WARSAW, POLAND
Jack wasn’t embarrassed to admit that flying in the Hendley Associates Gulfstream G550 was better than first-class commercial any day. No TSA lines at the terminal, no waiting to board, no coughing kids throwing snot and bacteria into the air, and no snoring seatmates—well, unless Ding Chavez was sacked out somewhere in the cabin.
It was expensive for Gerry to fly him over in an empty plane, but it was his call to make and Jack was grateful. It was a great time-saver on an assignment he really hadn’t wanted to take. He had an obligation to fulfill on the other side of the planet, and it bothered him like hell to put it off a single day longer than necessary.
The G550 executive jet kissed the tarmac under the steady hand of Captain Helen Reid and her first officer copilot, Chester “Country” Hicks, at Warsaw Chopin, the capital city’s principal airport and the largest one in Poland. Captain Reid taxied to a small private terminal of a local fixed-based operator that Lisanne Robertson, the director of transportation for Hendley Associates and The Campus, had contracted with for refueling and scheduled maintenance services in addition to landing rights.
Jack yawned as he pulled on his sport coat. The overnight flight had taken just over ten hours, nonstop, well within the range of the Gulfstream’s twin Rolls-Royce engines. He originally planned to sleep on the way over, but decided instead to dig a little deeper into the few files he had on Gage Capital Partners and the two dozen shell companies he’d found connected with Aaron and his son, Christopher. He finally managed to squeeze in a power nap an hour before they landed, and Lisanne had whipped up a couple of cups of strong black coffee and a spicy turkey-sausage-and-egg breakfast sandwich for him to wolf down before landing.
It was too bad Midas—Bartosz Jankowski—was stuck in the Philippines on a Campus assignment. He’d never heard the former Ranger talk about his parents’ native homeland, nor did he ever mention spending time in Poland. But Midas spoke the language fluently, as well as Russian. The former Delta recce was damned handy to have in a gunfight, too, though the only wounds Jack anticipated receiving on this trip were paper cuts from an accounts receivable ledger if he could ever lay his hands on one.
“We’re wheels up in eight hours. Any chance you’ll be done by then? Happy to give you a lift back if you don’t mind an overnight in London.”
Jack tried to hide his disappointment. Ysabel was still in London, staying with her parents. It would be a convenient excuse to visit her without actually being invited and try to figure out what was going on between the two of them.
If anything, Jack thought. He was beginning to wonder if her radio silence was more than just rest and recuperation. Their time together in Afghanistan proved they both still cared for each other. On the other hand, it also proved they still had unresolved issues. Right now, he wasn’t sure which side would win out in the end.
“Sadly, no. Could be eight hours or eight months before I get to the bottom of this thing.”
“What can I do to help?”
Jack smiled. Lisanne knew how to handle weapons, how to clear a room, and how to kick ass, generally, besides being fluent in Arabic. However, as far as he knew, she had no forensic accounting skills, so there wasn’t much she could do to help, and even if she could, she hadn’t been read in to his assignment. But it was her nature to be helpful, no matter the circumstances. It was just one of the many reasons she’d been the perfect person to replace Adara Sherman as the director of transportation.
“Maybe a short prayer for patience. I’ll be pushing on a string, uphill, in the dark until I can figure this thing out.”
“Beats shoveling shit in Louisiana, to borrow a phrase.”
“Couldn’t say. I’ve never been to Louisiana.”
Jack poked his head in the cockpit to shake hands with Reid and Hicks and thank them for the great flying before Lisanne handed him his leather satchel and laptop case.
“Safe travels,” she said.
“You, too.”
Jack descended the cabin stairs to the tarmac. The darkening sky threatened rain and a slight breeze tousled his dark hair. The gloomy weather didn’t particularly bother him, but neither did it help his mood. He proceeded into the private hangar and offices of the FBO, where he passed through customs quickly and without incident—another check mark in the private-charter column. With his two bags and a freshly stamped passport, he headed out the front door of the mini-terminal in search of his Polish contact, Jerzy Krychowiak, the fifty-seven-year-old ABW agent Gerry had arranged for him to meet.
Jack approached the curb. Scanned the street.
Where the hell was he?
Jack Ryan?” A woman’s voice.
Jack turned around. He was greeted by the confident but exhausted gaze of a striking blond, blue-eyed woman about his age. She stood in front of a silver Audi A5 coupe parked at the curb behind her. A shoulder holster printed beneath her loose-fitting blue blazer.
Not what he was expecting. But better than a kick in the head.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
She thrust out her hand. “Hello, Mr. Ryan. My name is Liliana Pilecki. I’m with the ABW.”
Jack hesitated. This was highly unusual. “Where is Mr. Krychowiak?”
“I’m sorry, he can’t be here. He was struck by a car in a hit-and-run last night. He was put into a medically induced coma just an hour ago.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that. My grandfather was a cop. Is he going to pull through?”
“Jerzy is a strong man. I pray he will survive this.”
No wonder she looks exhausted, Jack thought. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer. He must be your partner.”
“I sat with his wife during surgery. It was a long night.”
“Was it an accident or intentional?”
“We’re still investigating. The car was found three kilometers away from the crime scene, burned to the ground.”
“How did you identify the car?”
“We tracked it through CCTV traffic cameras. The car was stolen. We couldn’t identify the driver.”
“I hate to ask, but how about you show me your credentials?”
“Yes, of course.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small leather billfold and handed it to Jack. It was all in Polish, naturally. He had a little Russian under his belt, but it didn’t help.
“Thanks.” He handed it back to her. “Look, you’ve got a lot going on. I can catch an Uber to my hotel and—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. My supervisor briefed me on the assignment and forwarded me Gerry Hendley’s e-mail request. I’m just driving you around and translating when necessary. It’s not a problem for me. Honestly.” She frowned. “Didn’t you get Mr. Hendley’s text?”
Crap.
Jack hadn’t checked his phone since landing. He powered it up. There it was. With her name in the address next to his.
Change of plans. Agent Liliana Pilecki will be taking care of you over there. Call me if there’s a problem.
Jack rubbed his tired eyes. “Sorry about that, Ms. Pilecki. I’m a little off my game this morning. I appreciate you picking me up and dragging my sorry butt around.”
“Can I help you with your bags?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Jack stifled a jagged yawn with the back of his hand.
“You look jet-lagged. I’ll drop you off at your hotel and we can get started later this afternoon perhaps.”
“No, I’m fine. I want to get after it right away.”
“As you wish.”
Liliana popped the trunk of her Audi and Jack dropped in his bags. Minutes later they were on a tree-lined four-lane road crowded with commuters, heading for the city center, where modern skyscrapers loomed in the distance.
“Have you ever been to Warszawa before, Mr. Ryan? Or Poland?”
“Please, call me Jack. And no. It’s my first time.”
Jack glanced out the rain-spattered passenger window. A lot of greenery and clean streets. The storm was picking up. “It’s a nice city.”
The first few drops of rain hit the windshield. The automatic wipers kicked on.
“It’s big for me. I originally came from a smaller town just outside of Kraków in the south, but I love it here.”
“Your English is superb, by the way.”
“Thank you. I have family in Chicago. I did a year-abroad program there in high school, and another two years in college at Loyola, where I majored in piano and minored in accounting.”
“Interesting combination.”
“Accounting was my father’s idea. He was a very practical person.”
“He’s passed away?”
“Last year. Prostate cancer. He was a good man.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“So how long have you been in the ABW?”
“Five years.”
“Do they need a lot of piano players in your department?”
She laughed. A pleasant surprise for them both.
“Not many, no. It was my accounting degree that got me in, how do you say, by the skin of my teeth?”
And such pretty teeth they were, Jack noticed. Also, no wedding ring. But Bosnia had taught him a few more lessons about women, so he told himself to throttle back.
“So, how did you go from piano recitals to packing heat?”
“My sister overdosed on heroin the year I graduated.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Death is not such a stranger in Poland. But thank you. After she died, I felt so helpless, so angry. The ABW was a place where I thought I might be able to do some good. Perhaps save someone else’s sister. It was the least I could do.”
“Drugs are a poison killing the entire West,” Jack said. “Over seventy thousand Americans died from drug overdoses last year. More Americans than died in the Vietnam War.”
“It’s a big problem all over Europe, too, and getting worse here every day. My casework is focused on organized crime, so drugs and drug money play a big part in my investigations.”
“And then you got stuck with me.”
“I would hardly say ‘stuck.’ I’m happy to assist you in any way that I can.”
“I appreciate it.”
But how can you help me? Jack wondered. I can’t exactly tell you I’m hunting for dirt on an American senator. Besides the fact that he was under strict orders from Gerry to keep it quiet, Jack didn’t much like the idea of showing America’s dirty underwear to an agent of a foreign security service, even an allied one.
“If you don’t mind my saying, I am a big fan of your President,” Liliana said. “He had the guts to stand up to the Russians when most NATO leaders didn’t want to.”
“I’m a big fan, too. And no, I don’t mind you saying it.”
“You are a financial analyst with Hendley Associates, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting that your boss, Mr. Hendley, is close friends with the head of the ABW.”
“Gerry was formerly a U.S. senator. He knows a lot of people everywhere.”
“I understand he is a close personal friend with President Ryan.”
“Yes, he is.”
“So tell me, Jack, where do you want to start?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“Perhaps if you can tell me what you’re looking for?”
“I’m investigating the business relationships of a corporation registered in Poland as Baltic General Services LLC. It’s wholly owned by two parties, one of which is an American named Christopher Gage. Have you heard of him?”
“I’m afraid not. And why are you investigating him?”
Jack hated to lie, but she wasn’t read in to any of this.
“Poor choice of words. It’s not really an investigation. My firm is working on behalf of a client that wants to do business with Gage, but they want more details about his financial affairs before they proceed further in the relationship. Does that make sense?”
“For now, yes. And what is this Baltic General Services company doing in Poland?”
“That’s partly what I’m trying to figure out. They seem to be partnering with other companies in Poland.”
“What kind of companies?”
“I’m not sure. They are privately held, just like Baltic General Services and, for that matter, Gage’s parent company, Gage Group International. That’s one of the reasons why I came. I can’t exactly figure out what those companies are doing—my resources for Polish companies back home are limited. Besides the fact Gage’s company has invested in them, the only common denominator between them is that Gage has done so through a German regional bank, which seems like an odd thing to do.”
“What is the name of the bank?”
“OstBank.”
Liliana frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to be specific, but I can say that my office is familiar with OstBank.”
“Dirty?”
Liliana drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, weighing a decision. Finally, “A German BKA agent—a sister agency to mine—was killed last week in Berlin.”
“And he was working the OstBank angle.”
“Exactly so.”
“Then that’s the place to start. What time do the banks open here?”
“Not for another hour.”
“Then maybe I will let you run me by my hotel for a quick shower and shave before we head out.”
“Very well. I’ll wait in the lobby.”