The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(26)

“I hope you still smart,” Ivan said. “Years off job have not changed you? Last time, you did good.”

That matter involved China, with Russia his reluctant ally. “I seem to be busier in retirement than when I was working for the government.”

“That bad thing?”

He shrugged. “Depends. How do you know Sonia Draga?”

“We work together few times. She make good bait.”

That she did. He’d willingly taken that bait, though sensing the risk.

“Why am I in the middle of this?” he asked.

Ivan pointed. “That your fault. You go after my men today. Not your business. Or was it?”

Now he understood the curiosity. An ex–American agent in the basilica, at just the right moment, who gave chase, then ended up talking with Stephanie Nelle and Mr. Deputy National Security. That two and two, at least in Ivan’s mind, added up to a big fat four. So he decided, Why not? Play along.

“You get an invitation to the auction?”

“Me? No. People at Kremlin. They get invite and reply. We told to steal Holy Blood. What they tell you steal?”

“The—”

“Wait,” Ivan said, then he motioned at the Amigos. “Leave.” The two men withdrew and closed the door. Apparently their clearance level wasn’t high enough for that information.

“Go ahead,” Ivan said.

“We were told to steal the Nail at Bamberg.”

A lie, but hopefully this man had no way of knowing the truth. Time to see if this information route was a two-way street. “Tell me what’s up for auction?”

“They not give you taste?”

“I’m curious as to your sample.”

Ivan laughed. “President of Poland has many secrets. Ones we were not even aware he had. Bad secrets. Unfortunate for him. Sadly, many of our records are gone. Perestroika. Glasnost. Thieves. Between them we don’t have much left.”

“What kind of bad secrets?”

“The kind he do not want people to ever know.”

“That bad?”

Ivan rubbed his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if easing his sinuses. “Plenty bad.”

He got it. Depending on who possessed the information they could get the Polish president to do whatever they wanted, either to place missiles in Poland or not. Certainly Russia was in the NO category, the United States in the YES. That was five of the seven possibilities.

“You know who else was invited?” he asked.

Ivan pointed. “Just you. Rest is mystery.”

“You went to a lot of trouble to get me here.”

“I want message delivered to your people. One they will understand.”

“Sonia can’t be your errand girl? I’m retired and have nothing to do with any of this.”

“You funny man. For once, Sonia and I find ourselves on same side. We want same thing.”

“No missiles in Poland?”

Ivan gestured with his outstretched hands. “Seems like good idea.”

And he agreed. But his patience had reached an end. “Look, I just told you I have nothing to do with this. Yes, I was in the basilica today and stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. But that was me being the Lone Ranger. The White House just tried to recruit me and I said no. This is not my problem.”

“Yet you are here.”

Good point. “Okay. What’s your message?”

“Moscow not happy. They will not allow missiles in Poland. Whatever that takes. No missiles. Not ever.”

The tone had changed. No more frivolity. The mouth twisted into a sour line. This guy meant every word.

“We do whatever necessary to make sure that not happen. Winning auction? Might work. Killing? Might work, too. Tell your people we do whatever necessary. We not start this. Your president start. But we shall finish. I have full authority to do that.”

Normally, he’d shake his head and leave. The U.S. government could handle things without his help. And who liked being an errand boy? But Stephanie was riding point on this one, and Bunch had already made clear that she was expendable.

“We not know where auction will occur. But when we do, we will act,” Ivan said. “Tell Stephanie Nelle that I do not bluff.”

He did not like the sound of that. He’d had enough. “I’m leaving now.”

Ivan shrugged, then his hard face split into a toothy smile as he reached beneath his jacket, drew a gun, and fired.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Jonty followed Vic and Konrad down a black tunnel, the floor a succession of wooden planks, the walls strengthened by a thick timber lining. He understood the liberal use of wood. Plentiful in supply, it flexed with the earth’s pressure and never corroded.

The slow elevator ride down the shaft had taken forty seconds, popping his ears. They were now 130 meters into the earth, on one of the mine’s lower routes, far past the busy tourist areas higher up on Levels I and II. Up there was a small city with three kilometers of tunnels that accommodated conference facilities, restaurants, bars, chapels, shops, even a sanatorium for chronic allergies, every chamber cut from the surrounding salt. Though not a working mine any longer, the whole place remained full of life. He’d visited all the public areas, but here in the dark solitude the grayish-green salt, more like unpolished granite, seemed far more ancient, the surroundings a warren of tunnels and dangerous pitfalls.