The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(13)

He finished the entrée and hoped there was more. Being a man of the world, he’d made a point of becoming familiar with the finer things. Sadly, the ones he favored most carried a wealth of calories, which all seemed to go straight to his ever-expanding girth. Weight had become a problem of late. His tailor had been kept busy altering his many suits. He was far too heavy for his height, all thanks to a horrible diet and a hatred for exercise. Physically he’d never been all that much. Flaccid, fleshy lips, a wide nose, and the bright eyes of a man who lived by guile, not brawn. His hair was cut simply and parted in the middle, squared off to either side of his perpendicular temples and whitening prematurely. He was beginning to show his fifty-three years.

He’d lived an interesting life.

His childhood was steeped in poverty. His mother, God rest her soul, cried a lot, so much that he began to believe that he was the reason. She also constantly talked about dying, or leaving. He always wondered if she’d be there when he came home from school. Eventually, maturity taught him that she’d used all that as a means of control over him, his brother, and his father.

And the tactic affected him.

If his own mother didn’t care for him, why care about anyone else? If she’d leave, anyone would. So his relationships, whether business or personal, had all been superficial, mainly his fault as he preferred to remain obtuse and uninvolved.

Life, though, had definitely treated him as a favored son, the future an inviting, well-paved highway of opportunity. He liked to think of himself as noble in bearing, virtuous in character, cultured, sophisticated, and charming. But that was all part of the wall of bluff he’d built around himself. He’d grown to love the romance of being hunted, then becoming the hunter. He’d long ago dismissed any definition of goodness that society liked to frame. Instead, he applied a code learned from bitter experience where good meant fighting the odds, clawing upward, spitting in the eye of your enemies, and not asking for help or pity. He’d never been a whiner and never would be. His mantra was simple. Do what was necessary, then force a smile onto your face and take another crack at whatever. Buddha said it best. There is no wealth like knowledge, and no poverty like ignorance. But Einstein added a great caveat. Information is not knowledge. Absolutely true since the most successful person was the one with the best knowledge.

And an investment in knowledge always paid high interest.

He liked to tell prospective clients that the price of light was far less than the cost of darkness. Information was like money. To be valuable it had to circulate, which increased not only its quantity but also its worth. Holding information only eroded its value. But thank goodness ready, willing, and able buyers existed for nearly everything.

He finished his dinner and rang the silver bell that sat next to his wine goblet. One of the uniformed staff appeared, and he asked that the plate be removed and a fresh one brought with a second helping of pork. While he waited, he sat in the high-backed, gilded chair and considered the next two days. Nearly everything was ready. But the unexpected was what worried him. Like the man tied up in the basement.

And Reinhardt.

He heard footsteps and assumed the server had returned with his food, which was damn quick. Instead Vic entered the dining hall and walked over to the table.

“Do you want some dinner?” he asked Vic.

“No, thank you. I’ll eat later.”

The server returned with his plate.

“Oh, sit down. Eat. Bring my friend here some pork,” he said, glad to have the company. “Along with wine.”

He and Vic had shared many meals together, so he knew his acolyte would not argue.

“So much is at stake on this deal, Vic. More so than on any we’ve ever had. It is all so exciting, wouldn’t you say?”

He made a point to always use the plural we. Never the singular I. It connoted a team, which made everyone feel included. He amplified that feeling by always sharing generously with the help. That was why so many loved to work for him, and were so loyal. He was especially generous to Vic, whom he counted on in many ways. One of those was as a handy forum upon which to test new ideas.

“I made a mistake thinking we could keep this venture quiet,” Jonty said, his voice low. “But I truly thought we had everything under control.”

“If Reinhardt knew we were in Bratislava, he knows we’re here.”

“I agree. Which is disturbing. So what is he waiting for?”

“Probably for his man to report in.”

Good point. “So he’ll soon be wondering what happened to him.”

Vic nodded. “And there will be others coming.”

The server returned. He motioned for Vic to eat, but Jonty’s appetite had waned. Assurance was what he needed, and that could not be brought to him on a plate.

“There are two relics of the Arma Christi left,” he said. “And less than twenty-four hours to RSVP. One of those involves the Americans. What if they refuse to participate? I took a chance making personal contact and extending them a special invitation. Maybe that was foolish.”

He wondered if Washington was responsible for Reinhardt’s presence. But how could that be? A leak? That was possible. An old Persian proverb came to mind, one he’d come across in his readings. The man who knows not, but knows not that he knows not, is a fool. Shun him. A wise precaution. The man who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is a student. Teach him. Definitely. The man who knows, but knows not that he knows, is asleep. Awaken him. That was where he currently found himself. But the man who knows, and knows that he knows, is a teacher. Learn from him.