The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(108)
The past couple of days had been wonderful.
“Have you heard from Stephanie?” she asked him.
“She emailed late last night. The attorney general notified her that she was suspended, pending possible termination. Fox was not happy with the outcome from Poland, and made good on his threat. But she’s civil service, entitled to a hearing, and I imagine she’ll get one.”
There was also the matter of Tom Bunch’s body. Fox wanted it found, but Cotton doubted that was possible. The Poles had sanitized Sturney Castle, all of the dead long gone, surely burned and buried, never to be found.
“You and Stephanie both did the right thing,” she said to him.
“That’s not much consolation, considering the fallout. If Fox could, there’d be ramifications for me, too. But I imagine my punishment will be no more freelance work.”
“That’s no real loss,” she said.
“I like the money.”
They were done with dinner, having eaten early, and were enjoying the evening, waiting on dessert. The café always sported an enticing array of sweets. The second-floor windows all hung open to the warm evening. She was scheduled to stay until Tuesday, returning then to her home in southern France. Next time, he’d travel her way for a visit.
“Hopefully,” he said staring out the window to the crowd below, “Fox won’t hurt me with any of the other foreign intelligence services I work for from time to time.”
“I doubt it’s going to be a problem. Those people have to see what’s going on here, too. They know you’re the best.”
He smiled at her compliment.
“Cotton,” she said in a tone that grabbed his attention.
His gaze met hers, and he could see she was focused on something behind him.
He turned in the chair.
Danny Daniels stood alone at the top of the stairway leading down.
Perhaps the last person he expected to see in Copenhagen.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head full of thick silver hair, the former president of the United States, and current junior senator from Tennessee, was dressed casually.
Daniels walked over to their table.
Cotton stood. “Is this about Stephanie?”
His friend held up two hands in surrender. “She’s made it clear that’s none of my business.”
“So what are you doing in Denmark?” Cassiopeia asked.
Concern filled the older man’s face.
“I need your help.”
WRITER’S NOTE
This one involved some really unique journeys. The first was to Bruges, Belgium, a spectacular, living museum of medieval life. Then there were two trips to Poland that involved time in Kraków and the nearby salt mine. Both are world-class treasures. If you’ve never visited any of these three places, I highly recommend them as a trip you will not forget.
Now it’s time to separate fact from fiction.
Mokotów Prison exists in Warsaw, the scene of many horrible things during both the Nazi occupation and the Soviet domination (prologue and chapter 16). The beating described in the prologue is based on an actual event, one of countless “interrogations” that occurred behind those walls. Many also died there, those deaths commemorated by a memorial now affixed to the outer walls (chapter 16). Spies were also sometimes recruited through demonstrations of extreme cruelty.
Bruges is full of olden houses, cobbled squares, and canals straight out of the 16th century. All of its locales—the fish market, central square, cafés, and streets (chapters 7, 9, 15) along with the canals and tour boats (chapter 3)—are faithfully described. One item, though, that I was unable to fully work into the manuscript was the swans. There is only a brief mention in chapter 10. Since 1448 swans have occupied the canals. Why? In the late 15th century the people of Bruges rose in revolt against the unpopular Emperor Maximilian of Austria. They managed to capture and imprison Maximilian along with his adviser, a man named Pieter Lanckhals. When Lanckhals was sentenced to death, Maximilian was forced to watch the beheading. Of course, the emperor eventually escaped and took his revenge, retaking the city and decreeing that, until the end of time, Bruges would be required to keep swans on all of its lakes and canals. Why swans? Because they have long necks, and Dutch for “long neck” is lange hals—a word so similar to Pieter Lanckhals’ name.
Be aware that is just one of several versions of the legend I was told.
All of them quite colorful.
The Basilica of the Holy Blood stands in Bruges, and little about its fanciful exterior reveals the somber style within. The Veneration of the Precious Blood occurs each day. It’s a quiet affair, held as depicted in chapter 1, including the dropping of money into a basket before being able to approach the relic. The reliquary itself is a Byzantine marvel. It’s been there a long time, and remains one of Europe’s most precious objects. Each year, on Ascension Day, the local bishop carries the phial through the streets in the Procession of the Holy Blood. The first one occurred in 1291, and it’s still happening to this day.
Belgium is a wonderful place to visit. The Dame Blanche (White Lady) that Cotton speaks about in chapter 1 is a mainstay in every café. These are sundaes extraordinaire, made even more delicious by a liberal use of fine Belgian chocolate and real whipped cream. Each establishment sells its own version, and I must confess to enjoying more than a few.