The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(8)
He loved secrecy.
What a thrill to know things others did not. And here he knew something nobody else in the world knew. All others privy to the information were long dead. A fortuitous piece of knowledge that had dropped into his lap. Unimportant at first. Beyond value now. Living by his wits had always intrigued him, as did the danger and glory that intrigue spawned. Not to mention the rewards. But the clammy, tight band of fear that could sometimes encircle his gut like a snake? That he hated.
Reinhardt.
A problem.
One he’d deal with, if necessary.
But first he had to destroy the president of Poland.
CHAPTER FIVE
WARSAW
6:30 P.M.
President Janusz Czajkowski fled the palace and headed for a waiting car. He’d timed this excursion carefully, freeing his calendar for the rest of the day on the pretense of a rare evening off when he could have dinner and retire early. Consequently, no coterie of self-important aides accompanied him. No media. No one, other than his security detail, all agents of the Biuro Ochrony Rz?du, the BOR, Government Protection Bureau. He’d been assigned two armed men and a nondescript Volvo for the off-the-books trip.
The latest incarnation of the Republic of Poland came about in 1989. So as far as countries went, this one was relatively young. There’d been a previous version, but World War II and the Soviet occupation interrupted its existence. Since its rebirth there’d been nine heads of state. The constitution provided for a five-year term with the possibility of a single reelection, but only one of his eight predecessors had managed a second term.
Polish politics, if nothing else, stayed fluid.
Most of the everyday work was done by a prime minister, usually the head of the majority party in Parliament—but in theory it could be anyone. The national constitution provided the president with an executive veto, which could be overridden by a three-fifths majority in Parliament. The president served as the supreme commander of the armed forces, able to order a general mobilization. He nominated and recalled ambassadors, pardoned criminals, and could override certain judicial verdicts. Pertinent to the current predicament, the president was also the supreme representative of the Polish state, with the power to ratify and revoke international agreements.
Lucky him.
He climbed into the car and they motored away from the palace, leaving through a side exit.
His first term was drawing to a close.
The qualifications for president were simple. Be a Polish citizen, at least thirty-five years old on the day of the first round of the election, and collect the signatures of one hundred thousand registered voters. The winner was chosen by an absolute majority. If no candidate achieved that threshold, a runoff was held between the top two. He’d won his first term after a close runoff and another battle loomed on the horizon, as various opponents were emerging. A former prime minister. A popular lawyer. Three members of Parliament. A punk rock musician who headed one of the more vocal minor political parties. A former government minister who’d declared he would run only if Czajkowski pissed him off. Apparently that was now the case as the loudmouth was gathering his hundred thousand signatures.
The coming political season looked to be a lively one.
Thankfully, he was somewhat popular. The latest opinion polls showed a 55% approval rating. Not bad. But not overwhelming, either. Which was another reason he now found himself in a car, watching the kilometers glide by, as he was driven west toward the village of Józefa. After three weeks of searching the source of the problem had been found. A former communist-era loyalist who’d been dead for over a decade. It had been too much to hope that he took whatever he knew to the grave. Instead, some old information had surfaced. And not just random facts and figures. This was something that directly affected him. In fact, it could ruin him. Especially with a hotly contested election on the horizon.
Foolishly he’d believed the past dead and gone.
But now it seemed to be threatening everything.
Time for him to deal with it face-to-face.
* * *
The car passed through Józefa, perched on a cliff overlooking the River Wis?a. It had a long history and an attractive old center, boasting a castle ruin and a cathedral, but its main claim to fame was a nearby refinery that employed hundreds. The house he sought was south of town, on a side road that led away from the river. His driver parked to one side, away from the street, among the trees, where the car would not draw attention. He stepped out into the warm evening and walked toward the front door. A man waited, dressed in a black suit and black tie, with an inscrutable expression that was proper but cold. Micha? Zima. The head of the BOR.
He entered the house.
A simple place, similar to the one in which he’d been raised in southern Poland, close to Rzeszów, his parents farmers, not revolutionaries. But that all changed in the 1980s. Private landownership had never been allowed. To appease a growing unrest, everyone was promised ownership through purchase or inheritance. But it was all a lie. Eventually his parents and most of the other farmers rebelled and refused to sell food at the undercut government-set prices, instead donating their crops to strikers.
A brave act that had made a difference.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Out back.”
“And the other?”
Zima motioned. “In there.”