The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(58)
He agreed.
The Iranians and the Russians would be the most dangerous. Both had a lot to lose from American missiles in Poland. Both had few to no scruples and were capable of almost anything. He was betting on them to use money instead of violence, maybe even join forces to raise their bid to astronomical levels, forcing America to counter even higher.
The possibilities seemed endless.
He checked his watch.
Everything would start soon.
CHAPTER FORTY
Cotton sat in the backseat with the black cloth bag over his head, feeling like a fool. Bunch didn’t seem to mind, as he’d not said a word over the past twenty minutes. They’d waited in the tunnel for the decoy Mercedes to lead away any drone that may have been observing. A bit overdramatic in scope but, he had to admit, effective. Obviously, a lot of planning had gone into this.
They’d stayed on a smooth road for most of the way, maintaining a constant rate of speed south, with no stops. That meant a major highway, as there’d been few curves. Then a turn to the west and a curvy path that first ground its way up, then leveled off.
“You can take the hoods off,” one of the men said.
He yanked the cloth off his head and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.
And he saw a castle.
The Mercedes motored beneath a heavy, iron-studded gate, protected by a portcullis, which had been raised to admit them. A stonemason’s sign on the rough wall bore the inscription 1564.
They entered a graveled courtyard. Five-sided. Towers rose to the bright sky, each crowned with a cupola. Some kind of Slovakian fortress. A rotund man in a tweed jacket and bow tie waited near a pedimented door.
“That’s Jonty Olivier,” Bunch whispered.
The Mercedes came to a stop.
Cotton gave the rear floorboard a quick once-over trying to find the tracker, but saw nothing. He could only hope no one ever noticed it.
“You can get out,” the driver said.
He glanced at Bunch who never hesitated, grabbing the black lacquered box with the spear and opening his door. So much for coordinating how they would handle things.
“Gentlemen,” Jonty Olivier said, his arms spread wide. “Welcome.”
Bunch extended a hand, which Olivier shook.
“You work with President Fox?”
“I do,” Bunch said. “He sent me personally to handle this. I believe you and the president spoke?”
Olivier raised a finger to his lips and shushed Bunch quiet. “That’s a secret. Between us. Not everyone received such personal attention.”
Cotton tried to gauge their host. Fashion-conscious? It certainly seemed so. Self-assured? Definitely. In control? That was the impression the man was trying to convey.
“This is for you,” Bunch said, offering the box.
“The Spear of St. Maurice. How utterly exciting. Please, bring it inside.”
Olivier motioned for them to follow.
“We have a special place for it.”
* * *
Cotton studied the castle as they were led into what appeared to be its grand hall. Stout black pillars bore the weight of a flattened vaulted ceiling. A huge open hearth at one end bore the coat of arms of a former owner. Glass windows in black iron frames, high up, allowed in the late-morning sun. Four massive, electrified, gilded-bronze chandeliers provided ample illumination. Eight people milled about, chatting among themselves. Servers offered food and drink. Six pairs of chairs were arranged at the far end, facing a single high-backed chair and a large video screen. Olivier led them to a long oak table supported by legs the size of tree trunks. A portrait of Christ embossed into a copper plate, dis played on an easel, decorated the center. Four other artifacts lay about. The Holy Sponge, the Pillar of Flogging, the True Cross, and the Holy Blood. That meant the Russians were here, but he did not recognize any of the people in the room.
Bunch laid the box on the table, opened the lid and withdrew the spear. Olivier seemed impressed, which was surely Bunch’s intention.
“Quite wonderful,” Olivier noted. “Thank you for bringing it.”
“Like we had a choice,” Cotton said.
Olivier chuckled, merriment in his watery eyes. “No. I don’t suppose you did. But I thank you nonetheless. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other guests arriving.”
Two more pairs, in fact.
Who would bring the Holy Nail and the Crown of Thorns.
Olivier waddled off.
Bunch seemed pleased with himself. “So far, so good. Right, Malone?”
That all depended, but he wasn’t about to discuss those possibilities with this idiot. Hopefully, somewhere out there Sonia Draga was coming this way. He’d seen little security, but that did not mean none existed. No cameras ringed the great hall, but again they could be concealed. He’d noticed an older man on the second floor, peering down from the stone balustrade, watching with great intensity.
Just one more odd thing to add to the list.
Bunch captured a flute of champagne from a passing tray and motioned to ask if he should take another. Cotton shook his head and walked over to a table where ice water was being offered and poured himself a glass. He assumed they were about forty to fifty miles inside Slovakia. He hadn’t been able to see any of what was beyond the castle as the courtyard had totally blocked his field of vision and the windows here, in the great hall, were too high up. Olivier had made sure that there would be little to nothing that could be used to pinpoint a location. That should not hinder Sonia. But what exactly would she do?