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And a good thing, too.
Poland seemed overrun by politics.
There were two major parties. The PO and the PiS. But the variety of middling, minor, and other nonsensical groups seemed endless. About forty at last count, scattered across a wide spectrum of beliefs. Anything and everything. Catholics, conservatives, liberals, communists, socialists, corporatists, nationalists, social democrats, feminists, right-to-lifers. You name it, there was a political party representing that interest.
His favorite?
One from the past.
The Polska Partia Przyjaciól Piwa. The Polish Beer-Lovers’ Party. Its original aim had been to promote beer drinking in English-style pubs, instead of vodka, all designed to fight alcoholism. It emerged in 1990, right after the communist fall, and incredibly, voter disillusionment led 3 percent of the electorate to vote for its candidates, allowing it to win sixteen seats in Parliament. Its platform of quality beer served nationwide became a symbol of freedom of association and expression, intellectual tolerance, and a higher standard of living. Word of mouth also contributed to its popularity, with many openly saying that with the PPPP at the helm it wouldn’t be better, but for sure it would be funnier. But as was typical, the party soon split into factions and eventually dissolved to nothing.
That seemed to be Poland’s fate, too.
Rise and fall.
One incarnation after another.
The country had always been surrounded by empires. Swedes to the north, Cossacks east, Prussians west, Turks in the south, with no natural borders east or west, allowing for a free flow of invaders.
And they’d come for centuries.
It didn’t help that most of the terrain was flat, open plain, ideal for a battlefield, which made it easy for the heel of oppression to always be firmly planted on Poland’s neck.
Eventually a defined state emerged, but it was wiped from the political map in 1795, when Russia, Prussia, and Austria divided up the country, the first European nation to ever meet such a fate. A provision of their secret agreement stressed the necessity of abolishing everything which might recall the existence of a Polish kingdom. Which was precisely what they did. The Prussians melted down the crown jewels. The Austrians turned palaces into barracks. The Russians stole everything they could. Then they collectively proclaimed that Poland had merely been an uncivilized corner of the world in need of redemption.
A second chance at statehood came in the 20th century, but first the Germans stole it away, then the Soviets finished the task—once they liberated the country from the Nazis, they never left. By 1948 the communists totally controlled Poland. Even worse, the Allies at Potsdam reconfigured the borders, ceding away long-held territory and adding new portions, shifting the entire nation two hundred kilometers to the west, making it a different place from before the war. Its first president supported Stalin unconditionally and imposed harsh and repressive measures to cow the people. Workers supposedly played a vital role in running things but, in reality, had no say whatsoever. The standard of living decreased by the year. Most of the national budget went to the military. Coal and other commodities were shipped free to the Soviet Union. The first seeds of rebellion were planted in 1956, but it took a quarter century for those to sprout, another decade to bloom. Only recently had the communist yoke finally been broken and a republic once again established. But the radical shift from one-party rule to a liberal democracy and pluralism had encouraged new thought. No single party had ever achieved any measure of control. Instead, Poland was governed by ever-changing compromise.
Hence politics consumed his every thought.
He often thought it akin to trying to hold ten balloons underwater all at once. One was always slipping away, popping to the surface. And by the time it was retrieved another managed to break loose. It was a nearly impossible task, but one that had to be tried if you wanted to govern the nation. His current coalition of eight varied parties seemed fragile at best. A nervous collection of hawks, doves, and activists. Now the new American president had decided to force himself upon Poland with another cursed European Interceptor Site. He’d served in the government years back, as undersecretary in the foreign ministry, when the idea had first been proposed, then ultimately rejected by all, including the Americans.
Now the dead had come back to life.
And in more ways than one.
He’d genuinely thought the past gone. It all should have died with the communists. The Institute of National Remembrance and its Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Polish Nation had spent years investigating both the Nazi and the communist times. He was there when Parliament issued its mandate for full disclosure and for the past twenty years, the commission had collected millions of pages of archival documents, interviewed thousands of witnesses, and convicted nearly 150 people of crimes against peace and humanity.
All well and good.
Since none of it had involved him.
So far.
He continued to chew on his thoughts but hated the bitter aftertaste. He’d not tasted such disgust in a long time. A soft knock snapped his glum reverie. The door opened and his private secretary said that the head of the BOR was ready to speak with him.
Finally. Maybe some answers.
Michal Zima entered, and they were left alone.
“I have some bad news,” Zima said. “The son was found dead. He hanged himself.”
He was shocked. “How is that possible?”
“We had no indication that he was suicidal. After questioning, I had him placed in a holding cell. He used a bedsheet fastened to one of the bars.”
He rubbed his tired eyes. Dammit. He should have some pity for both the mother and son, but it was the son who had brought all their troubles onto them.
“I’m assuming the guilt over his mother’s death was too much,” Zima said. “He was upset when he was told and asked for some time alone. Nothing indicated that he would hurt himself. I planned to release him shortly.”
“Why?”
“He’s broken no law. We were pushing things, bringing him in for questioning, but I justified that based on the … situation.”
“What situation?”
“Whatever it is the son sold. I can only assume it is a direct threat to the presidency.”
“Or this nation.”
“If that were true, then I would not be kept in the dark. I sense that this is more personal.”
True. But he still was not about to explain himself.
The files from the house had been brought into the palace and lay stacked across the study’s parquet floor. He’d given every page a cursory look and determined there was nothing that related to him. Which meant the important stuff was already gone. Sold. To a man named Jonty Olivier. Zima knew nothing other than what the son had done.
“Did the son tell you anything about what he sold?”
Zima shook his head. “I had not progressed that far in my questioning. I planned to do that once I returned from meeting with you. But by then he was dead.”
Which now seemed like a fortuitous happening. But he did not like people dying in custody. It brought back memories from the 1970s and 1980s.
What a time.
A nationwide labor turmoil had led to the formation of the independent trade union Solidarity, which grew into a powerful, independent political force. To stop its growth, in 1981 martial law was imposed, but two years of oppression failed to quell rising tensions. By 1989 the government was forced to hold the first partially free and democratic parliamentary elections since the end of World War II. Ones they could not manipulate or control.
A year later the Soviet Union collapsed and Lech Walesa, the head of Solidarity, won the presidency.
Then, one by one, communist regimes imploded across Eastern Europe and the Cold War ended.
Throughout communis
t times, the Sluzba Bezpieczenstwa stayed at the forefront of the authoritarian state’s efforts to hold on to power, spreading fear and terror. He knew the numbers. At the end, the SB employed 25,000 agents and had some 85,000 informants. It infiltrated every aspect of Polish life, trying to snuff out dissent. Places like Mokotów Prison flourished. Discontent had always simmered hotter in Poland than in any other Eastern Bloc nation, as there was no socialist tradition here. In fact, the whole concept of from each according to his ability, to each according to his need, which Marx proclaimed, was contrary to the fiercely independent beliefs Poles held dear.
All that was gone.
Though tonight a tiny piece of it had resurrected.
And he felt awful.
“I want that man, Jonty Olivier, located,” he said.
“We are working on that.”
“I want a dossier on him, too. Everything you have. And fast.”
Zima nodded. “Of course.”
“You can go.”
Another privilege of office was the ability to end a conversation whenever he wanted. Zima left.
The evening had turned into a circle of frustration. But he’d fought enough political battles to know that when you gambled, sometimes you lost.
His best hope remained in Bruges.
So he picked up the phone and dialed.
A few moments later Sonia Draga answered.
He said, “Please tell me things are working out there.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cotton sat back in his chair and considered Stephanie’s dilemma. What a tough position. Professionals on one side, idiots on the other. Both dangerous.
Nearly twenty years ago Stephanie had plucked him from the navy and provided him an opportunity to be something more than a lawyer. He’d accepted that offer and risen to the challenge, proving himself more than capable as an intelligence officer. Which resulted in a major career shift to the Justice Department and the Magellan Billet. Stephanie created the unit, a special division within Justice to handle highly sensitive matters. Twelve agents, whom she personally oversaw. He’d stayed for a dozen years, until a bullet tore through his shoulder in Mexico City. He’d managed to take down the shooters, but the resulting carnage had left seven dead, nine injured. One of them had been a young diplomat assigned to the Danish mission, Cai Thorvaldsen. Ten weeks after the massacre a man with a crooked spine appeared at his front door in Atlanta. They’d sat in the den, and he hadn’t bothered to ask how Henrik Thorvaldsen found him.
