She slipped back down.
“No one is up there,” she whispered.
Sonia motioned, and they headed for the metal doors.
* * *
Cotton watched as Ivan settled himself back into the boat. The gun had fired, but nobody had been hit. He wondered about the packet, but assumed it lay safely in the boat.
“You’re not getting out of here,” he said.
Ivan again held the pistol.
He displayed his, too.
“Neither of us is getting away.” Ivan chuckled. “You almost got me. I not able to swim.”
“That won’t matter here. The lake is loaded with salt brine. Nothing sinks. You could walk on this water.”
“Great comfort to know. But I still not like water.”
“And yet here you are. On a lake.”
Ivan shrugged. “Do what we must.”
“I want that packet.”
“Let’s be reasonable, Malone. Your president not reasonable. You’re not him. We use this information to do what Poland wants. No missiles. What’s the harm?”
“You killed a lot of people to get your hands on that packet.”
“I do job, Malone. We all do job.”
“I just don’t commit mass murder while doing mine.”
“You feel sorry for those people? They not your friend. They not America or Russia’s friend.”
He was trying to decide if Ivan was stalling or just unsure as to his next move. He’d only dealt with the man once before, but he’d never known any Russian foreign intelligence officer to be either stupid or cowardly. Especially not one of Ivan’s age and stature, surely starting young with the KGB then, once the Soviet Union fell, gravitating to the SVR. At best the man was immoral, more likely amoral, which only compounded the threat.
A lot was at stake here.
As Ivan had told him back in Bruges, Moscow did not want to spend billions of rubles deploying missiles of their own just to counter the American move. Not when the problem could be dealt with quickly and quietly with some good old-fashioned blackmail.
But all that was now in jeopardy.
* * *
Eli heard a noise from behind.
The metal doors had squeaked open.
He stood inside a chamber exhibiting a variety of salt sculptures, all artfully lit with floodlights casting an eerie glow.
Was it some of the frightened tourists coming their way?
“We need to see who this is,” he whispered to Munoz.
Then he heard voices.
From the opposite direction.
Ahead.
Trouble in both directions?
“You see what that is,” he whispered to Munoz, finding the weapon he’d brought along in his coveralls. “I’ll check what’s behind us.”
Munoz headed off.
He assumed a position in the shadows, gun ready.
And waited.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Czajkowski felt a surge of excitement, but no fear. He wasn’t a rookie to danger. For years back in the 1980s he’d walked a fine line where the government could have turned on him at any moment. Playing both ends against the middle was not something for the faint of heart. So he’d learned how to handle himself under extreme pressure. Here, nothing less than his whole life was on the line.
He’d been a damn good president of Poland and wanted to finish what he started with five more years. They would be his last. After that, he’d become an ex-statesman and join the ranks of the irrelevant, making speeches and accomplishing nothing. But before that happened, he wanted to leave a mark on his homeland. Change things for the better. Bring Poland closer to the West and make it warier of the East.
Thankfully, the government had matured. No longer could fringe groups, like the Polish Beer-Lovers’ Party, achieve much political success. The days of ridicule were over. Luckily, the economy was strong. He’d been fortunate to be elected during an economic upturn, and the people were far more forgiving when more money lay in their pockets. He’d taken advantage of that prosperity and introduced new, generous family benefits that helped the poor. Such a notion had once been foreign to Polish politics. But the concepts had been embraced. He’d worked hard to make Poland a regional leader in political, social, and economic development. An important member of the EU and NATO. But there were many who wanted a much more nationalistic stand, a return to isolationism. Poland for Poles. Some of which he did not disagree with. Like stopping American missiles, aimed supposedly at Iran, from being planted on Polish soil. Missiles that could easily be redirected toward Russia. Missiles that endangered every citizen.
That was madness.
Talk about poking the bear.
He and Sonia stepped past the metal door and headed through another lit chamber, finding the exit on the far side. He was grateful for the cool air, his brow beaded with sweat.
Nerves?
Surely.
The gun Sonia had provided was tucked into one of the thigh pockets of his coveralls. Better to keep it there until truly needed. Hopefully, that moment would never come. The image of the president of Poland toting a weapon around a national historic site would not play well in the media.
Sonia was armed.
And that seemed protection enough.
* * *
Eli stood close to the rough wall, away from the few lights that backlit the rest of the chamber. No artifacts adorned this room, only another chapel with an altar and figurines, which was in much better shape than the one he’d seen below. He stood in blackness, watching the entrance from which he’d arrived to see who was coming.
A woman entered.
Sonia Draga.
Armed.
Behind her came a man.
No, not any man.
Janusz Czajkowski.
Finally.
Providence had smiled upon him.
* * *
Cotton stared over at Ivan. “Do you know about an egg-sucking dog?”
“Sounds highly American.”
“Not at all. They’re everywhere. Even in Russia. Every once in a while a farm dog will acquire a taste for fresh eggs. They’ll kill the chickens to get them, too. They don’t really suck the eggs. More eat them whole. But once a dog gets a taste for egg, there’s no breaking him of it.”
“Sounds like greedy dog.”
“Obsessed. Bewitched. That dog lives to get into other people’s henhouses. And nothing will stop it,” he paused, “short of killing.”
Ivan chuckled. “Your president is the egg-sucking dog.”
He shrugged. “Maybe so. But right now you’re the one I have to deal with. You’re in my henhouse. And if you don’t stop eatin’ my eggs up, though I’m not a real bad guy, I’m goin’ to get my rifle and send you to that great chicken house in the sky.”
He sang the words to a mournful tune he recalled from long ago.
“It’s a Johnny Cash song,” he said to Ivan. “My grandfather used to sing it when he worked.”
“You stalling, Malone?”
“I am.”
“Hoping help will come.”
“That is the plan.”
“Maybe I have help, too.”
“I saw Reinhardt and Munoz heading off. I suppose they could find their way here.”