not hide it. Nor his obvious greed. Just waving the possibility of an easy $10 million was enough to get Jack and Liliana past the Baskerville hounds and into the Baskerville house.
“Then what was the purpose of the meeting?” Liliana drove through a stand of trees on either side of the narrow lane. It looked like some kind of a park or nature preserve.
“That’s a great question.” It really was. Jack knew that his answer would determine his immediate future. Either a chance at cracking open whatever nut Christopher Gage had put together, or a stint of jail time in a Polish prison cell. It all depended on how far he could trust Liliana.
Or if he could trust her at all.
His dad taught him years ago that reading people was one of life’s most important skills. His dad claimed he could assess someone’s character within sixty seconds of meeting them. Until Bosnia, Jack might have thought he possessed the same skill. Now he wasn’t so sure. And now he found himself in yet another vehicle in another foreign country with another beautiful woman who also possessed a pistol that could blow his brains out. Aida had given it her best shot. Would Liliana?
“Are you asking me as a friend or as an agent of the ABW?”
“Oh.” She smiled. “I didn’t realize we were friends.”
“Aren’t we?”
“We’ve only known each other for a few hours.”
“Is there some sort of minimum number of hours required for Polish friendship? Maybe a certificate I need to acquire?”
“How about lunch and we’ll discuss the details?”
“You read my mind.”
“Perfect. I know just the place.”
KRAKÓW, POLAND
Kuchnia u Doroty exuded both Old World charm and modern sensibility, with its exposed-brick walls, terrazzo tile floors, and white linen tablecloths. It was definitely a place for locals and served food family style.
The hostess greeted Liliana with a kiss and the two caught up on recent history in a flurry of words Jack couldn’t possibly follow even if he spoke Polish. Liliana introduced him to her friend and she greeted him with classroom-perfect English, but not without shooting a quick conspiratorial glance at her friend, which Liliana quickly dismissed with a curt shake of her head.
Women.
The hostess ushered them downstairs to a private table away from the other lunchtime guests and left menus with them.
“Hungry?” Liliana asked.
Jack picked up a menu. “Starved. I’m not really into airplane cookies.”
“Me neither. What a penny-pinching asshole.”
“Have I mentioned how good your English is?”
“Have you ever had Polish food before?”
“Besides pączki? No.”
“Then you’re in for a real treat. Do you mind if I order for you?”
“Please.”
* * *
—
Fifteen minutes later, plates of food began landing on the white linen tablecloth like F/A-18F Super Hornets on a carrier deck. They split each plate; Liliana narrated as Jack tucked in.
“Buraczki,” Liliana said, pointing at a plate of shredded beet salad. “A good place to start.”
Jack agreed. The salad was cold and refreshing, and not sweetly pickled after the American fashion.
“Next, gołąbki.” Liliana smiled as Jack dove into the cabbage rolls—rectangles, really—the leaves as thin and translucent as parchment paper, stuffed with minced chicken, pork, and rice, and topped with a tomato gravy.
“Unbelievable.” Jack took another sip of a strong local porter, smooth and potent at 9.8 percent alcohol content.
Outstanding.
The next plate arrived. “Bigos. Very traditional.” She explained it was a stew made with sauerkraut—“Not bitter, like the German kind”—and meat: sausage, pork, and bacon, all sautéed together with onions, garlic, paprika, and other spices.
She was right. The flavor of the sauerkraut was more tangy than sour, and paired perfectly with the protein. His only concern was that he was already starting to fill up.
“Now, for my favorite here. Placki ziemniaczane z gulaszem.”
“Easy for you to say,” Jack said, enjoying his porter. It was so good he seriously considered ordering a second one, but knew if he did that Liliana would have to fireman-carry him up the stairs and pour him into the backseat of her Audi.
Liliana pushed the plate toward him. “Potato pancakes and goulash, though not goulash the way the Hungarians do it.”
The fried potato pancakes were large and thick, and smothered in chunks of buttery-soft pork bathed in yet another rich tomato sauce and topped with a dollop of fresh sour cream. His stomach told him he was topping off, but his taste buds begged him to keep shoveling until the plate was clean.
His taste buds won the argument.
Another wash of dark porter almost emptied the glass and took up the last remaining centimeters of available