“That is the one thing we are not. Tom Bunch was gunned down. That’s not going to go unanswered.”
“I was there,” Sonia said.
“Who is that?” Fox asked.
“The person who killed Jonty Olivier,” she said. “The rest were killed by the Russians. Good luck answering that insult, Mr. President. Are you prepared to start World War III?”
“Killing Olivier was stupid,” Fox said.
“No. Trying to blackmail the president of Poland was stupid. We just countered that.”
“I have agents on the way there,” Fox said. “This will be dealt with. Decisively.”
He’d had enough. “And if those agents violate any law of this country, they will be arrested and imprisoned.”
“I’m sure the Slovaks would love to know what happened within their jurisdiction today. My next call will be to them.”
Interesting that Fox did not seem to have a full grasp of the situation, unaware that the site had been sanitized. He could see that Sonia had come to the same conclusion. She mouthed Malone. He nodded. Made sense. He’d made a report, but Malone would not have known what subsequently happened, either.
“I would encourage you to do whatever you deem necessary,” Czajkowski said. “After all, you are the president of the United States, and who am I to argue. I’m just the leader of a second-rate, barely-above-a-third-world nation.”
“I’m going to have those missiles in Poland, one way or another. Either you’re going to do it, or your successor. There’s something you don’t know.”
They both waited.
“You failed. The Russians say the information on you may still be in play. And they’re going to get it. But not if I can help it.”
He was instantly concerned but knew better than to let on. “Good luck with that, too, Mr. President.”
And he ended the call.
“Is that possible?” he asked Sonia.
“Olivier said repeatedly he was the only one who knew the location. And that made sense. Why would he trust it to anyone else? He said that not even his man, DiGenti, knew the location. But DiGenti is dead.”
“Did that man talk before he died?”
“I have no idea.”
“Could the Russians be bluffing just to keep Fox off guard? They could manufacture documents. They’ve done it before.”
He could see she was thinking, her mind racing.
“I need to make a call.” She found her phone, punched in a number, spoke for a moment, listened, then said goodbye. “Cotton and Stephanie Nelle left the American consulate together twenty minutes ago. We watch the building daily. And we caught a break. Cotton used the car I found at the castle with the spear and the other Arma Christi relics inside. After I retrieved the spear, I tagged the car with a tracker. I thought we might want to know where the remaining relics ended up.”
Sonia’s phone buzzed.
She answered, then muted the call.
“The car is moving out of town, east toward Wieliczka. I need to head that way.”
He nodded.
She unmuted the call and told her man to keep her posted. Then she turned for the door to the small office.
“Wait,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Cotton drove, with Stephanie in the seat beside him. He sympathized with her untenable position. Of course, none of it mattered any longer since she would soon be unemployed. True, he did not know her exact age, but it was definitely past sixty-five. So she could retire, travel, enjoy herself. Visit more with her son, Mark, who lived in southern France. Build on her relationship with Danny Daniels. But he knew none of that was going to happen. Stephanie was an intelligence officer through and through. Her husband had died long ago and her career had become her life. Was that a good thing? Maybe not. But it was a fact, and she seemed content with the choices she’d made. He knew of countless situations where her cool head and hard decisions had made all the difference. Where the United States owed her a debt of gratitude. Hell, she’d even been shot in the line of duty. And what had she received?
A pink slip.
“The good thing,” he said, “is that Fox’s people have no idea about the possibility of a connection to the salt mine. The bad thing is someone’s tailing us.”
“I assumed that would happen,” Stephanie said, her gaze fixed out the front windshield. “Fox will want to know what we’re doing.”
“I’m going to drive past the mine. I’ll lose them on the other side of town. Then we’ll double back.” He paused. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”
“I’ve always wondered how my career would end. Nothing goes forever, and God knows I’ve had a great run and lingered far longer than I should have. So maybe it’s time to walk away. Move on.”
“Who are you kidding?”
He caught the grin on her face as she went silent and he checked the rearview mirror. The same car he’d noticed in Kraków remained three back. He assumed it was someone from the embassy. Maybe one of the marines, responding to an order from the White House. Fox had surely wanted Stephanie and him watched. But in his rookie arrogance Fox had not even considered that two experienced intelligence officers would anticipate that move and be ready to counter.
“I’m kidding myself,” she finally said. “You and I both know that. I’m not ready to leave.”
Her world had always been about secrets. Nothing was as it seemed. Every word, every act, suspect. That was how an intelligence officer lived life, and it was tough to readjust.
Which he knew from his own experience.
“This isn’t over,” he said. “If we find that information, the value of your stock just rose.”
He entered the small town of Wieliczka. It lay in a valley between two ridges, ten miles southeast of Kraków. Its old architecture blended perfectly with the greenery of its parks and charming alleys. It had historic churches, a market, and a monastery. But its claim to fame was the salt mine beneath it, which he specifically avoided, easing through the center of town, then out the other side, still headed southeast.
Traffic thinned.
Their pursuer stayed about five hundred yards back, no cars between them now.
Enough cat and mouse.
On a flat stretch of pavement he eased off the gas and allowed the other vehicle to come close. It approached the left rear quarter. He swerved into the opposite lane, slowed a bit, and allowed the car to draw parallel.
A gun appeared.
He and Stephanie slumped down.
“That’s no marine,” she said.
He agreed and played the steering wheel, slamming the right side of his car into the left of the other, momentarily preventing any shooting. Then he pumped the brake and allowed the car to skid to a stop, the other vehicle speeding ahead, where it executed a smooth U-turn and headed back in their direction.
He stamped the accelerator and yanked the steering wheel hard left. A quick roar of an engine came before the skid of rubber as the rear wheels caught the pavement. The car spun, the rear end swinging to change places with the front. He straightened out the hood, giving the engine more gas. He reminded himself that the backseat was loaded with precious relics, which were bouncing around unimpeded.