The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(32)
“The arrivals have all been coordinated,” Vic said.
To protect the auction site, each bidder had been provided a different path to a different location within two hundred kilometers of where he stood. Seven teams of two people each had been hired to chauffeur each pair of participants. His former profession had aided that recruitment, as he’d been able to locate and retain fourteen highly capable, and trustworthy, individuals. His biggest fear was that one of the bidders would order a preemptive strike.
A risk, for sure.
Killing him before the auction was certainly in some of the bidders’ best interests, but it was equally not so with others. The idea was to play those competing interests against one another and keep everyone off center. The instructions to all seven invitees had made clear that nothing they were bidding upon was located on site. The winning bidder would be told where to go to find what they bought, information that would only be provided once payment was confirmed. He wanted this sale to go perfectly, and he wanted to be alive afterward to enjoy the spoils without worry of reprisals.
Germany’s loitering was a problem. But the United States’ hesitation had become worrisome. Less than twelve hours remained for an RSVP. Weeks ago he’d personally called President Fox, who’d assured him that America would participate. What’s a few million dollars? A small price to pay to bring the Russians to their knees. And besides, it’s not my money. They’d both laughed at the quip. Fox had always been a dealer, really good at using other people’s money. They’d done business a couple of times in the past when Fox had needed the kind of close information that helped cinch a tough business deal. Now the man was the president of the United States, calling for missiles to be placed in Poland. What luck. So he’d taken a chance and made personal contact, revealing both himself and some of what he possessed. Fox had been ecstatic and offered to preempt the sale with a fifty-million-euro offer. But he’d declined, knowing the auction would bring more. Had Fox changed his mind on participating?
“The Nail was taken last night,” Vic said. “But oddly, the Germans have not RSVP’d as yet.”
That was strange. “They have time. I’m sure we’ll hear from them.”
“Arrangements are in place,” Vic said, “for the five invitees already en route to spend the night at their respective locales. I’ll deal with the other two when we hear from them. They will all be transported tomorrow morning, simultaneously. Everyone should be here, on site, by 11:30.”
“Damn the United States,” he muttered.
Vic said nothing, knowing that the comment was not intended to elicit a reply. He worked hard to keep his good-mannered poise, but a powerful nervous energy had taken hold of him. Usually he could control it with harmless outlets, like reading. And he prided himself on being able to pace his emotions, whatever the pressure. But this was different.
Really different.
“Is our guest below quiet?” he asked, referring to the spy in the basement.
“I had to gag him.”
“Probably better. We don’t want the staff knowing he’s there.”
“All have been told that the basement is off limits. Luckily, these people ask few questions.”
“With what I’m paying, they should be discreet. We’re going to have to be extra vigilant, Vic.”
“We will be. I have video surveillance set up outside to watch the main entrance. Each team of drivers bringing the bidders will make sure they come with no weapons, electronic devices, or GPS tags.”
“None of which will help us if there’s a damn drone in the air, following those cars,” he said.
“None of these participants have the ability to deploy a high-altitude drone within the sovereign airspace of Slovakia. Not even the U.S. That doesn’t mean they won’t try, but the mountains and hilly terrain should work to our benefit. And we’ve set up some surprises along the way to deal with the possibility.”
Good to hear.
His cell phone vibrated.
“Keep at it,” he said to Vic, motioning for him to leave.
He answered the call.
“Good day, Jonty,” the voice said.
Oh, no.
Reinhardt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cotton stared at the Monastery of the Camaldolese Monks. The white-limestone building, topped by spires and a green copper roof, sat on Srebrna Góra, Silver Mountain, a few miles west of Kraków, amid trees and vineyards overlooking the River Wis?a. Monks had lived here in solitude for nearly five centuries.
But what were he and his Polish escorts doing here?
They’d parked at the bottom of the hill, a solid two-football-fields walk up an inclined road, both sides walled. The path ended at an arched doorway flanked on both sides by two tall towers topped with more green copper spires. He’d decided that since his entire presence had been compromised, nothing would be gained by resistance. Better to see where this trail led. So he’d come along willingly, curious about who wanted to have a chat. Apparently it was also to be a private talk, as this place was about as secluded as they came.
One of his minders stepped up to the portal and pulled an iron ring attached to a long chain. A few moments later the stout plank door opened. A man appeared, dressed in a hooded white robe and sporting a long, bushy beard. He appraised them, nodded, then indicated they could enter. Not a word was spoken.