The Warsaw Protocol (Cotton Malone 15)

Handshakes were exchanged and they sat.

“Tom is the deputy assistant to the president and the deputy national security adviser,” Stephanie said.

Cotton caught the emphasis on the word deputy, repeated twice surely on purpose, knowing how she felt about that label. The Magellan Billet’s bureaucracy was simple. She had total control. No deputies. No seconds in command. All decisions from one source.

“Tom is the reason I’m here in Belgium,” she said. “The Justice Department was asked to assist the White House with this matter, and the attorney general delegated it to the Magellan Billet, with specific orders to work with Tom.”

That meant the president had wanted the task given to the Billet. The more important question, which Stephanie surely had asked herself, was why, considering how Fox felt about her and the Billet.

A waiter appeared with menus and asked for drink orders. Bunch requested a rather expensive French red wine. Stephanie opted for sparkling water. Cotton chose the still version. Carbon dioxide immersed in liquids had never been his thing. Alcohol was also something he’d never acquired a taste for, along with coffee, cigarettes, or almost anything that came from a pharmacy.

Bunch scanned the menu, so he decided, what the heck, why not. He was hungry, and the offerings appeared robust and filling. No gourmet fare. Thank goodness. The kalfsblanket, veal in a creamy sauce, caught his eye. He also saw there was a Dame Blanche for dessert. The waiter returned with their drinks, and Bunch asked that they have a few minutes before ordering.

“You look a little wrinkled,” Bunch said. “Stephanie said you took a swim in the canal.”

“It’s part of the tour excursion I booked. A chance to experience the canals firsthand,” he said, trying to make light of things.

But Bunch did not seem amused. “I don’t know anything about you. But Stephanie says you’re the man for this job. I assume you know about Jonty Olivier?”

The question came with an aura of self-importance, as if everyone knew the name.

“Why don’t you enlighten me,” Cotton asked, and he caught the grin on Stephanie’s lips at his self-restraint.

“I’m a little surprised you’ve never heard of Olivier.”

He caught the smugness. This guy wasted little time getting on people’s nerves.

“Jonty Olivier,” Stephanie said, “is a broker.”

“We talking books, art, real estate?”

Bunch chuckled. “You really are out of the loop. How long have you been retired?”

“How long have you been a deputy national security adviser? Since January? Six whole months. What did you do before?”

“That’s not relevant. I’m now with the White House, and I’m in charge here. That’s what matters.”

He slid his phone from a pocket—waterproof, so it had survived the swim—and opened to a search engine. He typed TOM BUNCH, WHITE HOUSE and found many references. He decided on the Wikipedia link. Why not? Might as well see what the masses thought of him. He touched the screen and called up the page, which was, not surprisingly, short.

Bunch, throughout the presidential campaign, wrote a number of pro-Fox articles under a pseudonym, E Pluribus Unum. He was critical of the left and right, but never the pro-Fox conservatives. He portrayed the election as a battle to save America, and in one article, described it as the “Flight 93 election,” referencing the plane that was hijacked on September 11, 2001 but which crashed after passengers fought back against the hijackers. “Charge the cockpit or you die,” he wrote. Then he went on to say, “You may die anyway. You—or the leader of your party—may make it into the cockpit and not know how to fly or land the plane. There are no guarantees. Except one, if you don’t try, death is certain.” The true meaning of that statement remains unknown. Before coming to the White House, Bunch worked for Burdi Macro LLC, which manages the personal capital of Rich Burdi, a huge financial supporter of Warner Fox during the election.

“What are you doing?” Bunch asked.

“Reading about you.”

Bunch glanced at Stephanie. “This is a waste of time. He’s unacceptable.”

“I was thinking the same about you,” Cotton said. “And now I know why.”

His eidetic memory kicked in and he recalled press accounts about President Fox’s attitude toward the National Security Council. Too big. Too diverse. Unwieldly. In need of trimming. Fox favored fewer meetings, less input, less paperwork. The pundits had translated that into him wanting total command of foreign policy, with little to no input from others. Several senators had publicly proclaimed the White House incompetent, insular, and indecisive. Decision making was slow to nonexistent, and usually wrong. The goal seemed to be to please the boss, not enunciate and implement clear national security goals. The best explanation for why all of that was happening? Unqualified people, in positions of authority, kissing ass. A perfect example of which was sitting across the table.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” he asked Bunch.

“I have the ear of the president of the United States. I’m here at his personal direction. That’s all you need to know.”

He should leave. Forget the $150,000. Head back to his hotel, take a shower, go to bed, and attend the book fair tomorrow as planned. This was not his problem. He’d already done way too much. The older he got the more he found that he suffered no fools, was impatient with mediocrity and disdainful of subtlety. But three things kept his butt in the chair. First, the look of frustration in Stephanie’s eyes. Second, he was hungry and the veal in cream sauce sounded wonderful, not to mention a White Lady for dessert. And third. That was the kicker.

But first.

“Tell me about Jonty Olivier?” he asked Stephanie, returning to the issue at hand and ignoring Bunch.

“He’s British, but holds a dual passport with Switzerland, thanks to a Swiss mother. He was fairly nonexistent until about fifteen years ago, when he emerged as a broker who accumulates and trades information. I’m told the CIA and NSA have regularly used him. He’s proven both reliable and reasonable. He has no political affiliations, no personal causes, no morals, no scruples. He’s just a businessman. Buying and selling. Trading. Making money. He deals with people, corporations, governments. Doesn’t matter to him. Reports say he’s a man of patrician tastes and earthy language.”

He smiled. “Where is he based?”

“He moves around constantly,” Bunch sa

id. “He prefers renting luxury condos and staying in five-star hotels to owning mansions. He generally keeps a low profile and works through the internet, wire transfers, and intermediaries.”

Cotton noticed that Bunch spewed out facts about a bad guy the way someone who’d never served in the military told war stories.

“He also avoids breaking laws,” Bunch said. “He skirts close, but always stays just on the legal side. Olivier recently made contact with the White House. He and the president know each other from before the election.”

Interesting. “They’re friends?”

“They’ve done business in the past. Olivier talked directly with the president about this matter.”

“Was that wise?” Stephanie asked, clearly surprised. “This whole situation is just grandiose extortion.”

What situation?

“The president knows how to make a deal,” Bunch said, clearly annoyed. “It was his forte in business. He prefers personal contact and personal assessment.”

“You really don’t have any idea what you’re doing,” Cotton declared.

“I resent your insubordination,” Bunch said.

He shrugged. “Last I looked, I don’t work for you.”

“And I doubt you will.”

Time for that third thing.

The kicker.

They sat adjacent to an open window. A bronze wind chime just outside sounded a mournful pentatonic. Occasionally one of the tour boats cruised by beneath on the canal, the city’s fleet one short tonight. White swans dotted the calm brown water. Long-necked, heavy-bodied, big-footed birds whose gracefulness belied their cantankerous personality.

Across the canal he caught sight of a familiar face.

One he’d noticed a few moments before.

Another swan of sorts.

Slim and lean. Cool and sleek. Sure of herself. Ash-blond hair falling in casual disarray to thin shoulders. Her full mouth was a little wide for her nose, a small imperfection that, to him, only added to her allure. He knew her to be almost wolflike, with the blue eyes to match. In many ways she was a fortress, often scaled and assaulted, but never conquered.