The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(36)

“On her way back to the United States. She’ll be fired tomorrow, since she’s the one who sent you here, unauthorized. We’ve given President Czajkowski our personal assurance that she will no longer be a part of the American intelligence community, in any way whatsoever.”

Two birds with one stone? Absolutely. Not only were they lying to a head of state, but they were going to sacrifice Stephanie to prove the point. That way Fox got everything he’d wanted on Inauguration Day. No Stephanie. No Magellan Billet.

“That auction will go on, with or without the United States,” Cotton said.

“That’s true, and we will deal with that,” Czajkowski said. “It is a Polish matter, for our resolution. But thankfully, the value of the infor mation being offered for sale will be greatly diminished with America’s withdrawal. I’m grateful to Mr. Bunch and to President Fox for making that happen.”

He knew little to nothing about Czajkowski. But anyone who managed to win a national election, especially one in volatile Poland, could not be as na?ve as Bunch and Fox thought him to be. Especially with someone as smart as Sonia Draga working for him. Cotton realized that Czajkowski might be playing along in this game, his acquiescence all a fa?ade. But Tom Bunch’s face and squinty eyes telegraphed that he believed the Poles had been placated.

“What now?” he asked.

“You’re going back to Denmark,” Bunch said. “I’ll personally escort you. Hopefully, our friends here in Poland will forgive this transgression and we all will move on.”

“I have assured President Fox,” Czajkowski said, “that all will be forgiven. I appreciate his candor and discretion in this matter of the auction, and his decision to not pressure Poland on the missiles.”

“He’s a great guy,” Cotton said, his sarcasm evident. “What a pal.”

Bunch frowned. “I apologize, Mr. President. This man does not know his place, or how to show proper respect. We’ll leave you now, with the United States’ sincere thanks for your understanding.”



* * *



Czajkowski stood in the church and watched as Tom Bunch and Cotton Malone disappeared out the main doors, which one of the robed brothers closed as he left, too.

“What do you think?” he called out.

“I think Bunch is a terrible liar,” Sonia said.

She’d been secluded inside one of the confessionals, out of sight, but able to hear everything.

She stepped out.

“As is the president of the United States,” Czajkowski said. “No better than the damn communists.”

“Cotton is being used. He won’t like that. It’s not his nature.”

He was curious. “How well do you know Malone?”

She grinned, her teeth like a row of pearls. “Are you jealous?”

“Should I be?”

“It was a long time ago. Before you.”

He stepped close and took her into his arms, kissing her softly on the lips. “I just might be a little jealous.”

“That’s something new from you. I like it.”

“I need you on this,” he whispered to her. “You’re the only one I can trust.”

“I’m the only one you have.”

That was true. His wife would be the last person he’d involve. And there was no way he would recruit Micha? Zima and the BOR, beyond what he’d already had them do. Too many people to trust with too much that could go wrong.

He and Sonia had carried on a private relationship for over a year, one that had grown increasingly close. He loved her flashing wit, quick apprehension, and genuine affection. She was a smart, dynamic woman who challenged him in every way. He understood he had no right to demand anything from her, given he was still married, but she’d knowingly offered her love and emotions. She was regarded as the AW’s best operative, her abilities and discretion never in question. Nor was her loyalty. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she loved him.

“What will they do?” he asked, still holding her.

“Bunch thinks you’re satisfied. A personal assurance from the president of the United States is enough to calm your fears. So he’ll have Cotton go after the relic tonight.”

There was only one relic left to claim. With Malone in Kraków, America’s ticket into the auction had to be the Spear of Saint Maurice.

“The Russians still don’t know the auction location,” she said. “It will take place tomorrow and their two representatives are en route. But it appears to be a roundabout method. A stopgap location. They’re headed for Bratislava, told they’ll be transported elsewhere tomorrow. If America is going to get in, Cotton has to move fast.”

Czajkowski had known from the start that his options were limited. The Polish constitution provided no directly elected presidential line of succession. If the president died or resigned, then the marshal of Parlia ment became acting president for sixty days until elections were called. The current marshal was a weak and ineffective man, the type of leader Poland spawned all too often, ones who sought far too much outside help to make themselves strong. That had never worked before, and would not now. If a resignation was forced, his immediate successor would do exactly what Fox wanted, no question. Once done, it would be hard to undo. So anyone who came after that might continue to placate Washington. That meant he had to deal with the problem here and now.