The Czech speed-dialed his number three, the director of operations. A Cambridge accent answered.
“Sir?”
“I just received your text. Why wasn’t I notified earlier?” The first time stamp was just over two hours old.
“The subject is difficult to identify.”
The Czech knew this to be true. All facial-recognition software was based on comparing existing facial records against new captures. Ryan’s image had been carefully scrubbed from social media by the American government, no doubt to protect the son of the President. Few photos of Ryan were publicly available, and the ones that were came from years past, when he was clean-shaven, thinner, and younger.
“Is the target still in Warsaw?”
“He is, indeed. However, I noticed on his file that he is a priority target but there is no kill or capture order. How would you like me to proceed?”
“Continue camera surveillance until otherwise notified. Understood?”
“Sir.”
The Czech rang off. Ryan’s sudden appearance on the Continent was troublesome. Because of young Ryan, The Czech had the unpleasant experience of meeting John Clark in the early morning a year prior, waking up in his own bed to the cold steel of Clark’s pistol barrel sticking into his ear. The Iron Syndicate had put out a hit on Jack Junior in order to satisfy the vengeance of the Iron Syndicate’s previous boss, Vladimir Vasilev. Young Ryan had killed Vasilev’s nephew, and Vasilev wanted his head in exchange.
Literally.
Clark offered him a deal. In exchange for Clark taking out Vasilev, The Czech would cancel the hit on Jack. “Not only will it make you the head honcho,” Clark had said, “you can avoid the .45-caliber headache waiting for you on the other end of my pistol.”
The Czech agreed.
But Clark further warned that if any harm ever came to Jack, he’d be back, and there would be hell to pay. The Czech had known of Clark’s reputation prior to meeting him that fateful morning—the former Navy SEAL and CIA operator was well known in Soviet bloc intelligence circles.
To his credit, Clark had lived up to his end of their bargain.
But loyalty was a virtue. The Czech prized it above all things, save his own self-preservation. Vasilev had been his boss, but also a brother-in-arms from the old days. Egomaniacal and murderous at the end, Vasilev’s death was necessary for the health of the Syndicate and personally advantageous for Hašek. But the idea that an American cowboy like Clark could murder a Syndicate colleague and escape without punishment was galling in the extreme.
So The Czech held to his bargain with Clark, at least for now. He wanted to keep track of Ryan because Clark would never be far behind him. Killing young Ryan would satisfy his old friend’s last wishes, and killing Clark would be scratching an itch that never left his mind. For now, tracking Ryan would be enough. In time, he was certain an opportunity to kill both men would present itself.
And The Czech was, if nothing else, a patient man.
He pushed his simmering rage out of his mind and turned his thoughts to the day ahead. He broke open a fresh box of shotgun shells and pocketed them, then retrieved his shotgun.
Nothing brightened his mood like the prospect of a good kill.
32
WARSAW, POLAND
Now where?” Liliana asked as she pressed the Audi’s start button.
Jack yawned like a hippo. “I could use a cup of coffee while we wait for Zbyszko’s e-mail.”
“I know just the place. It isn’t far from here. Fantastic coffee. And maybe you’d like a pączki or two.”
“If it’s sweet, I’m in.”
* * *
—
They entered the small, crowded café on the first floor of a remodeled building, shaking the rain off. The air smelled of roasted coffee and sweet baking bread. Jack’s mouth watered.
He noticed mostly young people, fashionably dressed and professional, much like Liliana. Bright laughter and animated Polish voices bounced off the tiled floors. A very social scene. The rain spattered the big picture window as new patrons came in behind them, shaking out their raincoats and umbrellas as they entered the tiny foyer.
“There’s a table,” Liliana said, threading her way across the jam-packed floor.
Jack pointed at a door near the front counter. “I gotta make a pit stop.” He pulled a credit card out of his wallet. “Go ahead and order for us.”
Liliana waved off the card with a friendly grimace. “It’s on me. You’re my guest.”
“The next one’s mine, or else.”
“Or else what?”
“A crisis in Polish–American relations,” Jack said with a wink.