He shook his head in disbelief.
In 2007 the United States opened talks for a missile defense system to be located in Poland. It would consist of ten silo-based interceptors to be used in conjunction with a tracking and radar system to be located in the Czech Republic. The idea was to protect against missiles from Iran, but Russia strongly objected, interpreting the move as a test of American strength. In retaliation the Russian president threatened to deploy short-range, offensive missiles in Kaliningrad to counter any supposed defense system. Europe likewise expressed deep reservations. France, Germany, and Italy all opposed the move, thinking it more provocative than strategic. The uproar continued until the Obama administration finally canceled the proposal.
“They really want to step into that ant pile again?” he asked.
“They definitely want to go there. The thinking is to send a message to Moscow that there’s a new sheriff in town. Things are going to be different. A way to show the world that Fox is a man to be reckoned with.”
“Talk about poking the bear. As I recall, the uproar against the missiles was nearly uniform. Nobody thought it was a good idea.”
“Fox hates the European Union and NATO. He’s spent the last few months antagonizing nearly every ally we have. He doesn’t give a damn what the EU or Russia wants.”
They stood on the backside of the high-pitched roof of the old town hall, its pinnacles, turrets, and spires giving play to fanciful light and shade. The path ahead, past the fish market, was lined with bars and cafés preparing for another night’s business. Tables dotted the cobbles, many already filled with folks enjoying supper. The time was approaching 8:00 P.M., and he was a little hungry himself.
“The key to everything this time,” Stephanie said, “is the president of Poland. He alone will make or break any decision about the deployment of those American missiles.”
“He wants them?”
“That all depends,” she said.
An odd answer, so he tried, “What do missiles in Poland have to do with the Arma Christi?”
“Quite a bit. Those thefts happened for a reason. A rather strange reason, but definitely a reason.”
He could tell that there was more to the story. “When are you going to tell me?”
“Right now. Follow me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Cotton walked with Stephanie past more cafés with tables and wicker chairs under colorful awnings. She avoided all of them and headed for one of the ivy-clad buildings that fronted a canal. An iron sign attached to the brick façade read LA QUINCAILLERIE. Hardware store. An odd name for a restaurant.
Inside was strictly Old World with smoke-blackened beams, marble-topped tables, and waiters in starched black aprons. The rough-brick walls were adorned with prints and mementos collected over the generations. The windows were open to the evening, facing the same canal he’d sped down earlier. Across the water were more brick buildings with terraces and diners.
A man waited at one of the window-side tables. Medium height with a thin, quiet, clean-shaven face, sallow skin, and modest brown hair. He wore a dark suit and tie and stood as they approached.
“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “This is Tom Bunch. He works with the White House.”
Handshakes were exchanged and they sat.
“Tom is the deputy assistant to the president and the deputy national security adviser,” Stephanie said.
Cotton caught the emphasis on the word deputy, repeated twice surely on purpose, knowing how she felt about that label. The Magellan Billet’s bureaucracy was simple. She had total control. No deputies. No seconds in command. All decisions from one source.
“Tom is the reason I’m here in Belgium,” she said. “The Justice Department was asked to assist the White House with this matter, and the attorney general delegated it to the Magellan Billet, with specific orders to work with Tom.”
That meant the president had wanted the task given to the Billet. The more important question, which Stephanie surely had asked herself, was why, considering how Fox felt about her and the Billet.
A waiter appeared with menus and asked for drink orders. Bunch requested a rather expensive French red wine. Stephanie opted for sparkling water. Cotton chose the still version. Carbon dioxide immersed in liquids had never been his thing. Alcohol was also something he’d never acquired a taste for, along with coffee, cigarettes, or almost anything that came from a pharmacy.
Bunch scanned the menu, so he decided, what the heck, why not. He was hungry, and the offerings appeared robust and filling. No gourmet fare. Thank goodness. The kalfsblanket, veal in a creamy sauce, caught his eye. He also saw there was a Dame Blanche for dessert. The waiter returned with their drinks, and Bunch asked that they have a few minutes before ordering.
“You look a little wrinkled,” Bunch said. “Stephanie said you took a swim in the canal.”
“It’s part of the tour excursion I booked. A chance to experience the canals firsthand,” he said, trying to make light of things.
But Bunch did not seem amused. “I don’t know anything about you. But Stephanie says you’re the man for this job. I assume you know about Jonty Olivier?”
The question came with an aura of self-importance, as if everyone knew the name.
“Why don’t you enlighten me,” Cotton asked, and he caught the grin on Stephanie’s lips at his self-restraint.
“I’m a little surprised you’ve never heard of Olivier.”
He caught the smugness. This guy wasted little time getting on people’s nerves.
“Jonty Olivier,” Stephanie said, “is a broker.”
“We talking books, art, real estate?”
Bunch chuckled. “You really are out of the loop. How long have you been retired?”
“How long have you been a deputy national security adviser? Since January? Six whole months. What did you do before?”
“That’s not relevant. I’m now with the White House, and I’m in charge here. That’s what matters.”
He slid his phone from a pocket—waterproof, so it had survived the swim—and opened to a search engine. He typed TOM BUNCH, WHITE HOUSE and found many references. He decided on the Wikipedia link. Why not? Might as well see what the masses thought of him. He touched the screen and called up the page, which was, not surprisingly, short.
Bunch, throughout the presidential campaign, wrote a number of pro-Fox articles under a pseudonym, E Pluribus Unum. He was critical of the left and right, but never the pro-Fox conservatives. He portrayed the election as a battle to save America, and in one article, described it as the “Flight 93 election,” referencing the plane that was hijacked on September 11, 2001 but which crashed after passengers fought back against the hijackers. “Charge the cockpit or you die,” he wrote. Then he went on to say, “You may die anyway. You—or the leader of your party—may make it into the cockpit and not know how to fly or land the plane. There are no guarantees. Except one, if you don’t try, death is certain.” The true meaning of that statement remains unknown. Before coming to the White House, Bunch worked for Burdi Macro LLC, which manages the personal capital of Rich Burdi, a huge financial supporter of Warner Fox during the election.