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His cell phone vibrated.
He found the unit and saw it was Sonia.
“I hope you have good news,” he said, answering.
“The tracker worked,” she said. “The auction is occurring at Sturney Castle, inside Slovakia. Not that far away.”
No, it wasn’t. “Where are you?”
“Positioned about half a kilometer away, among the trees. I’ve watched as three cars drove inside, all similar to the cars that brought Cotton and Bunch.”
“You still think Malone knew you would be following?”
“Absolutely. You have to think that whoever transported Malone and Bunch to the castle guarded against being followed. Yet Cotton made sure that tracker stayed active. I was able to stay a long way back. Now I just have to figure out how to get inside, undetected.”
“What do you plan to do, once there?”
“Improvise.”
“Be careful.”
“You sound like you care.”
“I do.”
He heard the smile in her voice.
“Which is wonderful to hear. I’ll check back when I have something to report.”
The call ended.
He considered having Miroslaw “Father Mirek” Hacia arrested and a full-scale search instituted for his so-called proof. Maybe tie him naked over a stool? He hated himself for even thinking such a thing. Was that desperation? What else could it be? It drove the communists, but it would never motivate him. He was the duly elected president of the Republic of Poland. Entrusted with looking after the welfare of the nation. His job was to make smart, informed decisions that advanced the greater good. Only this was personal. No other way to view it, since everything was being directed his way.
“Do you wish to go to the airport?” one of the security men asked.
They were headed south back toward Kraków and would pass the airport on the way. But he could not return to Warsaw.
Not yet.
“No. To the hotel, please.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Eli Reinhardt stood just inside the open bedroom door, listening to what was happening past the second-floor railing, down in the great hall. It seemed everything was about to begin.
He turned to Munoz. “Are you ready?”
His associate nodded and walked over to the bed. A black Louis Vuitton duffel bag lay on the woven spread. They’d brought it with them when they arrived last night at the castle. Jonty had been overly accommodating and not searched anything. Eli had been counting on a drop in guard, hoping Olivier would be trying as hard as he could not to antagonize anyone. That was why he’d made such an inviting offer to seal their “partnership,” conceding away half of the hidden cache and defraying any financial interest in the auction save for a relatively small cash payment. Of course twenty million euros was not necessarily “small,” but he had to display some semblance of opportunism. Otherwise, Jonty definitely would have become suspicious. Now here he was, exactly where he wanted to be.
He listened as Jonty called for the first round of bids. He heard fifty million euros. Then sixty. Seventy.
“We need to deal with Mr. DiGenti,” he said to Art. “While things progress below.”
Munoz reached into the duffel bag and removed two Uzis with extended forty-round clips. An old-school weapon, but proven and reliable. He laid them on the bed, then found two pistols, with sound suppressors attached to their short barrels, inside the bag. Eli grabbed one of the pillows and handed it to Munoz. They slipped from the room, staying close to the inner wall, the second-floor railing three meters away. No way they could be seen from below. They left the gallery and found a corridor at one end that led deeper into the castle. DiGenti was holed up in one of the second-floor bedrooms in a makeshift command post, monitoring the closed-circuit cameras that watched the main gate and other points beyond the walls, waiting for the auction to conclude. The jammer was located there, too, which cut off all communications in and out. A single laptop was the exception, hot-wired to a direct internet line to be used shortly to verify the high bid and transfer funds. Jonty had seemed quite proud of all the preparations when he’d shown them off earlier.
They approached the closed door.
He signaled for Art to position himself to one side while he grabbed the knob. His minion gripped the gun, nestling the suppressor’s end into the pillow. What was about to happen would be irrevocable. No turning back. But he’d known that would be the case when he agreed to all of this in the first place.
He gripped the knob and slowly turned, pushing the heavy panel inward. DiGenti reacted to the intrusion by springing to his feet, where he sat before video monitors, and turning toward the door, reaching for a weapon in a shoulder holster. Art never hesitated, firing the 9mm twice and sending the thin, wiry man to the floor. They entered and Eli closed the door. Art fired one last time through the pillow, planting a third round into DiGenti’s skull.
Little sound had escaped.
Perfect.
He approached the monitors and studied the images, each a different swath of the outer walls and the road into the castle. Leaves on the birches and oaks hung motionless in the midday sun.
DiGenti was all Jonty had for protection inside the castle. The staff had left just before the auction began, as had all the chauffeurs. No chance for any prying eyes or ears to see or hear anything. A wise precaution, but it also provided the perfect opportunity.
He found the signal jammer and switched it off.
Then he sent a text message out over his phone that all was clear.
One more thing.
He stepped over and searched DiGenti’s pockets, hoping. Jonty had told the participants that his man would be available to lead the winner to the prize, saying that his associate was not yet aware of the information’s location.
That had to be a lie.
Jonty would never have done that all by himself.
Perhaps there was some written record of that location? And in the front pocket he found a folded sheet of paper. On it was written 9 BOBOLA.
Was this it?
Could be.
He pocketed the paper.
“Let’s return to the auction and see where it goes,” he said, his voice low. “And finish this.”
* * *
Cotton was impressed.
The latest bid was 120 million euros from the Iranians. The French and the Chinese seemed to have hit their limit, as they’d not upped the ante once it topped one hundred million. The North Koreans also were beginning to go silent. It seemed to be a battle between Russia, Iran, and the United States, the three with the most skin in the game.
“One hundred fifty million,” Bunch said in a firm, decisive voice.
Quite a jump.
Thirty million euros in one swipe.
“One hundred sixty,” the Russians bid.
Olivier was directing traffic in a calm, collected manner, keeping things moving, not allowing a lot of time for the participants to hesitate. He could, at any moment, bring things to a close, and none of the three still in the game would want that to happen. Not unless, of course, one of them was the high bidder.
“One hundred seventy-five,” the Iranians said.
“Two hundred million,” the Russians countered.
“Two fifty,” Bunch called out.
A quarter of a billion euros. Cotton wondered if any piece of information was worth that much.
But apparently so.
“You do realize,” one of the Russians said, “that we have lots of money, too.”
“Then spend it,” Bunch said. “Two hundred and fifty million euros is America’s bid.”
“Three hundred,” the Russian said, his face defiant.
“Three fifty,” Bunch countered.
“Four hundred,” the North Koreans said.
Which momentarily jarred the room.
Cotton wondered where the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea would get nearly half a billion euros. That w
as a substantial sum for anyone.
No one countered.
“What’s the problem?” he whispered to Bunch.
“It’s getting out of hand.”
“You think?”
“Four hundred and fifty million,” the Russian said in a calm voice.
Something was wrong. The bidding was progressing in unusual leaps. No one was interested in inching the price upward. Instead they all seemed intent on preempting the others with outrageous numbers. He stared at the participants hoping to transmit some of his own suspicions to them.
“Five hundred million,” Bunch said.
Silence reigned.
The two Russians stood from their chairs. “We are done. Have a car brought for us.”
“I must conclude this auction first,” Olivier said.
“This auction is over for us.”
“What’s the matter,” Bunch said. “Sore loser?”
The taller of the two Russians glared at Bunch, then said, “Mr. Malone. You met a man in Bruges. Did he not tell you what our intent would be.”
We not know where auction will occur. But when we do, we will act. Tell Stephanie Nelle that I do not bluff.
Ivan’s words right before he fired the Taser.
“That intent has not changed,” the Russian said.
Cotton caught another pinprick of trouble in the man’s cutting black eyes, a spark that flared a warning.
Not good.
“We wait outside.”
The two Russians marched from the hall.
“Are there any more bids?” Olivier asked.
