The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(96)

It truly was war.

And there were casualties.

On both sides.

Sitting here now, over three decades later, within the cocoon of an underground hall, it all seemed like yesterday. But lately, his mind had stayed deep in the past. The government had been so stupid. So foolish. Adhering to what Stalin had practiced. The people who cast votes decide nothing. The people who count votes decide everything.

Which, luckily, evolved into a disaster for them.

He could not repeat those mistakes, nor allow others to do so.

In truth, he was replaceable. He could be gunned down at any time, in any crowd, and the police would have his blood hosed from the pavement and traffic flowing again by nightfall.

Sad.

But not a lie.

In Poland, no one person controlled much of anything.

Everything was a consensus.

Nothing good would come from revealing the Warsaw Protocol. Any defense he might mount would be drowned out by a screaming opposition. There was no internet in the 1980s. No social media. No Twitter. Information could actually be contained. The backlash today would be relentless. A multitude of Polish political parties, who could not agree on a single thing, would unite under one common theme.

Removing him from office.

And they would succeed.

His entire ruling coalition revolved around the other side staying fractured since, sadly, creating unity within Poland always seemed easier when confronting a common enemy.

This time that would be him.

He shook his head.

What a quandary.

Made worse by another reality. Hastily planned operations nearly always came with problems. He had a bad feeling that some detail, now tiny, could later reveal itself and grow into something fatal. Something out of his control. But he realized that doubt always accompanied responsibility. So he sucked in a few deep breaths and steeled himself.

Sonia appeared at the entrance and walked toward him across the parquet floor. “The elevator is coming up from Level IX.”

He stood. “I’m not waiting here. So don’t tell me to.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“You have any idea who’s coming up?”

She shook her head. “Let’s hope whoever they are have what they came for.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we’ll go find it.”

He loved her determination. Never an ounce of pessimism. “I think I need a divorce.”

She smiled. “That’s the anxiety talking.”

“It’s a man who loves you talking. Why can’t I be happy, too?”

“Because you’re the president of this country and Poland will never tolerate a leader who divorces while in office. You know that.”

“I’m tired of living a lie.”

“It seems you’ve been doing that for a long time.”

She knew nothing about the protocol, only fleeting references here and there. He needed to tell her, but now was not the time. So he only said, “There’s more to this than you think.”

“That’s always the case.”

“We’ll talk. Once this is done.”

“Janusz, I don’t care what you did. I’m sure, whatever it was, you did it out of necessity. I was ten years old when the Soviet Union collapsed. Those were tough times. People did whatever they had to do in order to survive. Me, you, no one can judge them by today’s standards.” She paused. “And who am I to judge anyone. I shot a man in cold blood today. And he was not the first. So I really don’t give a damn what you did.”

He smiled.

So practical, too.

“Come with me,” she said. “There’s a place where we can watch that elevator when it arrives.”

And he followed her from the hall.





CHAPTER SEVENTY


Cotton stopped at a corner in the tunnel. Remnants of incandescent light leaked around the edge, signaling that the exit foyer was on the other side, which was lit earlier when they arrived. He heard nothing save for the whine of the elevator as it rose. A quick glance around the edge and he saw three sets of coveralls lying on the floor, along with three helmets.

“They’re gone,” he said.

Stephanie and Patrycja came up from behind.

He knew from their previous descent that this elevator only went to Level III. They’d switched to it earlier from another that rose to the surface. He pointed at the clothes. “They intend to blend in with the crowd up on the lower levels and just walk out.”

But there was still the matter of the gunshot.

He stepped around the corner, approaching the pile of clothes and helmets. He studied the floor and noticed streaks in the fine layers of ground salt, leading away, toward a dark tunnel to his right. He followed the trail into the blackness, which continued about twenty feet to an offshoot, where he found the body of a man dressed in the same color coverall as Patrycja. Surely, the other guide either forced or bribed into cooperation and the source of the gunshot. Ivan was not the type to leave loose ends.

He headed back to the elevator.

“There’s a body,” he said. “Has the name KONRAD stitched to the coveralls.”

Shock filled Patrycja’s face. “Dawid Konrad. I know him.” She paused. “Knew him.”

So far this attractive young woman had handled herself like a pro, asking few questions. Even when the shot rang out in the chapel, she’d only momentarily panicked, then regained control. Now a murder. That might be too much. He needed her to keep thinking.