The Warsaw Protocol (Cotton Malone 15)

Ivan deposited them near the main square in Kraków, surely on his way to the nearby Russian consulate and home soil. He wondered how long it would take for the carnage at Sturney Castle to be discovered. Surely the staff had returned by now. But perhaps the Poles had cleaned up the mess and disposed of the bodies. That would make more sense. The last thing they would want was public attention.

The time was approaching 3:00 P.M. and he was hungry.

But he also needed information.

He knew that Jonty had visited the nearby Wieliczka Salt Mine twice in the past forty-eight hours. Once to find the Pantry, but the other visit, the first one, had been all Olivier’s call. Munoz had told him about the torture with the electrical wire down the throat and how he’d finally coughed up a name. Ordinarily he’d be upset with such weakness. But here it told him that Jonty had returned to the mine after learning that a competitor was watching.

Had he hedged his bets?

Perhaps.

And Vic DiGenti would have been right there with him.

In his pocket he found the paper that he’d lifted off the corpse.

9 Bobola

What did it mean? Was it relevant here? Or did it have nothing to do with any of this?

He believed Olivier when he’d said that no documents were at the castle. That would have been a wise precaution, one he himself would have taken. Was it possible that Jonty had decided the salt mine was the perfect place to stash his prize? Why not? It certainly was isolated and there were endless possibilities for secreting something away. He should at least investigate before dismissing the thought entirely.

Kraków was not unfamiliar to him. He’d visited many times, and one of his favorite places to eat was Pod Aniolami. It sat about halfway between the main square and Wawel Castle, on a busy pedestrian-only side street. It served traditional Polish cuisine, using the old recipes, all cooked on a charred beechwood grill. The ambience was lovely, too, reminding him of places he’d visited in the countryside, its décor the kind of knickknacks you’d find in people’s homes.

He led Munoz to the restaurant. They took a table in the cellar, surrounded by rough stone walls and arches straight from the Middle Ages. Nobody else was enjoying a late lunch, so they had a measure of privacy in the dimly lit chamber.

“I want you to find a man who works at the Wieliczka Salt Mine,” he whispered to Munoz. “He’s a guide named Dawid Konrad. I met him last evening. Go there. Ask around. Find him. I must speak with him immediately.”

Munoz had worked for him before, and Eli knew him to be dependable. Of course, getting caught by Olivier had not been one of the Bulgarian’s finest moments, but it all worked out in the end. He prided himself on being adaptable. Being here, right now, seemed proof positive of that. He’d managed to eliminate a competitor and secure an unobstructed path to information that could prove quite valuable. But he would not make the same mistake Jonty had made. If found, he’d sell directly to the Russians for a fair price, taking every euro earned as icing on the cake of the five million he’d already pocketed. Of course, the Poles might pay more. Either way, the information would be suppressed and no missiles would be deployed.

Right now he wanted food.

He and Munoz discussed a few more details, then his acolyte rose and climbed the steep stone steps back to ground level.

For the first time in the past few days he relaxed.

No one was left to interfere. All of the parties had either been killed or placated.

He again found the paper with the writing on it.

9 Bobola

He needed to know if it was relevant, especially before speaking with Konrad. He still had control of the Pantry, now his alone to sell. But what he wanted was the information on Janusz Czajkowski. Olivier’s fate had offered a glimpse at the disaster that came to those who tied themselves to limited capabilities. He wanted to be freer. More flexible. He felt a panicky need for some assurance that he could escape the path he’d just taken with his life. What he should do was walk away. Leave it alone. He had more than enough. But that was not his nature. He was a broker. Buying and selling every day. Taking risks. And out there, right now, waiting to be found, was something of great value.

And not only in money.

But also to his reputation as a dealer.

So go for it.

He found his phone and typed BOBOLA into a search engine.

What appeared both surprised and intrigued him.

* * *

Cotton approached the light-colored BMW that he’d seen on the monitor upstairs in the room where Vic DiGenti had been killed. He’d retrieved the keys from the body, hoping they were for the vehicle, and was pleased when the fob opened the door locks.

On the rear seat he spotted various containers that held the relics of the Arma Christi. He noticed that there were six. When he subtracted the one Sonia had taken, it made for seven. Where had the seventh come from? Earlier, one had been missing on the table in the great hall.

Another mystery.

No matter, though, he now had the relics and he was certain that the churches from which they’d been taken would be grateful beyond measure for their return. It would be quite a feather in Stephanie’s cap to be able to make restitution. He needed to call her, but had no way at the moment. It would have to wait until he was back in Poland. Right now he just needed to get as far away from here as possible before the crap hit the fan.

He was still playing a hunch.

One he knew Stephanie would want him to pursue.

And though he no longer had any dog in this fight, he was intent on finding out if the information on Czajkowski was still out there, capable of being located.

Was the threat still active?

The silence around him was broken by the cawing of a crow.

An omen?

He hoped not.

He was alive thanks to Sonia’s intervention, and what he was doing by keeping in pursuit might be deemed a problem by her.

She’d wanted this to be over.

But something told him there was still a way to go.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Czajkowski wanted this day to end. It had been one of the most nerve racking of his life—and he’d experienced some pretty harrowing ones. Speaking with Anna had brought back memories he preferred not to relive.

It happened so fast on the night of December 12, 1981.

When the Polish military swept in and imposed martial law.

Most of Solidarity’s leaders were rounded up and herded to freezing detention centers, cast on the mercy of brutal guards. Over forty thousand people. Neither he nor Mirek Hacia was part of that roundup. Hacia because he constantly stayed in the shadows, and himself as a nobody.

It had all been horrible.

But people had debated for years whether Poland, without martial law, would have made it through that winter.

Widespread famine seemed imminent. The health care system was about to collapse. The economy was gone. Anarchy loomed, and neither the government nor Solidarity possessed the ability to develop workable solutions. With power came responsibility. Leaders had to get along. Put petty differences aside. Avoid division over trivial matters. But Solidarity had constant problems with unity. At least it wanted to compromise, but the Red Bourgeoisie, who would have had to relinquish many of their class privileges, refused to budge.

No deals.

By then, all that remained of the Polish Communist Party was the complacent, the incompetent, the corrupt, and the evil. Thankfully, the army stayed at bay. Polish soldiers refused to fire on Polish workers. But the militia, the SB, and the special forces were another matter. They did the dirty work, one person at a time.

He recalled the sense of defeat that dominated throughout that winter.

Poles seemed to know that Poles always lost.

It had been that way for centuries. Doomed by geography and ideology, they had never effectively governed themselves. The whole idea of

martial law had been to isolate and neutralize any obstructive groups and deprive the people of knowledge, save for what the government decreed. For years Solidarity had existed out in the open, keeping the people informed. Now it was gone. Subverted. Made illegal. There was no more information network: Phone lines were cut, television shut down. Everything required a permit. Even typewriters had to be registered.

So implementing the Warsaw Protocol had been easy.

Feeding the SB false information had been easy. Turning one against the other, setting up traitors, even easier.

Their deaths just the price to be paid.