The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel
Steve Berry
For Frank Green, A Man of Inspiration
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Again, my sincere thanks to John Sargent, head of Macmillan; Sally Richardson, who serves as chairman of St. Martin’s Publishing; Jen Enderlin, who captains St. Martin’s Press, and my publisher at Minotaur, Andrew Martin. Also, a huge debt of gratitude continues for Hector DeJean in Publicity; Jeff Dodes and everyone in Marketing and Sales, especially Paul Hochman and Danielle Prielipp; Anne Marie Tallberg, the sage of all things paperback; David Rotstein, who produced the cover; and Mary Beth Roche and her innovative folks in Audio.
A huge bow goes to Simon Lipskar, my agent and friend, and to my editor, Kelley Ragland, and her assistant, Madeline Houpt, both of whom are wonderful.
A few extra mentions: Meryl Moss and her extraordinary publicity team (especially Deb Zipf); Jessica Johns and Esther Garver, who continue to keep Steve Berry Enterprises running smoothly; Anna Slotorsz, for making our trips to Kraków so much easier; Patrycja Antoniak, who twice guided us through the Wieliczka salt mine, answered my endless inquiries, then read the manuscript looking for errors; Jan Kucharz, one of the salt miners who showed us the hidden treasures; Iwona Zbela, for extending some great hospitality while we were in Wieliczka; Jolanta Pustu?a Szel?g, who possesses an encyclopedic knowledge about the Spear of St. Maurice; Father Simon Stefanowicz for the wonderful tour of Jasna Góra; and Sonia Draga, publisher extraordinaire, who was there from the beginning, making all of my novels available in Polish.
As always, though, my wife, Elizabeth, remains the most special of all.
Twenty-nine years ago a man at a local community college asked me to join his creative writing group. I did, and so began a relationship that altered the course of my life. Here’s a fact: No one can teach anyone how to write. It’s impossible. But there are people who can teach you how to teach yourself to write.
Frank Green was that for me.
He was a tough taskmaster, but I would not be published if not for him.
Thankfully he’s still there.
In my head.
Every day.
Poland has not yet perished,
So long as we still live.
What the foreign force has taken from us,
We shall with sabre retrieve.
—POLISH NATIONAL ANTHEM
PROLOGUE
MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 1982
WARSAW, POLAND
3:45 P.M.
Janusz Czajkowski wanted to look away from the gruesome scene before him, but he knew that would be worse.
He’d been brought here to Mokotów Prison for the express purpose of watching. This place had a long and storied history. The Russians built it in the early 20th century. The Nazis used it extensively, as did the communists after the war. Since 1945 this was where the Polish political underground, the intelligentsia, and anyone else considered a threat to the Soviet-controlled government was held, tortured, and executed. Its heyday had come during Stalin’s time, when thousands had been held at Rakowiecka Street Prison, which was how most Poles referred to it then. Sometimes, though, they spat out the German label: Nacht und Nebel. Night and Fog. A place of no return. Many were murdered in the basement boiler room. Officially, such atrocities had ended with Stalin. But that was not actually the case. Dissidents for decades after had continued to be rounded up and brought here for “interrogation.”
Like the man before him.
Middle-aged, naked, his body bent over a tall stool, his wrists and ankles tied to the bloodstained wooden legs. A guard stood over him with legs spread across the prisoner’s head, beating the man on his back and bare ass. Incredibly, the prisoner did not make a sound. The guard stopped the assault and slipped off the bound man, planting the sole of his boot into the side of the man’s head.
Spittle and blood spewed out.
But still, not a sound.
“It’s easy to manufacture fear,” the tall man standing next to Janusz said. “But it’s even easier to fake it.”
The tall man wore the dour uniform of a major in the Polish army. The hair was razor-cut in military style, a black mustache tight and manicured. He was older, of medium build, but muscular, with the arrogant entitled personality he’d seen all too often in the Red Bourgeoisie. The eyes were dark points, diamond-shaped, signaling nothing. Eyes like that would always hide much more than they would reveal, and he wondered how difficult maintaining such a lie must be. A name tag read DILECKI. He knew nothing about this major, other than having been arrested by him.
“To manufacture fear,” Dilecki said, “you have to mobilize a large portion of the people to accept it exists. That takes work. You have to create situations people can see and feel. Blood must be shed. Terrorism, if you will. But to counterfeit fear? That’s much easier. All you have to do is silence those who call fear into question. Like this poor soul.”
The guard resumed beating the naked man with what looked like a riding crop, a metal bearing hanging from its tip. Welts had formed, which were now bleeding. Three more guards joined the assault, each delivering more blows.
“If you notice,” Dilecki said, “they are careful. Just enough force to inflict pain and agony, but not enough to kill. We do not want this man to die. Quite the contrary. We want this man to talk.”