Czajkowski felt a surge of excitement, but no fear. He wasn’t a rookie to danger. For years back in the 1980s he’d walked a fine line where the government could have turned on him at any moment. Playing both ends against the middle was not something for the faint of heart. So he’d learned how to handle himself under extreme pressure. Here, nothing less than his whole life was on the line.
He’d been a damn good president of Poland and wanted to finish what he started with five more years. They would be his last. After that, he’d become an ex-statesman and join the ranks of the irrelevant, making speeches and accomplishing nothing. But before that happened, he wanted to leave a mark on his homeland. Change things for the better. Bring Poland closer to the West and make it warier of the East.
Thankfully, the government had matured. No longer could fringe groups, like the Polish Beer-Lovers’ Party, achieve much political success. The days of ridicule were over. Luckily, the economy was strong. He’d been fortunate to be elected during an economic upturn, and the people were far more forgiving when more money lay in their pockets. He’d taken advantage of that prosperity and introduced new, generous family benefits that helped the poor. Such a notion had once been foreign to Polish politics. But the concepts had been embraced. He’d worked hard to make Poland a regional leader in political, social, and economic development. An important member of the EU and NATO. But there were many who wanted a much more nationalistic stand, a return to isolationism. Poland for Poles. Some of which he did not disagree with. Like stopping American missiles, aimed supposedly at Iran, from being planted on Polish soil. Missiles that could easily be redirected toward Russia. Missiles that endangered every citizen.
That was madness.
Talk about poking the bear.
He and Sonia stepped past the metal door and headed through another lit chamber, finding the exit on the far side. He was grateful for the cool air, his brow beaded with sweat.
Nerves?
Surely.
The gun Sonia had provided was tucked into one of the thigh pockets of his coveralls. Better to keep it there until truly needed. Hopefully, that moment would never come. The image of the president of Poland toting a weapon around a national historic site would not play well in the media.
Sonia was armed.
And that seemed protection enough.
Eli stood close to the rough wall, away from the few lights that backlit the rest of the chamber. No artifacts adorned this room, only another chapel with an altar and figurines, which was in much better shape than the one he’d seen below. He stood in blackness, watching the entrance from which he’d arrived to see who was coming.
A woman entered.
Sonia Draga.
Armed.
Behind her came a man.
No, not any man.
Janusz Czajkowski.
Finally.
Providence had smiled upon him.
Cotton stared over at Ivan. “Do you know about an egg-sucking dog?”
“Sounds highly American.”
“Not at all. They’re everywhere. Even in Russia. Every once in a while a farm dog will acquire a taste for fresh eggs. They’ll kill the chickens to get them, too. They don’t really suck the eggs. More eat them whole. But once a dog gets a taste for egg, there’s no breaking him of it.”
“Sounds like greedy dog.”
“Obsessed. Bewitched. That dog lives to get into other people’s henhouses. And nothing will stop it,” he paused, “short of killing.”
Ivan chuckled. “Your president is the egg-sucking dog.”
He shrugged. “Maybe so. But right now you’re the one I have to deal with. You’re in my henhouse. And if you don’t stop eatin’ my eggs up, though I’m not a real bad guy, I’m goin’ to get my rifle and send you to that great chicken house in the sky.”
He sang the words to a mournful tune he recalled from long ago.
“It’s a Johnny Cash song,” he said to Ivan. “My grandfather used to sing it when he worked.”
“You stalling, Malone?”
“I am.”
“Hoping help will come.”
“That is the plan.”
“Maybe I have help, too.”
“I saw Reinhardt and Munoz heading off. I suppose they could find their way here.”
The gun rested in his right hand, his finger on the trigger, his eyes locked on Ivan’s body, watching for any move.
“You say this lake thick with salt?” Ivan asked.
“Pure brine. But clear and pretty, I’ll say that. They keep the brine here, then pump it to the surface and extract the salt.”
Ivan reached down and, with his free hand, gently stroked the water. “Cold. Like Arctic Ocean.”
It seemed a little nuts to be floating a few yards from his enemy, shooting the breeze, while they were both armed, waiting for the other to act. But he was only going to challenge this demon when he was sure of the outcome. Right now, that was in doubt.
Like everything else.
So be patient.
Eli waited until Sonia and Czajkowski were in the chamber, past him, subdued by the silence, near the chapel on the opposite wall. Then he stepped out of the blackness and nestled the barrel of his gun to the back of Czajkowski’s head.
The president froze.
“Stay still,” he said to his captive.
Sonia whirled, her gun coming level.
“Drop the weapon,” he ordered.
And he clicked the hammer of his gun to emphasize the point. She stared at him, probably trying to decide if she could take a shot before he pulled the trigger.
“I assure you,” he said, “you can’t.”
She seemed to agree and lowered the gun.
“Drop it to the ground and kick it away,” he told her.
She did as instructed.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” he told her.