“Sturney Castle.”
Apparently the head of the BOR had become well informed. “What do you know about that?”
“I know that a Russian foreign intelligence operative named Ivan is there. He was detected in Bruges, where he came into contact with a former American agent named Cotton Malone. Interestingly, Malone was here, yesterday, in Kraków, where four of the AW’s intelligence agents brought him to you.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been doing my job.”
He appraised Zima with a critical eye. “You’ve been doing exactly what I told you not to do.”
“I’m not your enemy.”
“But you’re not my friend, either.”
“I am here to protect the president of this country. Being your friend was never part of that duty. But if you must know, I actually admire your leadership.”
That was a surprise.
And welcomed.
“Something is happening that affects the security of this nation,” Zima said. “Something that involves our foreign intelligence agency. I’m aware of your relationship with Sonia Draga. The BOR has accommodated your requests in that area. Again, I am not here to judge. Only to help.”
“Michał, I appreciate your concern and your offer, but I cannot involve the BOR. This is a personal matter.”
“That somehow concerns a man who once directed the secret intelligence services for Solidarity.”
Zima surely knew of the trip to Jasna Góra, since two of his men had been there. But he was surprised about the reference to Mirek Hacia’s past life experience.
“Is that a well-known fact?” he asked.
“To some it is. But it’s a select few. Does whatever is happening here relate to what happened back in the 1980s?”
He decided to be honest. “It does.”
“And Major Dilecki was likewise involved? I could tell when we were at his house that you knew the man. I can only assume that since he retained records on others, he did so on you. Records that are now out in the open.”
“That would be a safe assumption.”
“And Sturney Castle is where they have surfaced?”
“In a manner of speaking. They are being auctioned to the highest bidder.”
He caught the moment of concern on Zima’s face. Perhaps this man did genuinely care.
“Sonia is there,” he said, “trying to stop that from happening. But there were gunshots during her last call to me. I’m concerned.”
The door leading out of the suite opened. Usually, the security detail knocked first before allowing an intrusion.
Then he caught site of his visitor and understood.
His wife.
Who did not look happy.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Cotton kept his eyes locked on Sonia as she crouched near another of the arches, thirty feet away.
“There she is,” Ivan called out. “You not suppose to be here.”
“And yet, I am,” she said.
The Russian laughed. A rumbling, indolent guffaw, half real, half forced, and totally unfriendly.
Now he got it.
She was disarming these people. Creating confusion. Doing what she did best. Playing them.
“Who are you?” Jonty Olivier asked Sonia.
“The one who brings you greetings from the president of the Republic of Poland. Did you really think we would just let this auction happen?”
Olivier said nothing.
“What now?” Cotton asked them all.
“As Olivier says,” Ivan noted, “only he knows where information is hidden. We need him to tell us.”
“Not going to happen,” Olivier declared.
“Forget about the Americans for a moment,” Cotton said. “Do any of you think the Chinese, the North Koreans, the French, the Iranians are not going to retaliate?”
“Maybe you a good person to blame,” Ivan said. “Former spy. Here. Your reputation will work against you. Of course, you will try and convince all that you did nothing. Then we could blame Poles. They would certainly want all this stopped. Like I say, Sonia, you not suppose to be here.”
“There are a lot of witnesses here,” Cotton pointed out.
“Good point,” Ivan said.
The big man reached beneath his jacket, removed a pistol, then turned and shot both of the other two Russians, with Uzis, in the head.
Cotton had witnessed all kinds of depravity and transgressions, his job usually to exploit those sins to his advantage. But he was appalled by the killing. Death occurred in his profession. No question. He’d pulled the trigger himself more than once in the heat of battle. But this was different. Compulsion seemed to be replacing reason. Protest burned his throat, but he knew better than to say a word. He glanced across the hall at Sonia, then turned his attention back to the second floor.
“Just you left, Malone,” Ivan said. “And you, Sonia.”
But there was one other loose end, and it was standing a few feet away.
He had little sympathy for Jonty Olivier. The man had tried to pet six rattlesnakes simultaneously. What had he expected? That they would lie docile? And like it? No surprise that one had reared up and bit him.
The Fox administration had been fools to try to manipulate this scenario. On what planet would the deployment of medium-range missiles only a few hundred miles from the Russian border not be met with a show of force? Bunch and Fox thought that lies and deception would work. Maybe in the business world. But this was the big leagues, where you played for keeps. You just didn’t lose a deal, or some money. You lost your life. The participants here had played the game for a long time. Warner Fox was a rookie. And an arrogant one at that. Tom Bunch had been a blind follower, intent only on pleasing his boss, ignorant to the risks he’d taken. Now he was lying in a pool of his own blood in a remote Slovakian castle.
He studied both Sonia and Ivan, trying to decide what was next. The best he could determine was that their interests diverged. Ivan would want the information Olivier had to sell as insurance against the Poles. It could provide an effective way to keep American missiles out of Poland, and a means of control over a foreign head of state. Russian interrogation techniques would be more than enough to break Jonty Olivier. The man would eventually tell them anything and everything he knew.
Sonia would want the information destroyed, so it could never be used again. It was essentially destroyed now, hidden away where only one person knew its location. Olivier would surely have chosen a spot that would remain secret. Could it resurface? Possible. But not likely. Or at least not likely within the relevant time frame of the next five years of Czajkowski’s second term as president. After that, whatever Olivier had to peddle would be worthless.
“You seem to have a problem,” he told Ivan.
The big Russian shrugged. “I do my job. But Sonia not suppose to be here. Olivier is mine.”
“I’m not telling any of you anything,” Olivier blurted out.
Sonia stayed behind the arch but raised her weapon and pointed it at Olivier. “Where is the Spear of Maurice?”
“Now, that I can tell you. It’s in a car, just beyond the courtyard, with the other relics, awaiting my departure.”
She lowered her gun. “I came for that. That’s why I’m here.”