The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(83)
He stamped the accelerator and yanked the steering wheel hard left. A quick roar of an engine came before the skid of rubber as the rear wheels caught the pavement. The car spun, the rear end swinging to change places with the front. He straightened out the hood, giving the engine more gas. He reminded himself that the backseat was loaded with precious relics, which were bouncing around unimpeded.
“Like a damn roller-coaster ride,” Stephanie said. “Good to see your skills are still sharp.”
He grinned. “We’re just getting started.”
The gun from the castle lay on the console between them.
“Get ready to fire,” he told her.
Stephanie grabbed the pistol.
They were now headed back toward town down two lanes of asphalt. Their pursuer shot out of his lane and crossed the double line into a hole in incoming traffic, trying to get to them.
Horns blared.
The car swept back into their lane, now directly behind them. Cotton was doing nearly 120 kilometers an hour. They would run out of highway a few miles ahead when they reentered Wieliczka.
But their pursuer seemed without fear.
Or brains.
The car closed straight on and popped them in the bumper. Cotton’s right foot slammed the brake, which caused another collision. But he was ready for it, spinning the wheel left into the other lane and braking again, allowing the other vehicle to draw alongside. Stephanie rolled down her window and fired twice. Once into the driver’s-side window. The other into the front left tire.
Which burst.
Cotton floored the accelerator, knowing what was coming. The other car veered hard left, off the road, into the trees.
“Nice shooting,” he said to her.
“I still have some talent.”
That she did.
* * *
He parked in a paved lot specifically for visitors to the Wieliczka Salt Mine, in a space that provided quick access out. They crossed the street and headed for the Dani?owicz Shaft, which a placard informed them was the only way down for general visitors. The mine complex, at ground level, stretched for acres, its various buildings incorporated into the town, which had been built centuries ago to accommodate the miners and their families. They’d left the consulate in a hurry, speaking to no one. But Stephanie had made one call before they fled the building.
One she hadn’t elaborated upon until now.
“I spoke with our ambassador to Poland before we left,” she said as they walked. “He’s one of Danny’s holdovers. Fox has not filled the post yet. Needless to say he’s not a fan of our new president. I had him make a call. He knows the right people to get us inside, unnoticed.”
The time was approaching 5:00 P.M., and there was still a modest crowd waiting to gain entrance. Maybe a hundred people. Just past where the line to buy a ticket ended a short, petite blonde stood, dressed in official-looking coveralls. She seemed to be waiting for them and stepped right up, introducing herself as Patrycja. She said, “I was told you want access to Level IX.”
“Can we do that, and fast?” Stephanie asked.
“I’ve been instructed to do whatever you want. Let’s get you changed and we’ll head right down. You’re going to need some equipment. That level is not like the tourist areas, it’s on the miners’ route.”
He was not looking forward to this. Tight spaces were not his favorite. Stephanie seemed to sense his anxiety and said, “I’m told the tunnels are wide and there’s plenty of ventilation. Is that right?”
Their guide nodded. “It’s not cramped down there at all.”
But he wasn’t comforted.
He’d heard that disclaimer before.
What concerned him more, though, was the Russians and Eli Rein hardt. One or both could be headed here, too. The guy they’d just encountered was employed by one of them.
He glanced around, seeing nothing that caused alarm.
But that didn’t mean trouble wasn’t nearby.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Eli stepped from the car.
He’d hired a cab to drive him from Kraków to the salt mine. Not a long trip, though costly at a hundred euros. But the driver was an entrepreneur, too, just like him, so he couldn’t blame the man for predatory pricing. His entire business hinged on taking advantage of others.
He stood before the graduation tower, an enormous castle-like structure crafted of larch branches and blackthorn, upon which salt brine flowed twenty-four hours a day. The microclimate created within the gaudy wooden structure worked like a natural inhalator, the salt air able to penetrate the mucous membrane of the respiratory system, good for lungs, sinuses, intestines, even the brain. Salt baths had existed in the area for hundreds of years, the mine below producing an abundance of concentrated brine that had to go somewhere. So toward the end of the 19th century the locals started pumping it to ground level and created a spa.
He paid the price for an admission ticket and strolled into the tower, heading up a walkway that wound a path deep into the twenty-meter-tall wooden structure. Its working principle seemed simple. Take salt suspended in water, pump it to the top, then allow the brine to thicken as it flows down the branches, breaking up as it hits each twig, partially evaporating, saturating the air with a curative saline aerosol.
He sucked in a few deep breaths.
Which felt good.