The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(55)

The day was clear, sunny, and warm. At precisely 11:00 A.M. a black Mercedes coupe came to a stop on the street before the museum. The driver and one other man sat in the front. Both young, with a look and demeanor reminiscent of the Three Amigos in Bruges.

Cotton walked toward the new arrivals and greeted the men as they emerged. He also noticed that the car windows were down. Perfect. All he needed now was for Bunch to be Bunch, who stepped up and said, “I’m the White House’s deputy national security adviser and deputy assistant to the president of the United States.”

“Where’s the relic?” one of them asked.

“What’s the deal here?” Cotton asked.

“It doesn’t work like that. We ask the questions, you provide the answers, and we don’t have time to debate things. Where is the relic?”

Cotton pointed to their car. “In there.”

He’d managed to convince Bunch to leave it inside until they knew what was happening. It’s our only ticket into the auction, he’d told Bunch, who readily agreed.

The two men headed for the car.

Bunch did not hesitate. “Hold up there. That’s ours. Not yours. If you need to see it, I’ll handle it.”

The moment provided Cotton an opportunity to remove the GPS tracker from his pocket and flick it through the Mercedes’ open window. Where it landed didn’t matter, only that it was inside, preferably toward the backseat. The device was the size of a Tic Tac and hopefully would go unnoticed.

Bunch and the other two men made it to the car at the same time.

“Stand back,” one of them said.

“You will not speak to me in such a manner.”

“We’ve been instructed to leave you here if there is any objection or resistance to our instructions. Of course, we’ll take the relic with us.”

“You will not,” Bunch made clear. “That is property of the United States of America.”

The guy chuckled. Cotton wanted to join him but knew better.

“It’s actually stolen property,” the other man said. “Please step aside and let us do our job.”

Bunch tossed over a look that asked should he do that and Cotton nodded. Amazing that he wanted some guidance considering all his “expertise” with such matters. Bunch moved away and the man removed the lacquered box from the rear seat. The other found a 9V powered signal detector in his pant pocket, the kind that can be bought almost anywhere for under $200. Small, portable, simple, and effective. He switched on the unit and scanned the box. Then he opened the top lid and scanned the lance.

Nothing registered.

They then scanned Bunch.

Clean.

And finally they walked back to where Cotton stood and determined he harbored no electronic devices, either. He and Bunch had left their cell phones back in Kraków with Stephanie. He was betting they would not scan their own car and they did not, satisfied it was already clean. One disadvantage to a proximity scanner like they were using was that it needed to be close to any detectable source.

“All right,” one of their escorts said. “You need to get inside our vehicle and ride quietly.”

The other man took control of the spear inside its box.

Bunch offered no argument.

“We have a long drive ahead of us, and there are further precautions that must be taken.”



* * *



They rode for about half an hour, over the border into Slovakia, through the Tatra Mountains. No one spoke. Cotton tried to grab his bearings, knowing they were headed due south. He was not familiar with northern Slovakia, so it was hard to say where their destination lay. Ahead, he spotted a tunnel cut into the mountain allowing the highway to keep on a straight course, unobstructed.

They entered the tunnel, which was artificially lit, and he saw that it was a long one, the other end visible about a quarter mile away. Cars were coming from the opposite direction in the other lane. One passed, then a second. A third car slowed, then did a U-turn in the road, falling into line behind them.

A black Mercedes coupe.

Identical to theirs.

Which sped past and headed for the tunnel’s end.

Their car came to a stop in the small service lane. The driver switched on his emergency flashers.

“Why have we stopped?” Bunch asked.

Cotton realized what was happening. “Drones.”

Bunch seemed puzzled.

“They’re afraid we’re watching from overhead,” he said to Bunch. “So they bring in an identical car that will now take any eyes in the sky off on a wild-goose chase.”

The guy in the passenger seat turned around. “I said no talking.”

He’d had enough. “Then do something about it.”

He was banking on the fact that Jonty Olivier wanted America in this show so much, he was willing to waive just about anything. Including the rules. But if this guy wanted to go toe to toe that was fine by him.

The guy turned back around.

“We’ll be waiting here a few minutes,” he said to Bunch. “Long enough to give the decoy time to do its job.”

The guy in the front seat turned around and tossed two black cloth sacks their way.

“Once we get moving, put those on your head.”

More old school. But an effective way to keep someone from learning where they were headed.