Spymaster

CHAPTER 59

Tomasz Wójcik was sitting in the Crowne Plaza’s trendy Empire Restaurant, enjoying the view over the city, when Pavel Kushner arrived. He was carrying a large, black leather briefcase, similar to what pilots carried.

“You should have started without me,” said Kushner as he sat down.

“I did,” Wójcik replied. “You’re late. I finished eating a half hour ago.”

The Belarusian smiled. His friend had gotten curmudgeonly in his old age. He probably wasn’t having enough sex. He should have taken him up on his offer to arrange a girl for him. A young lady of lower social responsibility would have helped reinvigorate his manhood.

“Did you have the buffet?” asked Kushner. “Or did you order off the menu?”

“I had a hard-boiled egg, toast, and coffee,” the Pole replied matter-of-factly.

“You know what?” his friend replied, eyeing the nearby buffet. “I really think retirement agrees with you. You were much more uptight in the old days.”

Wójcik wasn’t in the mood. Both of the nights that he had been in the hotel, he had slept like crap. The first night that was because his room had been right next to the elevators, which had chimed all night long. And the second night, after they had moved him, there’d been a bunch of drunks stumbling up and down his floor. He couldn’t wait to get out of Minsk and back to Poland.

“So what do you have for me?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” said Kushner. “First, I need to get some breakfast. I’m starving.”

The Pole almost couldn’t believe it. His friend had arrived almost an hour late, and now wanted him to wait while he hit the buffet.

“By all means,” Wójcik replied. “Take your time.”

His facetiousness was completely lost on the man.

Watching as he quickly walked over to the buffet, he had to wonder if Pavel was actually hungry, or if he was just eager to chat up the very large-breasted woman picking up berries, one at a time, with a pair of tongs and daintily placing them on a small white plate.

Signaling the waitress, the Pole politely requested more coffee. He looked at his watch and tried to figure out how long it would take to get home if he was able to leave in the next half hour. Depending on traffic, it was a seven- to eight-hour drive. Kopec had forbidden him to fly. Customs at the Minsk airport was much tougher than at the vehicle border crossing.

Since their meeting Saturday night in Gorky Park, his psoriasis had only gotten worse. No matter how much ointment he applied, it wasn’t getting any better. In fact, it had spread. He really needed to decrease his stress.

Pulling out his phone, he searched for the nearest drugstore. He would pick up some petroleum jelly and slather his affected skin before leaving. He hoped that would provide enough relief for him to withstand the uncomfortable drive home.

“Did you see that woman in the knit dress?” Kushner asked as he sat down, his plate piled high with eggs, pancakes, and bacon.

“How could anyone miss her?”

“She’s from Babruysk. You know what they say about women from Babruysk.”

“Actually, in Warsaw we don’t talk about women from Babruysk that often. In fact, it’s probably closer to never. Can we get on with our business, please?”

“My dear, dear Tomasz,” Kushner replied. “What good is all the money we made, and all the risks we took, if we cannot enjoy ourselves?”

“Pavel, we have known each other for many years, so I hope you’ll appreciate my being comfortable enough with you to be frank. Knock off the bullshit. Do you have something for me, or not?”

“What I have is a prediction for you. Within a year, unless you loosen up, you will be in a retirement home.”

The Pole shook his head. “Of all the meetings I have ever had, this is the one I should have brought a gun to. You’d better have more than just a prediction in that briefcase, old friend.”

Kushner smiled. “Would I disappoint you, old friend?” he asked, opening the case to show him what was inside.

Wójcik removed the file folder from his own briefcase and compared the pictures Kopec had given him to what he was now looking at. It was a perfect match. Kushner appeared to have secured the components from one of the upgrade kits.

“Where did you get that?”

The Belarusian shrugged. “It wasn’t difficult. I told you. There are only a few people in Belarus who could handle something like this.”

“Where are the rest of the kits?”

“They’re safe.”

“I paid you one hundred thousand dollars to locate them,” said the Pole.

“Which I did,” Kushner replied. “I even brought one here to prove it to you. If you have a buyer interested in the entire lot, I’d be happy to let my source know.”

Wójcik looked at him. “So now you’re the broker on this deal?”

“As far as you’re concerned, yes.”

“Who has the upgrade kits?”

“My dear Tomasz, it would be highly unethical of me to divulge that information,” said the Belarusian.

Wójcik felt a wave of nausea coming over him. Kopec was going to be extremely angry at this development.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to remain calm. “How about this? Let’s go downstairs to my room. I’ll take a few photographs of the merchandise, contact my client, and we’ll take things from there.”

“Can I finish my breakfast first?” asked Kushner.

“Bring it with you,” replied the Pole, removing several bills from his wallet and placing them on the table. “I’ll carry the case.”

Picking up his plate and his coffee cup, Kushner followed Wójcik to the elevator and down to his room.

There, Wójcik produced a small digital camera and took pictures of the components from every conceivable angle.

When he was finished, Kushner shoveled the last bite of food into his mouth, repacked the equipment into his briefcase, and headed for the door.

“Wait a second,” said Wójcik. “Where are you going?”

“If your client is interested, you know how to reach me,” Kushner replied. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Leaving the room, the Belarusian was careful to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. He had been warned that Wójcik likely had a tail.

As he disappeared into the stairwell, a man stepped out of a doorway at the other end of the hall. Seeing that the Pole’s visitor had left, he removed his encrypted cell phone and composed a message. Oleg Tretyakov would want to know everything that had happened.