Located on Level IX.
He showed Stephanie the chunk of salt crystal.
“That was on Olivier’s person when he died,” he told her. “And he had that book, all ready to go in an envelope. It all adds up. 9 Bobola. That information is hidden in the mine, where that statue is located, on level nine.”
He thumbed through the oversized picture volume, finding a schematic of the mine’s various levels. Not a lot of detail, but enough to get the idea that it was a huge underground complex.
He placed a period on his line of thoughts. “I think that Eli Reinhardt knows this, too.”
“He’s going after it?”
“You tell me. Do you know him?”
She nodded. “He’s an information broker, just like Olivier, but his reputation is not the best. He and Olivier were active competitors, and that information on Czajkowski is still worth a lot of money. So yes, if he can, he will go after it.”
“He may already be on the way to that mine, trying to find a way in.”
They were inside the same office used yesterday, with the door closed. The afternoon sun, still hazy, slanted through the blinds.
“We ought to preempt him,” he said.
He could see she was intrigued by the possibility.
“And what do we do if the information is there?” she asked.
“Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Neither one of them was comfortable with any of this. Stephanie was defying her employer. He was offending Sonia. But the thought of allowing that information to fall into the hands of Reinhardt seemed repugnant. No telling what would happen then.
“You think Ivan knows?” she asked.
He shook his head. “He seemed genuinely pissed when Sonia killed Olivier.”
The phone on the desk rang.
Stephanie answered, listened, then pressed a button activating the speakerphone, hanging up the receiver.
“Mr. Malone, this is Warner Fox.”
Cotton sat up on the edge of his chair.
“What happened?” the president asked.
“Exactly what you should have anticipated. The Russians killed everyone.”
“Including Tom?”
“He’s not here, is he?”
“You’re telling me everyone, including Olivier, is dead? Except you?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And before you ask, I’m only here because I got lucky. The Poles were working with the Russians, and both of them were one step ahead of you the entire way. Your lies only infuriated both Warsaw and Moscow.”
“I did what I thought necessary.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing, and a lot of people are dead now thanks to you.”
“You won’t be paid a dime for your work here,” Fox said.
He shook his head. “You know where you can stick that $150,000.”
“You have no respect for this office, do you?”
“Actually, I have a tremendous respect for the presidency. What I lack is any semblance of respect for you.”
“Stephanie, what about the information on Czajkowski?” Fox asked, ignoring the jab. “Any idea where it might be?”
She glanced his way and he shrugged, signifying it was her call.
“None at this time,” she lied.
“I’m about to speak with the president of Poland,” Fox said.
“Who knows you lied to him,” Cotton said.
“Can anything be salvaged?”
“Maybe some pride, if you apologize to Czajkowski,” Cotton said.
“Your impertinence knows no bounds,” Fox muttered.
“Did Tom Bunch have a family?”
“A wife and two children.”
“Give them the $150,000.”
And he meant it. Bunch had been a blind fool, but his wife and children were another matter.
“Stephanie, please answer my question,” Fox said.
“Nothing I’m aware of can be salvaged. This is over.”
“Then explain to me why the Russians think otherwise.”
Damn. Fox had practiced the old adage that every good trial lawyer knew. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to, unless you don’t care what that answer may be.
And he clearly had not.
Truth or lie, he had her.
“The NSA detected a message from a Russian SVR agent named Ivan Fyodorov, currently in Kraków, confirming to the Kremlin that the information may still be in play.”
Neither of them said a word.
“I’m going to assume that you both know more than you’re willing to share,” Fox said. “That’s fine. Doesn’t matter. You’re both off this operation. It will be handled by others, who are on their way to Kraków now.”
Stephanie shook her head.
Cotton knew what was coming.
“Stephanie, you’re relieved of duty, pending termination. I’ll leave it to the attorney general to decide your fate.”
“Like that decision is in doubt,” she said.
“No. It’s not. Unlike you, he understands loyalty.”
“He’s an idiot,” she said.
“I won’t miss you,” Fox said.
“Nor me you.”
And she ended the call.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Czajkowski allowed his cell phone to keep ringing. Sonia smiled at his impertinence toward the president of the United States.
Finally, he answered.
“What can I do for you, Mr. President,” Czajkowski said on speaker.
“You’re not going to win this,” Fox declared.
“I wasn’t aware that we were in competition.”
“Tom Bunch is dead. Murdered in cold blood.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What a terrible tragedy. But that concerns me how, Mr. President?”
“You will not get away with this.”
“I’m at a loss. What are you referring to?”
“I’m referring to whatever you had or allowed to be done. Malone reported that everyone was killed and that you and the Russians were working together.”
“Our interests do align relative to this issue.”
“I’ll have every dime in foreign aid cut off to Poland in retaliation.”
He laughed. “Really? All ten million euros’ worth? Go ahead. We shall not miss it.”
The United States had never been generous with Poland when it came to foreign aid. True, they considered the country of strategic importance and were always willing to provide military assistance, but that always came with some ceding away of pride or possession. With the constant looming threat from Russia, previous Polish administrations had been willing to make that deal. He was not.
“I was referring to the $150 million in military sales we allow to Poland,” Fox said.
He’d been warned about Fox by other European leaders who’d already dealt with him and made their own assessment. Rude. Pedantic. Arrogant. Willfully uninformed. Quick to anger, especially when challenged. Big on threats. Like now.
“May I ask what would be the basis for cutting off those military sales?”
“Your refusal to cooperate with an ally. If our missiles aren’t good enough for you, then our military hardware should be treated the same.”
“That would be unfortunate,” he said. “But we will just buy those arms elsewhere. I’m sure the Chinese, or the French, would appreciate the business.”
“That’s not the same as made in America, and we both know it. Our weapons are the finest in the world.”
Another assessment he’d been told about Fox was an irrational belief that all things American were best.