The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(11)

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I always liked your directness. It saves a lot of time.”

While Danny Daniels had served as president, the Magellan Billet had been the White House’s go-to agency. Stephanie had not always enjoyed such a chummy relationship with the executive branch. In fact, most presidents hadn’t really cared for her. She and Daniels had not gotten along at first, either. But she’d earned his trust. Daniels’ two terms had ended and he was now the junior U.S. senator from Tennessee. Divorced, he had cultivated a personal relationship with Stephanie that, if the rumor mill was to be believed, had blossomed into love. He was glad for her. She deserved happiness. Work should not be what defined a life.

Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.

Stephanie was one of a handful of people in the world whom he called a friend. One of his closest. They’d been through a lot together. His entire professional career as an intelligence agent had happened thanks to her. She took a chance on a young navy lawyer and gave him the opportunity to become really good at what he did. So much so that she kept coming back to him for help, even in retirement.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Nor have you offered to get me out of here. I’m assuming the two are related? So let’s cut to the chase. How much you offering?”

“Can this one be a favor?”

Now it was his turn to toss her a quizzical look. “I have bills to pay. I’m here to buy books for people who are paying me to do it. A lot of money, I might add. I do have a business—”

“A hundred thousand,” she said.

“How long?”

“A few days. To Thursday evening, at the latest.”

“The threat level.”

“This one could be tricky.”

Stephanie was not noted for exaggeration or underestimation. So if she attached the adjective tricky, that warning could not go unheeded. But as he’d learned through the years, sure things hid the most danger. Tricky might be better.

“A hundred and fifty,” he said. “A little extra for the tricky part.”

She nodded. “Okay. I have big problems.”

“Get me out of here and I’ll help you solve them.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


Cotton followed Stephanie as they left the jail and stepped back onto the streets of Bruges. A flood of tourists was out enjoying the beautiful evening. The police had not been happy to see him go, but no one challenged Stephanie. Her authority came straight from Brussels, far higher on the food chain than any local police chief.

Though his clothes had begun to dry from the dunking, his sandy-blond hair was still a mess. He was coming down off the high that action always gave him. He told himself over and over that he didn’t miss it. But that was a lie. He seemed at his best when the pressure was on, though his attempt to catch the Three Amigos had not been one of his finest moments. Stephanie’s sudden appearance, however, had placed a new light on things.

Something big was happening.

And who didn’t like being a part of that?

They made their way into the crowded central square.

Bruges began as a 9th-century fortress, built to defend the coast from Vikings. Back then the town faced the sea. But slowly, over the centuries, the ocean withdrew and the remaining mudflats evolved into dry, fertile soil, transforming the town into a major medieval trading hub. People had gathered in its cobbled main square since the 10th century, and standing there now he envisioned fishermen selling their wares, farmers hocking produce, Flemish cloth being inspected by foreign buyers, and the many fairs and festivals that drew crowds from all over Europe. This was the New York City of its time. The center of social, political, and economic life for the entire province.

He stared at the square.

Most of it, he knew, came from a 1990s renovation that retained the feel of a bygone era while making it more pedestrian-friendly. No billboards, neon, or high-rises existed then or now. Its charm oozed from an unpretentious simplicity, the aging hand of time dominating with not a hint of neglect. The rows of step-gabled houses were full of hotels, banks, souvenir shops, retailers, bars, and cafés, everything put to good use as though it were not a priceless relic from another epoch. The trademark belfry cut a path high into the evening sky. Nearly three hundred feet tall and, as he’d found out a few years ago, worth a climb. On a clear day the Flemish coast could be seen miles in the distance.

“I’m listening,” he finally said to Stephanie, who’d been quiet on the walk. Time for her to ante up.

“Washington’s in upheaval,” she said.

He smiled. “What else is new?”

Every day there were press reports on the Warner Fox administration, detailing one misstep after another. Policy shifts and staff changes occurred constantly, all with little to no consistency. Fox would say one thing, his advisers and cabinet officers another. Everything seemed rudderless, adrift, lacking direction. Hit or miss. Mostly miss.

“How bad is it,” he asked.

“They’re idiots. They have no clue what they’re doing. A band of arrogant, stupid imbeciles who managed somehow to get a grip on power.”

He chuckled. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“The attorney general has never been inside a courtroom. Never served in public office. He was a Wall Street corporate lawyer who graduated from Yale 145th out of a class of 152. His only saving grace is that the guy at number 133 in that same class was Warner Fox. They were roommates in law school. He’s absolutely loyal to Fox. Never questions anything. He just does what he’s told.”