The Warsaw Protocol (Cotton Malone 15)

“I spoke with our ambassador to Poland before we left,” she said as they walked. “He’s one of Danny’s holdovers. Fox has not filled the post yet. Needless to say he’s not a fan of our new president. I had him make a call. He knows the right people to get us inside, unnoticed.”

The time was approaching 5:00 P.M., and there was still a modest crowd waiting to gain entrance. Maybe a hundred people. Just past where the line to buy a ticket ended a short, petite blonde stood, dressed in official-looking coveralls. She seemed to be waiting for them and stepped right up, introducing herself as Patrycja. She said, “I was told you want access to Level IX.”

“Can we do that, and fast?” Stephanie asked.

“I’ve been instructed to do whatever you want. Let’s get you changed and we’ll head right down. You’re going to need some equipment. That level is not like the tourist areas, it’s on the miners’ route.”

He was not looking forward to this. Tight spaces were not his favorite. Stephanie seemed to sense his anxiety and said, “I’m told the tunnels are wide and there’s plenty of ventilation. Is that right?”

Their guide nodded. “It’s not cramped down there at all.”

But he wasn’t comforted.

He’d heard that disclaimer before.

What concerned him more, though, was the Russians and Eli Reinhardt. One or both could be headed here, too. The guy they’d just encountered was employed by one of them.

He glanced around, seeing nothing that caused alarm.

But that didn’t mean trouble wasn’t nearby.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Eli stepped from the car.

He’d hired a cab to drive him from Kraków to the salt mine. Not a long trip, though costly at a hundred euros. But the driver was an entrepreneur, too, just like him, so he couldn’t blame the man for predatory pricing. His entire business hinged on taking advantage of others.

He stood before the graduation tower, an enormous castle-like structure crafted of larch branches and blackthorn, upon which salt brine flowed twenty-four hours a day. The microclimate created within the gaudy wooden structure worked like a natural inhalator, the salt air able to penetrate the mucous membrane of the respiratory system, good for lungs, sinuses, intestines, even the brain. Salt baths had existed in the area for hundreds of years, the mine below producing an abundance of concentrated brine that had to go somewhere. So toward the end of the 19th century the locals started pumping it to ground level and created a spa.

He paid the price for an admission ticket and strolled into the tower, heading up a walkway that wound a path deep into the twenty-meter-tall wooden structure. Its working principle seemed simple. Take salt suspended in water, pump it to the top, then allow the brine to thicken as it flows down the branches, breaking up as it hits each twig, partially evaporating, saturating the air with a curative saline aerosol.

He sucked in a few deep breaths.

Which felt good.

He should take better care of himself, especially now that he was five million euros richer. Munoz had called and told him to come here, near the top of the tower, which sat within sight of the salt mine’s main entrance. He caught glimpses of the afternoon crowd, many headed to their cars to leave, through breaks in the outer walls. Not many people were partaking of the curative effects today. Which was good. He needed a little privacy.

He rounded a corner and saw Munoz and Konrad ahead.

“What is this about?” Konrad asked, with concern. “And how did you know where I live?”

“My business is information.”

“Where is DiGenti?”

He knew better than to tell the truth. “We’re handling matters now.”

“Mr. Olivier made it clear that all of this had to be held confidential. He said nothing about you being a part of that.”

“I was here last evening. I am a part of this.” He decided to soothe the man’s clear anxiety. “I require your assistance. For that I’m prepared to pay you one hundred thousand euros.”

Konrad’s face froze in surprise. “That’s far more than DiGenti ever paid me.”

“Unlike Mr. DiGenti, I believe that people should be adequately compensated for their services. Is that amount satisfactory?”

Konrad nodded.

He’d long ago learned that everyone had a price. The trick was finding it, then being able to pay. Luckily, neither was a problem here.

“What do you want me to do?” Konrad asked.

“Take us to the statue of St. Bobola, on Level IX.”

He watched as the request was considered. He’d learned of the connection between the saint and the mine from the internet.

“I think I know where that is,” Konrad said. “It’s inside a small chapel.”

“Excellent. How fast can you get us there?”

“Half an hour. Maybe faster. When do I get paid?”

“When we return from the statue. Of course, we need discreet access, with no attention whatsoever. The more anonymous the better.”

“I can take care of that. DiGenti wanted the same thing.”

“But I’m paying much more than he ever did, so I expect more.”

“As do I,” a new voice said.

He turned and saw Ivan waddle his way toward them, like a plow horse, bulky, bony, with black, oily eyes like a crow. He felt his head spiral upward toward a different reality, one where he wanted to stay. But he couldn’t. He had to maintain control of the situation, though he could feel the confidence draining out of his fingertips.

“Konrad,” he said, “could you go arrange for that access. Mr. Munoz will come with you. Art, come back and get me when all is ready.”

Munoz and Konrad started to leave.

“Add one more to tour,” Ivan said.

Konrad stopped.

Eli realized there was no choice. “Do it.”

Konrad nodded and headed off with Munoz. Eli faced Ivan. “How did you know?”

“I been doing this long time. Reading people is talent I have. And, besides, I not trust you ever. So I watch close.” Ivan motioned to his eyes with his fingers. “You find something at castle. I saw in your face. Why you think I let Malone go so easy?” Ivan pointed. “You know what I want to know. I want information on Czajkowski.”

“I had hoped to sell it to you.”

Ivan chuckled. “Sure you did. But I have better deal. I let you live, in return for information.”

He’d known that was coming. “Why don’t you just go down without me and find it yourself. There’s no need for me to be involved any longer.”

“I disagree. You most important. We go down together. Cotton Malone is on his way here.”

Great.

“I have man trying to stop him.”

“Seems this whole venture is becoming crowded.”

“My thought, too.”

He definitely had a problem. Going down into that mine could be a one-way trip. But he doubted this Russian had come alone. So there was nowhere to run. No. Go down. Deal with things below, where the darkness and solitude might give him an edge.

“All right,” he said. “We go together.”

A disdainful smile worked at the corner of Ivan’s mouth. “You were paid much money. More than enough to cover information, too.”

“That information is worth far more than five million euros.”

“Not for you. Call it price of lying.”

Again, he had no choice. “Let us conclude our business and be done with each other.”

“Be grateful, Mr. Broker, I don’t kill you.”

“You don’t know where the information is hidden.”

“See how far that got Olivier. Not much. Don’t push me. I want information and I want to be done with this.”

But he was not buying a single word. Russians lied with uninhibited ease. A talent that came with them from the womb. He had to go down with this devil. That was the easy part.

But getting back up in one piece?

/> That was going to take some effort.

CHAPTER SIXTY