded. His wife had gone to the opera for the evening. Thank goodness she loved the arts, devoting a lot of her time to their promotion. He had no interest in such things. Sadly, their marriage had failed. Both of them recognized that it was over, but both of them liked their positions. He as president, she as First Lady. So they’d come to a private arrangement. An understanding. Separate private lives. Separate interests. Separate lovers. But always discreet. Never embarrassing the other or jeopardizing their positions. He knew she’d already found so
meone, and he was happy for her. He, too, had someone special. But it was politics, not love, that seemed to consume him on a daily basis.

  And a good thing, too.

  Poland seemed overrun by politics.

  There were two major parties. The PO and the PiS. But the variety of middling, minor, and other nonsensical groups seemed endless. About forty at last count, scattered across a wide spectrum of beliefs. Anything and everything. Catholics, conservatives, liberals, communists, socialists, corporatists, nationalists, social democrats, feminists, right-to-lifers. You name it, there was a political party representing that interest.

  His favorite?

  One from the past.

  The Polska Partia Przyjaciół Piwa. The Polish Beer-Lovers’ Party. Its original aim had been to promote beer drinking in English-style pubs, instead of vodka, all designed to fight alcoholism. It emerged in 1990, right after the communist fall, and incredibly, voter disillusionment led 3 percent of the electorate to vote for its candidates, allowing it to win sixteen seats in Parliament. Its platform of quality beer served nationwide became a symbol of freedom of association and expression, intellectual tolerance, and a higher standard of living. Word of mouth also contributed to its popularity, with many openly saying that with the PPPP at the helm it wouldn’t be better, but for sure it would be funnier. But as was typical, the party soon split into factions and eventually dissolved to nothing.

  That seemed to be Poland’s fate, too.

  Rise and fall.

  One incarnation after another.

  The country had always been surrounded by empires. Swedes to the north, Cossacks east, Prussians west, Turks in the south, with no natural borders east or west, allowing for a free flow of invaders.

  And they’d come for centuries.

  It didn’t help that most of the terrain was flat, open plain, ideal for a battlefield, which made it easy for the heel of oppression to always be firmly planted on Poland’s neck.

  Eventually a defined state emerged, but it was wiped from the political map in 1795, when Russia, Prussia, and Austria divided up the country, the first European nation to ever meet such a fate. A provision of their secret agreement stressed the necessity of abolishing everything which might recall the existence of a Polish kingdom. Which was precisely what they did. The Prussians melted down the crown jewels. The Austrians turned palaces into barracks. The Russians stole everything they could. Then they collectively proclaimed that Poland had merely been an uncivilized corner of the world in need of redemption.

  A second chance at statehood came in the 20th century, but first the Germans stole it away, then the Soviets finished the task—once they liberated the country from the Nazis, they never left. By 1948 the communists totally controlled Poland. Even worse, the Allies at Potsdam reconfigured the borders, ceding away long-held territory and adding new portions, shifting the entire nation two hundred kilometers to the west, making it a different place from before the war. Its first president supported Stalin unconditionally and imposed harsh and repressive measures to cow the people. Workers supposedly played a vital role in running things but, in reality, had no say whatsoever. The standard of living decreased by the year. Most of the national budget went to the military. Coal and other commodities were shipped free to the Soviet Union. The first seeds of rebellion were planted in 1956, but it took a quarter century for those to sprout, another decade to bloom. Only recently had the communist yoke finally been broken and a republic once again established. But the radical shift from one-party rule to a liberal democracy and pluralism had encouraged new thought. No single party had ever achieved any measure of control. Instead, Poland was governed by ever-changing compromise.

  Hence politics consumed his every thought.

  He often thought it akin to trying to hold ten balloons underwater all at once. One was always slipping away, popping to the surface. And by the time it was retrieved another managed to break loose. It was a nearly impossible task, but one that had to be tried if you wanted to govern the nation. His current coalition of eight varied parties seemed fragile at best. A nervous collection of hawks, doves, and activists. Now the new American president had decided to force himself upon Poland with another cursed European Interceptor Site. He’d served in the government years back, as undersecretary in the foreign ministry, when the idea had first been proposed, then ultimately rejected by all, including the Americans.

  Now the dead had come back to life.

  And in more ways than one.

  He’d genuinely thought the past gone. It all should have died with the communists. The Institute of National Remembrance and its Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Polish Nation had spent years investigating both the Nazi and the communist times. He was there when Parliament issued its mandate for full disclosure and for the past twenty years, the commission had collected millions of pages of archival documents, interviewed thousands of witnesses, and convicted nearly 150 people of crimes against peace and humanity.

  All well and good.

  Since none of it had involved him.

  So far.

  He continued to chew on his thoughts but hated the bitter aftertaste. He’d not tasted such disgust in a long time. A soft knock snapped his glum reverie. The door opened and his private secretary said that the head of the BOR was ready to speak with him.

  Finally. Maybe some answers.

  Michał Zima entered, and they were left alone.

  “I have some bad news,” Zima said. “The son was found dead. He hanged himself.”

  He was shocked. “How is that possible?”

  “We had no indication that he was suicidal. After questioning, I had him placed in a holding cell. He used a bedsheet fastened to one of the bars.”

  He rubbed his tired eyes. Dammit. He should have some pity for both the mother and son, but it was the son who had brought all their troubles onto them.

  “I’m assuming the guilt over his mother’s death was too much,” Zima said. “He was upset when he was told and asked for some time alone. Nothing indicated that he would hurt himself. I planned to release him shortly.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s broken no law. We were pushing things, bringing him in for questioning, but I justified that based on the … situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “Whatever it is the son sold. I can only assume it is a direct threat to the presidency.”

  “Or this nation.”

  “If that were true, then I would not be kept in the dark. I sense that this is more personal.”

  True. But he still was not about to explain himself.

  The files from the house had been brought into the palace and lay stacked across the study’s parquet floor. He’d given every page a cursory look and determined there was nothing that related to him. Which meant the important stuff was already gone. Sold. To a man named Jonty Olivier. Zima knew nothing other than what the son had done.

  “Did the son tell you anything about what he sold?”

  Zima shook his head. “I had not progressed that far in my questioning. I planned to do that once I returned from meeting with you. But by then he was dead.”

  Which now seemed like a fortuitous happening. But he did not like people dying in custody. It brought back memories from the 1970s and 1980s.

  What a time.

  A nationwide labor turmoil had led to the formation of the independent trade union Solidarity, which grew into a powerful, independent political force. To stop its growth, in 1981 martial law was imposed, but two years of oppression failed to quell rising tensions. By 1989 the government was forced to hold the first partially free and democratic parliamentary elections since the end of World War II. Ones they could not manipulate or control.

  A year later the Soviet Union collapsed and Lech Wałęsa, the head of Solidarity, won the presidency.

  Then, one by one, communist regimes imploded across Eastern Europe and the Cold War ended.

  Throughout communis
t times, the Służba Bezpieczeństwa stayed at the forefront of the authoritarian state’s efforts to hold on to power, spreading fear and terror. He knew the numbers. At the end, the SB employed 25,000 agents and had some 85,000 informants. It infiltrated every aspect of Polish life, trying to snuff out dissent. Places like Mokotów Prison flourished. Discontent had always simmered hotter in Poland than in any other Eastern Bloc nation, as there was no socialist tradition here. In fact, the whole concept of from each according to his ability, to each according to his need, which Marx proclaimed, was contrary to the fiercely independent beliefs Poles held dear.

  All that was gone.

  Though tonight a tiny piece of it had resurrected.

  And he felt awful.

  “I want that man, Jonty Olivier, located,” he said.

  “We are working on that.”

  “I want a dossier on him, too. Everything you have. And fast.”

  Zima nodded. “Of course.”

  “You can go.”

  Another privilege of office was the ability to end a conversation whenever he wanted. Zima left.

  The evening had turned into a circle of frustration. But he’d fought enough political battles to know that when you gambled, sometimes you lost.

  His best hope remained in Bruges.

  So he picked up the phone and dialed.

  A few moments later Sonia Draga answered.

  He said, “Please tell me things are working out there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Cotton sat back in his chair and considered Stephanie’s dilemma. What a tough position. Professionals on one side, idiots on the other. Both dangerous.

  Nearly twenty years ago Stephanie had plucked him from the navy and provided him an opportunity to be something more than a lawyer. He’d accepted that offer and risen to the challenge, proving himself more than capable as an intelligence officer. Which resulted in a major career shift to the Justice Department and the Magellan Billet. Stephanie created the unit, a special division within Justice to handle highly sensitive matters. Twelve agents, whom she personally oversaw. He’d stayed for a dozen years, until a bullet tore through his shoulder in Mexico City. He’d managed to take down the shooters, but the resulting carnage had left seven dead, nine injured. One of them had been a young diplomat assigned to the Danish mission, Cai Thorvaldsen. Ten weeks after the massacre a man with a crooked spine appeared at his front door in Atlanta. They’d sat in the den, and he hadn’t bothered to ask how Henrik Thorvaldsen found him.