The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(15)
He heard the concern in her voice.
“The Fox administration wants to bring back the European Interceptor Site.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
In 2007 the United States opened talks for a missile defense system to be located in Poland. It would consist of ten silo-based interceptors to be used in conjunction with a tracking and radar system to be located in the Czech Republic. The idea was to protect against missiles from Iran, but Russia strongly objected, interpreting the move as a test of American strength. In retaliation the Russian president threatened to deploy short-range, offensive missiles in Kaliningrad to counter any supposed defense system. Europe likewise expressed deep reservations. France, Germany, and Italy all opposed the move, thinking it more provocative than strategic. The uproar continued until the Obama administration finally canceled the proposal.
“They really want to step into that ant pile again?” he asked.
“They definitely want to go there. The thinking is to send a message to Moscow that there’s a new sheriff in town. Things are going to be different. A way to show the world that Fox is a man to be reckoned with.”
“Talk about poking the bear. As I recall, the uproar against the missiles was nearly uniform. Nobody thought it was a good idea.”
“Fox hates the European Union and NATO. He’s spent the last few months antagonizing nearly every ally we have. He doesn’t give a damn what the EU or Russia wants.”
They stood on the backside of the high-pitched roof of the old town hall, its pinnacles, turrets, and spires giving play to fanciful light and shade. The path ahead, past the fish market, was lined with bars and cafés preparing for another night’s business. Tables dotted the cobbles, many already filled with folks enjoying supper. The time was approaching 8:00 P.M., and he was a little hungry himself.
“The key to everything this time,” Stephanie said, “is the president of Poland. He alone will make or break any decision about the deployment of those American missiles.”
“He wants them?”
“That all depends,” she said.
An odd answer, so he tried, “What do missiles in Poland have to do with the Arma Christi?”
“Quite a bit. Those thefts happened for a reason. A rather strange reason, but definitely a reason.”
He could tell that there was more to the story. “When are you going to tell me?”
“Right now. Follow me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Cotton walked with Stephanie past more cafés with tables and wicker chairs under colorful awnings. She avoided all of them and headed for one of the ivy-clad buildings that fronted a canal. An iron sign attached to the brick fa?ade read LA QUINCAILLERIE. Hardware store. An odd name for a restaurant.
Inside was strictly Old World with smoke-blackened beams, marble-topped tables, and waiters in starched black aprons. The rough-brick walls were adorned with prints and mementos collected over the generations. The windows were open to the evening, facing the same canal he’d sped down earlier. Across the water were more brick buildings with terraces and diners.
A man waited at one of the window-side tables. Medium height with a thin, quiet, clean-shaven face, sallow skin, and modest brown hair. He wore a dark suit and tie and stood as they approached.
“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “This is Tom Bunch. He works with the White House.”
Handshakes were exchanged and they sat.
“Tom is the deputy assistant to the president and the deputy national security adviser,” Stephanie said.
Cotton caught the emphasis on the word deputy, repeated twice surely on purpose, knowing how she felt about that label. The Magellan Billet’s bureaucracy was simple. She had total control. No deputies. No seconds in command. All decisions from one source.
“Tom is the reason I’m here in Belgium,” she said. “The Justice Department was asked to assist the White House with this matter, and the attorney general delegated it to the Magellan Billet, with specific orders to work with Tom.”
That meant the president had wanted the task given to the Billet. The more important question, which Stephanie surely had asked herself, was why, considering how Fox felt about her and the Billet.
A waiter appeared with menus and asked for drink orders. Bunch requested a rather expensive French red wine. Stephanie opted for sparkling water. Cotton chose the still version. Carbon dioxide immersed in liquids had never been his thing. Alcohol was also something he’d never acquired a taste for, along with coffee, cigarettes, or almost anything that came from a pharmacy.
Bunch scanned the menu, so he decided, what the heck, why not. He was hungry, and the offerings appeared robust and filling. No gourmet fare. Thank goodness. The kalfsblanket, veal in a creamy sauce, caught his eye. He also saw there was a Dame Blanche for dessert. The waiter returned with their drinks, and Bunch asked that they have a few minutes before ordering.
“You look a little wrinkled,” Bunch said. “Stephanie said you took a swim in the canal.”
“It’s part of the tour excursion I booked. A chance to experience the canals firsthand,” he said, trying to make light of things.
But Bunch did not seem amused. “I don’t know anything about you. But Stephanie says you’re the man for this job. I assume you know about Jonty Olivier?”
The question came with an aura of self-importance, as if everyone knew the name.