The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(12)

“Are you still being frozen out?”

He’d been there on Inauguration Day, seen the early ineptness for himself. But Fox had been conciliatory, promising to be more open-minded and agreeing to keep Stephanie on as head of the Magellan Billet, though the new president had initially tried hard to eliminate both her and the agency.

She shook her head. “Even our successes have been met with skepticism. My budget has been hacked by a third, which has handicapped what I can effectively accomplish. But that’s the whole idea. They want me gone.”

He got it. “But they’re afraid of Senator Danny Daniels.”

“He’s a force to be reckoned with. A bad enemy to have, but a good ally.”

“And boyfriend?”

She smiled. “That too.”

“He makes you happy?”

“Every day.”

“That’s good to hear.”

And he meant it. Stephanie had lived a solitary life. Her husband died long ago, and her son lived in France fairly inaccessibly. He knew of no close personal relationships, until Danny came along. Cotton firmly believed there was somebody for everybody. His own life seemed proof of that. He’d been divorced from his first wife for a number of years and thought love something of the past. Then Cassiopeia Vitt came along and changed everything.

“How is Cassiopeia?” she asked, seemingly reading his mind.

“Feisty, like always. She’s coming to Copenhagen this weekend.”

“So you need to be done by Friday?”

“Something like that.”

People filled the square, out for an early dinner or finishing off a day of sightseeing and shopping. He scanned the faces and tried to assess threats, but there were simply too many to know anything for sure. This wasn’t like inside the cathedral where things had been more contained, the people easier to compare and contrast.

“Something strategic is occurring,” she said. “What you saw in the basilica is not the first theft of a holy relic.”

He waited for more.

“There have been four others.”

Interesting.

“All have been kept secret,” she said. “For the record, I didn’t agree with that tactic, but chalk it up to the all-knowing Fox administration, which stepped in and imposed that strategy.”

“Did other locations with relics at least beef up security?”

She shook her head. “None were advised. The know-it-alls decided it would only attract more attention.”

“Obviously not a smart decision, given what happened today.”

“There’s been a lot of those made lately in Washington.”

He could see she was frustrated, which was not normal. This woman was usually a model of self-control. Direct. Pragmatic. Truthful to the point of pain. Honest to the point of nuisance. She almost never lost her cool. And there wasn’t a political bone in her body, which could be both an asset and a liability.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“What do you know about the Arma Christi?”





CHAPTER EIGHT


Jonty entered the castle’s dining hall and sat at the stout table. The room stretched in a long rectangle, facing west and the vanishing sun. The table was an oak monstrosity that could accommodate at least twenty people. He loved the ornately framed, brilliantly colored paintings that adorned the walls. Lots of warriors, holding swords and spears, fighting epic battles. The rich colors conveyed strength, the free and forceful sweep of the brush illustrating a sense of exuberance. Sadly, no one was joining him for dinner. Nothing was more pleasurable than sharing conversation during a meal. But he had to maintain a low profile until the weekend, and part of that involved eating alone.

The chef had prepared a lovely dish of roasted pork and boiled red potatoes. Much more Polish than Slovakian. But here, so near the border, the cultures mixed. The damn communists had nearly destroyed Eastern European cuisine. What a horrible time. Everything had been rationed. Waiting in long lines became a way of life, hoarding an art form. No one ever knew when food would be available, or if anyone would be allowed to buy it. Restaurants were issued compulsory menus that never changed and deviations were not allowed. Government cooking manuals specified the exact amount and number of ingredients for each dish. Needless to say, creativity was stifled.

Thank goodness things had changed.

He sat and spread a black linen napkin into his lap. A glass of red wine had already been poured. With the right prompts, food and drink being two of those, people would tell a stranger nearly everything. Nothing seemed sacred anymore. Facebook, Twitter, and every other social media site seemed proof positive of that. What no one would have ever yelled from their front porch to neighbors across the street was now posted for billions to see for all eternity. Still, he loved the internet. So much could be learned so fast with little effort and no fingerprints.

He ate his pork, which had been cooked to perfection. He’d already supplied the staff with the hors d’oeuvre menu for Thursday. An elaborate international array of sweet and savory, all fitting for the guests, who would come from around the world. He’d also bought an expensive variety of liquor, wine, and champagne, anything and everything the guests might enjoy. Food and drink went a long way toward enhancing a deal. As did ambience. Which was another reason he’d selected this olden fortress in the woods of northern Slovakia. Everything about it reeked of resolution.