The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(20)

“Did the son tell you anything about what he sold?”

Zima shook his head. “I had not progressed that far in my questioning. I planned to do that once I returned from meeting with you. But by then he was dead.”

Which now seemed like a fortuitous happening. But he did not like people dying in custody. It brought back memories from the 1970s and 1980s.

What a time.

A nationwide labor turmoil had led to the formation of the independent trade union Solidarity, which grew into a powerful, independent political force. To stop its growth, in 1981 martial law was imposed, but two years of oppression failed to quell rising tensions. By 1989 the government was forced to hold the first partially free and democratic parliamentary elections since the end of World War II. Ones they could not manipulate or control.

A year later the Soviet Union collapsed and Lech Wa??sa, the head of Solidarity, won the presidency.

Then, one by one, communist regimes imploded across Eastern Europe and the Cold War ended.

Throughout communist times, the S?u?ba Bezpieczeństwa stayed at the forefront of the authoritarian state’s efforts to hold on to power, spreading fear and terror. He knew the numbers. At the end, the SB employed 25,000 agents and had some 85,000 informants. It infiltrated every aspect of Polish life, trying to snuff out dissent. Places like Mokotów Prison flourished. Discontent had always simmered hotter in Poland than in any other Eastern Bloc nation, as there was no socialist tradition here. In fact, the whole concept of from each according to his ability, to each according to his need, which Marx proclaimed, was contrary to the fiercely independent beliefs Poles held dear.

All that was gone.

Though tonight a tiny piece of it had resurrected.

And he felt awful.

“I want that man, Jonty Olivier, located,” he said.

“We are working on that.”

“I want a dossier on him, too. Everything you have. And fast.”

Zima nodded. “Of course.”

“You can go.”

Another privilege of office was the ability to end a conversation whenever he wanted. Zima left.

The evening had turned into a circle of frustration. But he’d fought enough political battles to know that when you gambled, sometimes you lost.

His best hope remained in Bruges.

So he picked up the phone and dialed.

A few moments later Sonia Draga answered.

He said, “Please tell me things are working out there.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Cotton sat back in his chair and considered Stephanie’s dilemma. What a tough position. Professionals on one side, idiots on the other. Both dangerous.

Nearly twenty years ago Stephanie had plucked him from the navy and provided him an opportunity to be something more than a lawyer. He’d accepted that offer and risen to the challenge, proving himself more than capable as an intelligence officer. Which resulted in a major career shift to the Justice Department and the Magellan Billet. Stephanie created the unit, a special division within Justice to handle highly sensitive matters. Twelve agents, whom she personally oversaw. He’d stayed for a dozen years, until a bullet tore through his shoulder in Mexico City. He’d managed to take down the shooters, but the resulting carnage had left seven dead, nine injured. One of them had been a young diplomat assigned to the Danish mission, Cai Thorvaldsen. Ten weeks after the massacre a man with a crooked spine appeared at his front door in Atlanta. They’d sat in the den, and he hadn’t bothered to ask how Henrik Thorvaldsen found him.

“I came to meet the man who shot my son’s killer,” Thorvaldsen said.

“Why?”

“To thank you.”

“You could have called.”

“I understand you were nearly killed.”

He shrugged.

“And you’re quitting your government job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.”

“You know an awful lot.”

“Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.”

He wasn’t impressed. “Thanks for the pat on the back, and I’m truly sorry for your loss. But I have a hole in my shoulder that’s throbbing and a lack of patience. So, since you’ve said your piece, could you leave?”

Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa, he simply stared at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves.

“I love them, too,” his guest said. “I’ve collected books all my life.”

“What do you want?”

“Have you considered your future?”

He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”

“Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like it.”

He decided to play along. But there was something about the older man’s eyes that told him his visitor was not joking. Veined hands searched a suit coat pocket and Thorvaldsen laid a business card on the sofa.

“My private number. If you’re interested, call me.”

He’d made the call, then finalized his divorce, quit his job, sold his house, and moved from Georgia to Denmark.

Never regretting a day.

Earlier, in the basilica, memories of that day in Mexico City had come rushing back. People in danger. Him there. Able to act.