“What are you doing?” Bunch asked.
“Reading about you.”
Bunch glanced at Stephanie. “This is a waste of time. He’s unacceptable.”
“I was thinking the same about you,” Cotton said. “And now I know why.”
His eidetic memory kicked in and he recalled press accounts about President Fox’s attitude toward the National Security Council. Too big. Too diverse. Unwieldly. In need of trimming. Fox favored fewer meetings, less input, less paperwork. The pundits had translated that into him wanting total command of foreign policy, with little to no input from others. Several senators had publicly proclaimed the White House incompetent, insular, and indecisive. Decision making was slow to nonexistent, and usually wrong. The goal seemed to be to please the boss, not enunciate and implement clear national security goals. The best explanation for why all of that was happening? Unqualified people, in positions of authority, kissing ass. A perfect example of which was sitting across the table.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” he asked Bunch.
“I have the ear of the president of the United States. I’m here at his personal direction. That’s all you need to know.”
He should leave. Forget the $150,000. Head back to his hotel, take a shower, go to bed, and attend the book fair tomorrow as planned. This was not his problem. He’d already done way too much. The older he got the more he found that he suffered no fools, was impatient with mediocrity and disdainful of subtlety. But three things kept his butt in the chair. First, the look of frustration in Stephanie’s eyes. Second, he was hungry and the veal in cream sauce sounded wonderful, not to mention a White Lady for dessert. And third. That was the kicker.
But first.
“Tell me about Jonty Olivier?” he asked Stephanie, returning to the issue at hand and ignoring Bunch.
“He’s British, but holds a dual passport with Switzerland, thanks to a Swiss mother. He was fairly nonexistent until about fifteen years ago, when he emerged as a broker who accumulates and trades information. I’m told the CIA and NSA have regularly used him. He’s proven both reliable and reasonable. He has no political affiliations, no personal causes, no morals, no scruples. He’s just a businessman. Buying and selling. Trading. Making money. He deals with people, corporations, governments. Doesn’t matter to him. Reports say he’s a man of patrician tastes and earthy language.”
He smiled. “Where is he based?”
“He moves around constantly,” Bunch said. “He prefers renting luxury condos and staying in five-star hotels to owning mansions. He generally keeps a low profile and works through the internet, wire transfers, and intermediaries.”
Cotton noticed that Bunch spewed out facts about a bad guy the way someone who’d never served in the military told war stories.
“He also avoids breaking laws,” Bunch said. “He skirts close, but always stays just on the legal side. Olivier recently made contact with the White House. He and the president know each other from before the election.”
Interesting. “They’re friends?”
“They’ve done business in the past. Olivier talked directly with the president about this matter.”
“Was that wise?” Stephanie asked, clearly surprised. “This whole situation is just grandiose extortion.”
What situation?
“The president knows how to make a deal,” Bunch said, clearly annoyed. “It was his forte in business. He prefers personal contact and personal assessment.”
“You really don’t have any idea what you’re doing,” Cotton declared.
“I resent your insubordination,” Bunch said.
He shrugged. “Last I looked, I don’t work for you.”
“And I doubt you will.”
Time for that third thing.
The kicker.
They sat adjacent to an open window. A bronze wind chime just outside sounded a mournful pentatonic. Occasionally one of the tour boats cruised by beneath on the canal, the city’s fleet one short tonight. White swans dotted the calm brown water. Long-necked, heavy-bodied, big-footed birds whose gracefulness belied their cantankerous personality.
Across the canal he caught sight of a familiar face.
One he’d noticed a few moments before.
Another swan of sorts.
Slim and lean. Cool and sleek. Sure of herself. Ash-blond hair falling in casual disarray to thin shoulders. Her full mouth was a little wide for her nose, a small imperfection that, to him, only added to her allure. He knew her to be almost wolflike, with the blue eyes to match. In many ways she was a fortress, often scaled and assaulted, but never conquered.
Sonia Draga.
Sitting alone at a terrace table, her gaze locked across the canal, straight at him.
“Hold that thought,” he said to Bunch.
And he rose from the table.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cotton left the restaurant and turned right out the front door, following the cobblestones over another of the footbridges that ended at the ring road. Cars chugged by in both directions. From there the sidewalk led to another footbridge, back toward old town and the buildings that sat on the opposite side of the canal from La Quincaillerie.
He found an eatery, this one with the more benign name of Le Quai, the quay. A busy tavern that, considering the aromas, specialized in fish. It filled another of the guild houses, diners inside and out. He bypassed the maître d’s stand and headed for the terrace. The table he’d spotted from across the canal was empty, its occupant gone. He was about to leave when he noticed a piece of paper tucked beneath a saucer with his name printed on top.
He stepped over and slipped it free.
So lovely to see you again, Cotton.
He smiled at the feminine script and glanced across the water at the open window in La Quincaillerie. Stephanie was staring his way. Only Tom Bunch’s hands were visible, moving, apparently talking to her, oblivious to anything happening that did not include him. He sympathized with her predicament, forced to deal with imbeciles. Danny Daniels had understood how to get the job done, which was why he’d been the perfect partner in the White House. Daniels and the Magellan Billet had done a lot of great things together. Of course, Daniels was not a guy who craved credit. Results. That’s all he’d ever wanted.
He left the terrace, retraced his route to Stephanie and Bunch, and sat again at the table. “Where were we? I think you said that Jonty Olivier contacted the White House.”
Bunch tossed him a quizzical look. “Where’d you go?”
“Bathroom.”
Which seemed to satisfy the moron. Stephanie, though, definitely wanted to know more, but his gaze signaled later.
“That’s right,” Bunch said. “Olivier first made contact with us two months ago. He sent a personal message.” Bunch found his phone, tapped, and handed it over. On the screen was a photo of an invitation with black-and-gold Edwardian script.
Your Presence Is Requested
For A Sale Of Information
Concerning President Janusz Czajkowski
Of The Republic Of Poland
If Interested Send A Reply To This Address.
“Seems the sender has something to sell,” Cotton said. He faced Stephanie. “Which concerns the European Interceptor Site?”