The Warsaw Protocol (Cotton Malone 15)

“I’m a bit surprised to see you here,” Reinhardt said. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

Reinhardt smiled. “A funny man? This is quite a serious situation. Yet you think humor in order?”

He shrugged. “It’s only serious for you. I’m on the side of might and right.”

“Come now, Malone. Can’t we be reasonable?”

“Where’s Ivan?”

“Doing what Russians do best.”

And Reinhardt added a sly smile.

Then dropped to the floor.

Shots rang out from inside the chamber.

Rounds whined past and found the salt and timbers farther down the tunnel, ricocheting off. He hoped Stephanie and Patrycja had taken cover. He stayed glued to the wall at the side of the opening.

Reinhardt crawled back inside.

He heard movement in the darkness beyond the doorway. A quick glance showed an empty chamber.

“Stephanie,” he called out behind him.

“We’re here.”

“I’m going after them.”

“The elevators are not working,” Patrycja told him. “They’ve been shut off from above.”

Which meant something more was happening here.

Stephanie and Patrycja appeared and hustled his way.

“Where does this route go?” he asked.

“It winds back around to the main areas, past the lakes,” Patrycja said. “To the stairs.”

“You two head up, any way you can. Keep these bastards down here. Don’t give them a way out.”

Stephanie nodded and she and Patrycja retreated toward the elevators.

He headed the opposite direction.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Czajkowski stood inside a chamber filled with lit display cases that exhibited salt crystals in all colors, shapes, and sizes. He’d taken refuge here while Sonia assessed the unexpected situation. He wanted to be in charge, as always—he was president, after all—but realized that he had to keep a low profile. If they managed to contain this he could not afford to be exposed any more than he already was. Bad enough that the mine manager was aware of his presence, and that he’d pulled rank with the order to shut off all the cameras. So the fewer people who knew anything, the better.

“There’s more shooting below,” Sonia said as she hurried into the room. “Visitors have scattered. They’re trying to get them all up to Levels I and II. The mine manager says he can’t keep this quiet much longer. There are safety concerns and his security people are pushing hard.”

He caught the message. This has to end. Now.

“We need to get down there,” he said.

“Janusz.”

He loved when she used his name. Which was rare.

“I can’t risk anything happening to you,” she said. “Don’t put me in that difficult situation. I need to get down there. Will you wait here?”

“I’m the president of this country and your boss. This is not open to discussion.”

She tossed him a quizzical look. “You’re going there? Pulling rank?”

“I am.”

“Big surprise.”

She shook her head, then unzipped one of the pockets in her coveralls and removed a semi-automatic pistol.

She handed the weapon over.

“I assume you know how to use it.”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

Eli followed Ivan and Munoz.

They’d laid down gunfire trying to hit Malone, but failed. It had provided them, though, with enough cover to flee. Now they were in a long traverse that led toward another low-ceilinged chamber displaying ancient mining equipment. They kept moving, unsure of their destination, only that they had to get back to ground level. But how? Malone was on their flank and none of them knew what lay ahead.

Ivan waddled along, heavy-legged but spry for a big man, a gun in one hand, the plastic pack in the other. Good thing Jonty had thought ahead and properly protected the information. Malone had to be proceeding with caution given that he, too, had no idea what was waiting for him.

They entered an open corridor that ran twenty meters straight ahead, sloping upward, a tall salt wall to the right, a wooden railing on the left overlooking a small lake beyond.

A strange sight so far belowground.

The clear water lay still like glass, the bottom illuminated by underwater lights that cast an eerie emerald glow. Obviously there had to be somewhere for all the water that seeped down to go, so lakes seemed a reasonable solution.

Ivan stopped. “We cannot keep running.”

“What do you suggest?”

The big man pointed down at the water and a short set of stairs that led to a tiny dock, where two boats were tied. Eli studied the lake and saw that there were several exits where the water flowed out into black yawns.

“You’re assuming one of those will get us away from Malone?” he asked.

Ivan nodded. “Not us. Me. We need split up. Give Malone choices. I go in boat. You two keep moving ahead.”

“And do what?

“Find way out. Get away. Disappear. Enjoy your money. Our business is done.”

There was wisdom in the strategy. Particularly from his standpoint. Malone had to be after the information, but he’d have no way of knowing who possessed it. Best guess? Not the broker. The Russian. The one who fired the shot.

And he’d not killed anyone, either.

That bullet came from Ivan’s gun. His own gun was still tucked at his waist, beneath the coveralls.

“Do svidaniya,” Ivan said, waving with the gun he held.

And goodbye to you, too.

Ivan stepped over a low gate in the railing, descended the stairs, then climbed into one of the skiffs. At its stern hung an electric motor, which he switched on and used to ease toward the tunnels.

“What do we do?” Munoz asked.

“What he said. Get out of here.”

And they headed off.

* * *

Cotton made his way through the chamber toward its other exit, careful as he sidestepped the old mining equipment on display. At the other exit he saw Reinhardt and Munoz, fifty feet away, rushing down a railed corridor. Then darkness blotted them from sight as they entered another chamber. He turned toward the lit underground lake and saw Ivan puttering away in a small skiff, entering a black tunnel.

They’d split up.

He was betting that what he was after lay with Ivan.

He noticed a padlocked gate. Then stairs and another skiff floating atop the still water. He jumped the low rail and descended, hopping into the boat.

Following Ivan.

* * *

Czajkowski knew how to handle a weapon, but it had been a long time since he’d held one. Solidarity had never been about violence. Weapons had been forbidden, as had been drinking. Never was anyone allowed to participate in official functions under the influence. Never was a knife or a gun allowed at a demonstration. Not that some didn’t appear, but at no time had anyone in any position o

f authority ever sanctioned their presence.

Quite the contrary, in fact.

Visuals had been vital to the movement. What you said and what you did mattered. But what it looked like mattered more. They’d been trying to win the world over to their cause, and no better way existed than for their protests to be nonviolent. They’d not been 100 percent successful, but they’d come pretty close. Solidarity had always then, and now, been perceived as good. The government bad.

But what would the Warsaw Protocol do to that legacy?

Hard to say.

Definitely nothing good.

Quietly he followed Sonia down a wooden staircase, the boards strong and firm under his feet. They were headed for Level III. The mine manager was working to evacuate everyone to the surface from Levels I and II. Last he saw, Malone had taken off in pursuit of Reinhardt and his man, Munoz, along with Ivan, all of them surely still on Level III. Sonia was armed with a map supplied by the manager. But it might not be needed. As they turned on the landing, preparing to head down the last flight of stairs, they spotted Eli Reinhardt, thirty meters away, leaving the brightly lit chamber where the stairs ended and entering another dark tunnel.

They headed in the same direction.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Cotton navigated the boat across the lake and headed for the tunnel where Ivan had gone. He left the lit surface and entered blackness. If not for another illuminated lake about fifty feet ahead his visibility would have been zero. Things were also a little too close for comfort, as the ceiling was less than a foot away. The small electric motor provided nothing in the way of speed, so he puttered along at a snail’s pace.

He exited out into a lake smaller than the first, the salt walls at its edges rising up fifty-plus feet. Another wooden railing lined one side and bordered another walkway that led past the water. Only one tunnel opened out, so he kept going into another dark abyss. This one tighter, the ceiling barely a few inches above his head as he sat in the skiff. He navigated with one hand on the motor and the other holding the gun. For a guy who hated enclosed spaces he seemed to find himself in them more often than not. This place was bearable, though, given the ventilation and the lights he could see at the far end of the tunnel.