The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(23)
It all sounded so adventurous.
Visitors receive a protective coverall, a lamp, and helmet. Please bring warm clothing. Temperature underground ranges between 14° and 16°C. Wear comfortable, waterproof footwear.
Which he’d done.
He’d come a long way from his beginnings.
He started out as a black-market dealer, mainly fencing stolen supplies acquired from U.S. military bases scattered across Europe. Anything and everything. The supply of buyers had seemed unending. He made a lot of money and managed to stay out of jail. Then he progressed into people, becoming a recruiter. If someone needed an experienced burglar, a qualified arms expert, or a high-tech hacker, he found the right person for the right price. Incredible that no one had started such a service before. Everybody thought criminals either all knew one another or formed their alliances on a whim. Not so. An inability to advertise, the scrutiny of law enforcement, and an overall lack of honesty made it tough to find good help. After all, you couldn’t ask for references. He’d solved that problem and made a lot more money in the process. He’d had only one rule. He never worked for murderers, terrorists, or kidnappers. For nearly a decade he was the underworld’s number one employment agency.
Then a third shift. Into information.
Another service few had exploited.
Unfortunately, no university offered any degree in his line of work. No trade unions sponsored apprenticeships. No traditions existed upon which to draw. You simply learned as you went. And he had, making mistakes here and there, but never repeating them. His reputation had grown such that he was considered one of half a dozen people in the world who could supply good, reliable information. Now he was on the verge of the biggest deal of all. Provided he could keep everything under control for another two days.
Every life had a turning point. This was his.
Konrad returned. “All is done. I laid out mining kits for you both in the locker room. Slip on the coveralls, then meet me with your helmets and lights over there at the elevator.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cotton left the restaurant.
Stephanie had offered no argument to get him to change his mind, her eyes signaling that she understood. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars was nowhere near enough compensation to deal with a guy like Tom Bunch. He actually felt for her, but Stephanie was a big girl. She could handle things. Still, whoever else she had in mind to team with Bunch?
God help them.
He wondered why she stayed on the job. Just retire. Find something else to do. She could make a fortune in the private sector. But he knew the answer. The Magellan Billet was her life. She was a loyal soldier, the kind you wanted on your side, and normally he’d do anything for her. But his personal bullshit-tolerance level had long ago dropped to zero and he was simply not the guy to babysit Tom Bunch.
The fading light of a northern dusk had taken hold, the June evening air dry and pleasant. The streets were choked with people, vendor carts, and bicycles that sped along at a fast clip. He’d had an interesting afternoon, to say the least. He missed the job, for sure. But he didn’t miss dealing with assholes like Bunch. And he’d had his share of them. He hated leaving Stephanie in the lurch, and knew that her not insisting he stay meant he owed her one.
But that was okay. He’d owed her before.
He kept walking, retracing the route he and Stephanie had taken earlier, past the fish market, the old town hall, and the Basilica of the Holy Blood. All was quiet at the church, the front doors closed for the day, the square out front still dotted with camera-toting tourists. No sign of any police or any other indication something unusual had happened there earlier. He followed another busy street and passed retail stores on both sides, most still trying to lure in a few last customers. The path drained into the central market, his hotel on the far side of the open expanse.
He should call Cassiopeia. They spoke at least once a day. He missed her. Strange to have those feelings about someone else, but he’d come to welcome them. Thankfully, each provided the other a wide berth. No clinginess. Each cherished their own space, but they also cherished each other. He’d even given the M-word a little thought. Marriage would be a huge step. But they both always found a reason to avoid the subject, their relationship a mixture of need, apprehension, and shyness. He’d been divorced awhile, and his ex-wife lived back in Georgia with their son, Gary. All was good there. Finally. But it had taken a struggle.
One he had no desire to repeat.
It was time to get his mind back on why he’d come to Bruges. He had a budget for the purchase of the three books, which should be more than enough. Their resale would entail at least a 25 percent markup, not a bad return on a few days’ work. He should be able to make the buys and be back in Copenhagen by tomorrow afternoon. He’d taken the train so his return could be flexible, but he definitely needed to be home by Friday. Cassiopeia was due in Denmark that evening for a few days.
Which he was looking forward to.
A crowd had gathered around the statues of Jan Breydel and Pieter de Coninck. A butcher and weaver, two Flemish revolutionaries who led a 14th-century uprising against the French. He doubted any of the gawkers knew their historical significance. Bars and restaurants dominated the square’s perimeter, everything alive with hustle and bustle. He rounded the statues and was about to turn for the side street that led to his hotel when he caught sight of a woman, her long legs, lean figure, and blond hair distinctive. She wore jeans with boots and a silk blouse, and was moving away from a row of flagpoles toward another of the streets radiating from the square.