Then a third shift. Into information.
Another service few had exploited.
Unfortunately, no university offered any degree in his line of work. No trade unions sponsored apprenticeships. No traditions existed upon which to draw. You simply learned as you went. And he had, making mistakes here and there, but never repeating them. His reputation had grown such that he was considered one of half a dozen people in the world who could supply good, reliable information. Now he was on the verge of the biggest deal of all. Provided he could keep everything under control for another two days.
Every life had a turning point. This was his.
Konrad returned. “All is done. I laid out mining kits for you both in the locker room. Slip on the coveralls, then meet me with your helmets and lights over there at the elevator.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cotton left the restaurant.
Stephanie had offered no argument to get him to change his mind, her eyes signaling that she understood. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars was nowhere near enough compensation to deal with a guy like Tom Bunch. He actually felt for her, but Stephanie was a big girl. She could handle things. Still, whoever else she had in mind to team with Bunch?
God help them.
He wondered why she stayed on the job. Just retire. Find something else to do. She could make a fortune in the private sector. But he knew the answer. The Magellan Billet was her life. She was a loyal soldier, the kind you wanted on your side, and normally he’d do anything for her. But his personal bullshit-tolerance level had long ago dropped to zero and he was simply not the guy to babysit Tom Bunch.
The fading light of a northern dusk had taken hold, the June evening air dry and pleasant. The streets were choked with people, vendor carts, and bicycles that sped along at a fast clip. He’d had an interesting afternoon, to say the least. He missed the job, for sure. But he didn’t miss dealing with assholes like Bunch. And he’d had his share of them. He hated leaving Stephanie in the lurch, and knew that her not insisting he stay meant he owed her one.
But that was okay. He’d owed her before.
He kept walking, retracing the route he and Stephanie had taken earlier, past the fish market, the old town hall, and the Basilica of the Holy Blood. All was quiet at the church, the front doors closed for the day, the square out front still dotted with camera-toting tourists. No sign of any police or any other indication something unusual had happened there earlier. He followed another busy street and passed retail stores on both sides, most still trying to lure in a few last customers. The path drained into the central market, his hotel on the far side of the open expanse.
He should call Cassiopeia. They spoke at least once a day. He missed her. Strange to have those feelings about someone else, but he’d come to welcome them. Thankfully, each provided the other a wide berth. No clinginess. Each cherished their own space, but they also cherished each other. He’d even given the M-word a little thought. Marriage would be a huge step. But they both always found a reason to avoid the subject, their relationship a mixture of need, apprehension, and shyness. He’d been divorced awhile, and his ex-wife lived back in Georgia with their son, Gary. All was good there. Finally. But it had taken a struggle.
One he had no desire to repeat.
It was time to get his mind back on why he’d come to Bruges. He had a budget for the purchase of the three books, which should be more than enough. Their resale would entail at least a 25 percent markup, not a bad return on a few days’ work. He should be able to make the buys and be back in Copenhagen by tomorrow afternoon. He’d taken the train so his return could be flexible, but he definitely needed to be home by Friday. Cassiopeia was due in Denmark that evening for a few days.
Which he was looking forward to.
A crowd had gathered around the statues of Jan Breydel and Pieter de Coninck. A butcher and weaver, two Flemish revolutionaries who led a 14th-century uprising against the French. He doubted any of the gawkers knew their historical significance. Bars and restaurants dominated the square’s perimeter, everything alive with hustle and bustle. He rounded the statues and was about to turn for the side street that led to his hotel when he caught sight of a woman, her long legs, lean figure, and blond hair distinctive. She wore jeans with boots and a silk blouse, and was moving away from a row of flagpoles toward another of the streets radiating from the square.
Sonia Draga.
She’d intentionally revealed herself back at the restaurant. Surely seeing him with Bunch and Stephanie had raised suspicions. Why wouldn’t it? But there’d been no opportunity for him to explain. Maybe now was the chance. He kept watching as she dissolved into the crowd. Then something else caught his attention. Two familiar faces. Two-thirds of the Three Amigos. Following Sonia.
Leave it alone.
Walk away.
Yeah, right.
He headed in her direction.
At the junction of the side street and the market square he caught sight of Sonia fifty yards ahead, the Two Amigos in pursuit. Buildings lined both sides, and there were enough people moving back and forth for no one to be noticed. But Sonia had to know she had company, as these guys weren’t making any secret about their presence.
She turned and disappeared into one of the buildings.
The Two Amigos followed.
Nothing about this seemed right, but he kept going until he came to a pedimented arch that led through one of the gabled houses, forming an alley about fifty feet long. No one was in sight. He walked through the covered passage into a courtyard flanked by more old houses. Wrought-iron lanterns suspended from the stone façades cast a dim glow. Another covered passage led out on the opposite side. Three doors dotted the exterior walls to his left and right, all closed. Where’d everybody go? He heard a click and turned to see the Two Amigos standing behind him, one of them armed with a gun.
“That way,” the guy said, motioning with the weapon at one of the closed doors.
No choice.
He turned.
The door opened and Sonia emerged.
She walked by him and gently stroked his cheek with her hand.
“Sorry, Cotton. It had to be done.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Czajkowski realized that he could not sit back and allow things to happen. His whole life was at stake. Perhaps even the entire country’s future. Someone named Jonty Olivier was out to destroy him. He’d long expected threats from the various political parties, hostile ministers in Parliament, opposition leaders, even the media—which was not always kind—but never had he thought a foreigner would become so dangerous.
It had been a long time since he’d thought of that day at Mokotów Prison. Many times he’d wondered what had happened to the math professor tied to the stool. The last he saw the man had been forced to crawl on hands and knees from the interrogation room back to his cell. How degrading. He’d been so young then. So afraid. Major Dilecki of the SB had brought him there to make a point.
Do as he was told or face the same consequences.
Countless people had been arrested and tortured. In addition to beatings and burnings, the most popular methods of “interrogation” had been to rip off fingernails, apply temple screws, clamp on tight handcuffs that caused the skin to burst and blood to flow, force prisoners to run up and down stairs, deprive them of sleep, make them stand at attention for hours, reduce their rations, pour buckets of cold water into cells, leave them in solitary confinement, anything and everything imaginable to break a person down. All of it had been applied in a harsh, premeditated manner, without remorse or discrimination. Those who fainted were revived with an adrenaline shot. Before some of the sessions, which could last for hours, many received booster injections to keep them alert. Torturers strictly followed the wishes of interrogating officers like Dilecki.