The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(17)
“The president knows how to make a deal,” Bunch said, clearly annoyed. “It was his forte in business. He prefers personal contact and personal assessment.”
“You really don’t have any idea what you’re doing,” Cotton declared.
“I resent your insubordination,” Bunch said.
He shrugged. “Last I looked, I don’t work for you.”
“And I doubt you will.”
Time for that third thing.
The kicker.
They sat adjacent to an open window. A bronze wind chime just outside sounded a mournful pentatonic. Occasionally one of the tour boats cruised by beneath on the canal, the city’s fleet one short tonight. White swans dotted the calm brown water. Long-necked, heavy-bodied, big-footed birds whose gracefulness belied their cantankerous personality.
Across the canal he caught sight of a familiar face.
One he’d noticed a few moments before.
Another swan of sorts.
Slim and lean. Cool and sleek. Sure of herself. Ash-blond hair falling in casual disarray to thin shoulders. Her full mouth was a little wide for her nose, a small imperfection that, to him, only added to her allure. He knew her to be almost wolflike, with the blue eyes to match. In many ways she was a fortress, often scaled and assaulted, but never conquered.
Sonia Draga.
Sitting alone at a terrace table, her gaze locked across the canal, straight at him.
“Hold that thought,” he said to Bunch.
And he rose from the table.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cotton left the restaurant and turned right out the front door, following the cobblestones over another of the footbridges that ended at the ring road. Cars chugged by in both directions. From there the sidewalk led to another footbridge, back toward old town and the buildings that sat on the opposite side of the canal from La Quincaillerie.
He found an eatery, this one with the more benign name of Le Quai, the quay. A busy tavern that, considering the aromas, specialized in fish. It filled another of the guild houses, diners inside and out. He bypassed the ma?tre d’s stand and headed for the terrace. The table he’d spotted from across the canal was empty, its occupant gone. He was about to leave when he noticed a piece of paper tucked beneath a saucer with his name printed on top.
He stepped over and slipped it free.
So lovely to see you again, Cotton.
He smiled at the feminine script and glanced across the water at the open window in La Quincaillerie. Stephanie was staring his way. Only Tom Bunch’s hands were visible, moving, apparently talking to her, oblivious to anything happening that did not include him. He sympathized with her predicament, forced to deal with imbeciles. Danny Daniels had understood how to get the job done, which was why he’d been the perfect partner in the White House. Daniels and the Magellan Billet had done a lot of great things together. Of course, Daniels was not a guy who craved credit. Results. That’s all he’d ever wanted.
He left the terrace, retraced his route to Stephanie and Bunch, and sat again at the table. “Where were we? I think you said that Jonty Olivier contacted the White House.”
Bunch tossed him a quizzical look. “Where’d you go?”
“Bathroom.”
Which seemed to satisfy the moron. Stephanie, though, definitely wanted to know more, but his gaze signaled later.
“That’s right,” Bunch said. “Olivier first made contact with us two months ago. He sent a personal message.” Bunch found his phone, tapped, and handed it over. On the screen was a photo of an invitation with black-and-gold Edwardian script.
Your Presence Is Requested
For A Sale Of Information
Concerning President Janusz Czajkowski
Of The Republic Of Poland
If Interested Send A Reply To This Address.
[email protected]
“Seems the sender has something to sell,” Cotton said. He faced Stephanie. “Which concerns the European Interceptor Site?”
She nodded. “This came about a month after the White House announced the renewed missile objective. By then half of Europe, China, and Russia had all come out against it. Olivier seems to have seen an opportunity and set up an auction for some damaging information that could affect the decision. As I said earlier, this all seems like just grandiose blackmail against the president of Poland.”
“When the White House replied to the email address,” Bunch said, “Olivier answered personally.”
“Or at least someone using his name answered,” Stephanie added.
He caught her tone. The reply had been handled without the appropriate safeguards in place.
“It was Olivier,” Bunch said. “He and the president spoke by phone. We want that information.”
“What kind of information?” Cotton asked.
“The embarrassing, political-career-killing kind,” Bunch said. “James Czajkowski is about to stand for reelection. We need him to win that election, then do exactly what we want. Or to be forced to resign now, since the man who would assume the role of acting president is quite friendly to us. He would be much easier to deal with.”
Somebody had been reading their intelligence briefs. Kudos to Bunch. But Cotton noticed how the guy pronounced the Polish president’s name. Not Cha-koff-skee, like the composer. More Sha-kow-ski. And he used the English James instead of Janusz. It seemed that a “deputy assistant to the president and deputy national security adviser” would at least know how to properly pronounce a foreign dignitary’s name.