The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(69)

“Not yet. But I’m going to find it now.”

He heard rat-tat-tat through the phone.

Then more.

“Is that gunfire?” he asked.

“I have to go.”



* * *



Jonty’s emotions went from a mountainous high of five hundred million euros, and how his life was about to irrevocably change, to the horrifying fear that his life could be over.

Gunshots.

From the upper gallery.

A deafening volley raked the hall.

He looked up and saw the two Russian bidders, who’d left, firing automatic weapons below. The people remaining in the great hall reacted to the attack and sprang from their seats, scattering, but with no cover they were simply cut down. One after another. The bodies of both Chinese erupted in splattering wounds, their muscles contorting in a drunken dance that ended with them smashing facedown to the stone floor. A similar fate met the French and Iranians.

Jonty stood, frozen with indecision, a nauseous feeling of panic surging toward his throat. Running seemed stupid.

But he should do something.

Fright welled in his throat and forced his breath to come in choppy gasps.

He dropped behind the big-screen TV and its wooden support, seeking cover.



* * *



Cotton reacted with reflexes that had been trained and conditioned long ago, springing from the chair and reaching for Tom Bunch. They were totally exposed in the center of the hall, at least fifty feet between here and where they’d be beyond the shooters’ angle above. He yanked Bunch toward the right side of the hall, beneath the upper gallery.

But Bunch resisted and pulled away. “Olivier. We have to get to him.”

Two new sounds entered the hall.

Gunshots from a different weapon.

A pistol.

Which momentarily stopped the Uzis.

His head whipped to the right and he saw Sonia rush into the hall, firing upward. He took advantage of the moment she’d bought him and lunged left, through an arch beneath the overhead gallery, out of the line of fire. The gunmen above resumed their attack, cutting down three more of the auction participants. Bunch foolishly moved toward Olivier, who was nowhere to be seen.

Above, Cotton caught sight of the two gunmen, at the railing, their weapons aimed downward.

The two Russian bidders.

“Halt,” one of them yelled out.

Bunch froze.

He heard clips being ejected and fresh ones inserted. Everyone else who’d been part of the auction lay dead in ever-growing pools of blood. Only he and Bunch were unharmed. Along with Jonty Olivier, whom he now saw was crouched behind the TV. Sonia was across the hall, with no shot upward as the gunmen were directly above her. One of the Russians above let him know they were watching by unleashing a short barrage of rounds that obliterated the stone supporting the arch he was using for cover.

He managed to steal a quick peek around the edge and saw the older man from earlier staring down at him, another younger man standing beside him. Both gripped pistols. He also noticed that Sonia was no longer on the far side, most likely headed up to deal with the problem.

So stall them.

“Could you explain the point of all this?” he called out.

“The point obvious,” a new voice said from above, with a Russian accent.

One he recognized.

Cotton glanced up to see a new face standing at the railing.

Ivan.

Who’d apparently found a way here, too.

“You were warned, Malone. Clear. Emphatic.”

“We don’t take orders from Moscow,” Bunch yelled. “Not now. Not ever.”

“Shut up, Tom,” Cotton said, hoping the use of the first name would strike home.

He needed to buy Sonia more time, so he said, “Okay, Ivan, I get it. Point made. What now?”

“That depends on Olivier.”

Cotton shifted positions to the other side of the pillar so he could see Olivier and Bunch more clearly. They both stood near the large-screen TV, their heads cocked upward. Concern filled Bunch’s face.

“I should have known better,” Olivier said. “You’re no good.”

“I rather think my performance was masterful,” the older man holding the pistol said.

“What do you want, Eli?” Olivier said.

“I have what I want.”

That didn’t sound good.

“You had your people run the price up during the auction, didn’t you?” Cotton asked, interrupting, calling out to Ivan. “Since you knew they were all going to die, why not bid hundreds of millions of euros?”

“Americans think money solves everything,” Ivan said.

He caught Bunch’s gaze with his own and motioned for him to stay quiet.

“Your president told Kremlin that you would not even be here,” Ivan said. “All lies.”

“It was necessary,” Bunch said. “To deal with you.”

One of the Uzis erupted in a brief rattle of fire.

Bunch’s body jolted from the impact of the rounds, his face frozen in shock, his arms flailing, trying to maintain balance.

Then he collapsed to the floor.

Dead.

“That necessary, too,” Ivan said.

Cotton shook his head.

Dammit.