The Warsaw Protocol (Cotton Malone 15)

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.

[email protected]

“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.