The Warsaw Protocol (Cotton Malone 15)
And a gun fired.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Czajkowski sat at a long wooden table inside a spacious hall adorned with salt chandeliers, the room available to rent for large cultural and business events. He’d once attended a concert here—the Wroclaw Philharmonic, if he recalled right, with a wonderful cello concerto—a treat at 125 meters underground, the acoustics near perfect. Adjacent to the hall was the miners’ tavern, hacked from more gray salt, which served an excellent array of Polish food. Two years ago he hosted a dinner here for participants in a European energy summit. He especially recalled the chocolate tart served that day. What a delight. Nobody was in the hall, or the café, at the moment, as business was clearly winding down early thanks to the mine manager.
Incredibly, there was cell phone service courtesy of hard lines from the surface and repeaters stationed throughout the tourist levels. Which made it possible for him to speak with his wife, who’d called.
“I just left Jasna Góra,” she said to him through the phone. “Brother Hacia and I had a lovely chat.”
He could only imagine. “Is he still refusing to cooperate?”
He kept his voice low and a hand up, covering his mouth.
“Once he knew that I knew the truth, his attitude changed. Of course, he berated you for telling me and simply denied everything. What he didn’t know is that while we were chatting, I had the BOR search his room.”
He smiled. Nothing about her was subtle or sublime. “Find anything?”
“A thick file.”
He was shocked. “You have it?’
“I do. And by the way, you two are a lot alike. But I assume you already realized that fact.”
Long ago, in fact. He was perhaps one of the few people in Poland who could call the Owl a friend. But that had seemed to count for little.
He decided to keep to himself what was happening in the mine. There was nothing she could do about any of it. But if things went wrong here, having a record of the Warsaw Protocol could prove helpful.
“You did good,” he told her. “I appreciate it.”
“Just doing my part.”
And she ended the call.
He stared around at the hall and its stage at the far end. What an amazing place. A huge cavity, carved entirely from salt. A hole in the earth, which reminded him of Boleslaw the Brave and the legend of the sleeping kings. Every schoolchild knew the tale. Once a year, at midnight on Christmas Eve, the mighty Sigismund bell rung, and the Polish kings woke from their eternal sleep and gathered in a grand underground hall. A place with plenty of light, like a cathedral. Some say it lay beneath Wawel Castle, but others said it was much farther south, in the Tatra Mountains. Or maybe it was here, in Wieliczka?
Who knew?
They came dressed in their coronation robes, sitting before a round table, discussing the fate of the country. Boleslaw himself presided, holding the famous Szczerbiec, Poland’s coronation sword.
What a sight that would have been.
But they were not the only ones who arose that night.
The Sleeping Knights of the Tatra also roamed on Christmas Eve. They would leave the mountains on their white horses and ride off in search of the kings. Once found a loud knock would come to the hall’s door. Then again. And one more time. Always three. The kings would fall silent as Boleslaw opened the door, telling the knights, No. The time has not yet come.
He smiled at the drama.
And irony.
Men there, ready to fight, ready to serve Poland.
But the time had not yet come.
Before the kings resumed their council they would listen to the fading hoofbeats as the knights rode back to their icy caves. Once there, the knights fed their animals then fell asleep, leaning against their saddles in readiness.
For when the time comes.
What a glorious tale.
His phone buzzed.
A text.
From his private secretary.
He’d left instructions with his BOR detail to return to the Sheraton in Kraków and pretend he was back inside the Royal Wawel Suite. He’d called his private secretary and told him that he was going to rest for a few hours and did not want to be disturbed.
Unless vital.
He read the message.
UNITED STATES ISSUED STATEMENT THAT DEPUTY NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER THOMAS BUNCH IS MISSING SOMEWHERE IN POLAND. HE WAS HERE ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS, UNDER DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY, AND WASHINGTON HAS CALLED ON WARSAW TO ACT IMMEDIATELY AND ASCERTAIN HIS WHEREABOUTS. THE FOREIGN MINISTRY WANTS TO KNOW OUR RESPONSE.
Fox had tossed the first salvo, shining a light. But the statement’s wording allowed room to maneuver.
He typed his reply.
TELL THE AMERICANS WE ARE SYMPATHETIC TO THE SITUATION AND WILL INVESTIGATE. ALSO, HAVE THE FOREIGN MINISTRY INQUIRE AS TO THE EXACT NATURE OF THE “OFFICIAL BUSINESS” THE DEPUTY WAS ENGAGED IN. WE REQUIRE DETAILS TO AID IN OUR INVESTIGATION.
He smiled.
That should slow Fox down.
Enough, so that what was about to happen—
Could play itself out.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Cotton reacted to the sudden bang that reverberated off the salt, throbbing his eardrums.
Which hurt.
The sound surprised him, so out of place given the constant silence. Patrycja screamed and his gaze shot to the outer chamber as a large form materialized from the darkness, seeking cover behind one of the pillars. They were sitting ducks in this confined space, their headlamps beacons upon which to aim. So he reached for the battery pack at his waist and switched off the power. Stephanie followed suit, but Patrycja lagged. He lunged and brought her down to the floor, switching her light off, too.
Darkness now engulfed them.
He heard movement in the outer chamber, feet scuffing across brittle salt. He reached out for the overturned pew to use for cover. Their assailants’ headlamps were also off. But nothing would prevent them from strafing the chapel with gunfire. The pew could offer some cover, but not much.
“Nowhere to go, Malone,” a voice said from the blackness.
Ivan.
Hard to tell exactly where, thanks to the echo and the black ink, both of which disoriented the senses with a lack of reference points.
“Get over here,” he whispered to Stephanie and Patrycja. “And stay low.”
He reached out into the blackness, guiding them behind the pew.
“We meet again, Mr. Malone,” an older voice said.
Reinhardt.
“You know what I want,” Ivan said. “I saw what you found.”
But he wasn’t ready to concede just yet. The darkness worked both ways, though it was a long way from where they crouched to the exit tunnel in the outer room, and their assailants’ lamps, if switched on, would illuminate them like a deer in headlights.
“I could kill all you,” Ivan said. “Then come get it myself. Be reasonable, Malone. I really not want to shoot you.”
Like he believed that one. Ivan would do whatever he had to do in order to get what he wanted. All those dead bodies back in Slovakia were proof of that. He and Stephanie were pros. They knew the risks. But Patrycja was another matter. He owed her safety.
“All right, Ivan. Here it is.”
And he tossed the packet toward where he thought was the chapel entry.
A light went on.
He shielded his pupils and saw a black form beneath a headlamp retrieve the packet. In one hand he spied a pistol. A quick flash of the face showed the form to be Munoz, Reinhardt’s man. Shapes hard to discern moved in the darkness.
The light extinguished.
“We leave now, Malone,” Ivan said. “Stay where you are.”
Obviously there was another way to this point through Level IX, since they’d encountered no one on the trip here. He assumed Ivan and company would utilize that path back out.
So he was surprised when four lights came on, then disappeared into the tunnel through which
Patrycja had led them.
“Why that way?” he asked her.
“Much quicker to an elevator. They probably came down from the Regis Shaft, which is about a kilometer away.”
They continued to sit in the dark.
“I’m going after them,” he said. “Stephanie, you and Patrycja head back the way we came.”
“Like hell,” his old boss said.
“I agree,” their guide added.
Stephanie he could understand, but the young Pole was being foolish. “Patrycja, this is about to get real messy.”
“And you don’t have a clue where you’re going without me. I saw the face of one of the men who just left. He’s a miner who works as a guide. They have help. You need it, too.”
She had a point. And he admired her bravery.
“All right, let’s go. One light only. Mine.”
Which would make him the first target.
“They should be far enough down the tunnel that we can head after them. You don’t happen to know another way back to that elevator that doesn’t involve the tunnel they took?”
“Actually, I do.”