The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(54)
He was comforted to know that Vic was keeping an eye on things during the night. He doubted he’d be able to sleep otherwise. His man was also monitoring the six teams, ready to begin transportation of their charges in the morning. He’d chosen the middle of the day for the auction on purpose. Easier to spot trouble coming, and easier to get away. He trusted none of the bidders, but was counting on their parochial self-interests to ensure that all proceeded as planned.
The Pantry still bothered him. There were tens of thousands of documents there. It could take a long time to go through them and there was no guarantee there’d be anything of value. Repeatedly going in and out of that mine could eventually draw attention, though Konrad had informed them of a way down where there was little to no monitoring, used exclusively by the miners. Still, one lesson he’d learned from years of careful bargaining was never press your luck. Take what was there and get out. Nothing good ever came from prolonging things, and everything about that cache screamed long-term.
Eli had been right about one thing.
Why not make a deal with the Poles and sell it all, intact.
That would surely be worth millions of euros and he’d derive half, per his deal.
He was hungry. Perhaps he should have the staff bring him a snack. Maybe a fruit bowl. Nothing heavy. He’d always found sleep hard to acquire after too much of a good thing.
More of that never pressing your luck.
He rested a little easier knowing that all communications in and out of the castle were now being jammed. They’d stepped up that precaution before leaving for the mine earlier. So there was no way Eli could speak to anyone beyond the castle walls. He was mindful, though, of Eli’s threat about what would happen if he did not report in every few hours, so Vic had been told to allow those calls, but monitor every word. He was counting on his competitor’s greed to ensure that nothing went wrong.
He decided to pass on the snack and the reading.
His mind was already racing, and any more stimulants should be avoided.
He switched off the light.
Time for sleep.
Tomorrow would require his best.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THURSDAY, JUNE 6
10:50 A.M.
Cotton had slept fitfully, concerned over what was about to happen. He’d spent the night at a Kraków hotel, but not before performing some vital housekeeping chores. He and Stephanie had managed to convince Tom Bunch that the spear should not be transported in its wooden box. Too informal, he’d explained. Not appropriate, Stephanie had added. So they’d located another decorative container of sufficient size, lacquered and hand-painted in the Polish style, and stuffed it with the foam and velvet cloth from the original box. Bunch had seemed satisfied, never realizing what was actually happening. Sure enough, they’d found a GPS tracker embedded into the original box’s bottom, which Cotton had removed and now carried in his trouser pocket, still bouncing a signal to Sonia Draga.
Stephanie had called earlier to tell him that a story in Warsaw’s morning Gazeta Wyborcza reported a burglary last night at Wawel Castle that was being investigated by the local police. Few details had been offered and no determination had been made, as yet, on what might have been taken. That seemed more than enough to make the point, but not enough to give away the farm.
He hadn’t been able to eat much breakfast, just nibbling on some toast and sipping orange juice before they left Kraków in Bunch’s vehicle and drove sixty miles south to Zakopane, a town of about thirty thousand that sat on the Poland–Slovakia border. The city occupied a valley at the foot of the Tatra Mountains and billed itself as Poland’s sports capital, catering to summer mountaineers and winter skiers.
The Tatra Museum seemed like a big deal. There were eight different locations, all featuring the history, culture, nature, and ethnography of the Polish Tatras. The main branch was located at the city center, the building a perfect example of the brick-and-stone variety that seemed typical in the area. Bunch had been buoyant on the drive, excited to be a part of the auction. It was clearly his first venture into something like this, and he seemed to have a twisted view as to how things were played.
It’s like Mission Impossible, Bunch had said. We’re heading in on an assignment, on our own, and if either of us is captured or killed the secretary will disavow any knowledge of our actions.
The moron spouted out nonsense as if all that were a good thing. Who the hell liked to be disavowed? Agents were not suicidal. And killed? None he’d ever met had a death wish.
They found the main branch of the museum at 10 Krupówki Street and parked on the curb. They exited the car and stood on the sidewalk, outside a waist-high iron fence that encircled the building. Cotton glanced at his watch and saw they were in place with five minutes to spare.
“When whoever arrives,” he said, “it would be better if I did the talking. This has to be played carefully, and I do have some experience in this area.”
“I don’t see the problem. We’re here to go to an auction. There’s nothing to play. I’m the senior official. I’ll do the talking.”
Exactly what he thought Bunch would say. Perfect. He needed a little diversion and this guy could certainly provide it.
He figured whoever was coming would run an electronics sweep, so he had to be rid of the GPS marker before that happened. But he also needed to paint the way for Sonia, who was surely watching from afar.