Cotton now understood what all the furor was about. Somehow Jonty Olivier had managed to acquire 147 documents, most in President Janusz Czajkowski’s own hand, that directly implicated the president of Poland as a former communist informant.
He had to admit, it definitely looked bad.
“President Fox is going to love this,” Bunch whispered. “It’s everything he needs to make those missiles happen.”
“And you think Poland is just going to roll over? Give you what you want? Without a fight?”
“Get real, Malone. What can they do? If Czajkowski wants to stay president, he’ll work with us. It’s that simple.”
No, it wasn’t.
Far from it, in fact.
The Poles were a tough, resilient people who had survived both the Nazis and the Soviets. That was no small feat. They were now, once again, a free nation and Cotton doubted they would relinquish that independence without a fight. Actually, he was counting on a fight. A part of him knew that his duty was to aid his country. But another part told him that his country was dead wrong.
“Are there any questions?” Olivier asked from the front of the gathering.
“Will we have the documents today, when we leave? You’ve insisted that payment has to be verified and completed immediately. When will we get what we paid for?” one of the French asked.
“The documents are not here. I have hidden them away in a place that is fairly inaccessible. I’m sure you can understand that precaution. I am the only one who knows that location. But again, all of you possess a vast multitude of resources, so obtaining them will be easy. I will inform my assistant, Vic DiGenti, of the location after the auction, and if you desire he can be your guide. I’m hoping that gesture is a further demonstration of my good faith.”
“And your distrust of us,” one of the Russians added.
“What is there to trust?” Olivier said. “Each of you is here for differing reasons, most of which conflict with the other. I realize that none of you are above using violence to get what you want. So no, I trust none of you. As I’m sure none of you trust me. This whole endeavor is not about trust. It’s about power.”
“It’s about blackmail,” Cotton said. “And coercion.”
Olivier faced him. “I suppose it is. A most unpleasant business.”
“But profitable,” he said, adding a smile.
“That it is. Or at least, I’m hoping so.”
Olivier extended his arms in a welcome embrace.
Everyone looked back in silent anticipation.
“Shall we begin?”
Czajkowski rode in the back of the car driven by his two security people, still unnerved by the meeting with his former boss. Mirek had always been a hard man, difficult to know, even harder to like. But the nature of the job had demanded a certain degree of detachment. Of all the recruits, only a few managed to get close. He’d always thought himself one of those. How many counter-informants had he personally recruited for Mirek? Fifty? More like a hundred. People who’d placed their lives on the line. Some even gave their lives. Others had them taken. Which would all come out if the protocol became public. The good and the bad. How would the people react? Would he face charges? Had what he’d done been a crime against peace and humanity? Hard to say. And that indecision troubled him.
His cell phone vibrated.
He found the unit and saw it was Sonia.
“I hope you have good news,” he said, answering.
“The tracker worked,” she said. “The auction is occurring at Sturney Castle, inside Slovakia. Not that far away.”
No, it wasn’t. “Where are you?”
“Positioned about half a kilometer away, among the trees. I’ve watched as three cars drove inside, all similar to the cars that brought Cotton and Bunch.”
“You still think Malone knew you would be following?”
“Absolutely. You have to think that whoever transported Malone and Bunch to the castle guarded against being followed. Yet Cotton made sure that tracker stayed active. I was able to stay a long way back. Now I just have to figure out how to get inside, undetected.”
“What do you plan to do, once there?”
“Improvise.”
“Be careful.”
“You sound like you care.”
“I do.”
He heard the smile in her voice.
“Which is wonderful to hear. I’ll check back when I have something to report.”
The call ended.
He considered having Mirosław “Father Mirek” Hacia arrested and a full-scale search instituted for his so-called proof. Maybe tie him naked over a stool? He hated himself for even thinking such a thing. Was that desperation? What else could it be? It drove the communists, but it would never motivate him. He was the duly elected president of the Republic of Poland. Entrusted with looking after the welfare of the nation. His job was to make smart, informed decisions that advanced the greater good. Only this was personal. No other way to view it, since everything was being directed his way.
“Do you wish to go to the airport?” one of the security men asked.
They were headed south back toward Kraków and would pass the airport on the way. But he could not return to Warsaw.
Not yet.
“No. To the hotel, please.”