yanked open the Audi’s passenger door and fell in.
“Dzień dobry.”
Liliana smiled. “Dzień dobry. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a rock.”
“Then we’ll get started.”
“Great. Where to first?”
“My office.”
* * *
—
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack sat in Liliana’s modest office on the fourth floor of the nondescript and unmarked six-floor building on Rakowiecka Street that housed the ABW. It had all the charm of a Communist-era police headquarters building, which, in fact, it had been.
Jack was greeted at the front door by internal security and issued a temporary visitor’s pass after his passport was scanned.
They spent the next four hours poring over computerized tax records, business licenses and applications, corporate filings, and even bankruptcies.
Jack’s Polish was nil, but the search function on Liliana’s computer was fluent enough to search for word combinations and variants of “Christopher Gage,” “Baltic General Services,” “Gage Group International,” and even “Gage Capital Partners.” Jack wanted to add “Dixon” to the search but didn’t dare drag the senator’s name into this—certainly not at Polish ABW headquarters—and besides, if she were up to something illegal, she’d hardly put her name on it.
Property tax records showed the location of a BGS holding in Gdańsk. “Looks like this building is down by the port.” Jack pointed it out on the computer screen.
“Most likely a warehouse of some kind. Could be a repair or maintenance facility as well. Or some combination of the three.”
Well, that was something, at least.
Liliana checked her watch. “How about some lunch? I know a great restaurant. Best pierogi in town.”
Jack was afraid to count the number of carbs he’d socked away yesterday, but it was so damn worth it.
What’s another five thousand calories at this point?
“Sounds great.”
“You’ve had them before?”
“Never. But I saw the way your eyes lit up when you said ‘pierogi,’ so I know it’s gonna be good.”
Liliana pulled her shoulder holster off the coatrack and slipped it back on. Jack looked away as the straps cinched around her shoulders, emphasizing the curves of her upper torso.
“Nine-mil?” Jack asked as she holstered her weapon.
“You know guns?”
“A little.”
“Are you any good?”
“Haven’t shot myself in the foot yet. So not bad, I guess.”
“Perhaps I can get permission to take you down to the shooting range later. Would you like that?”
“Yes, I would, actually.”
“And to answer your question, yes, it’s a nine-millimeter WIST-94, a Polish-designed and -manufactured pistol.”
She unholstered the weapon, dropped the mag, and racked the slide to clear the chamber, launching a bullet that Jack snatched in midair.
“Nice catch. Here.” She handed him the gun, butt first.
He felt the weight in his hand. Polymer and steel, like the Glock 19, which he personally favored. This one was bigger, like a Glock 17. And like the Glock, the safety was in the trigger. John Clark still preferred an all-steel Colt .45 1911. “Old-school,” Clark said. “It’s how I survived long enough to get old.”
Jack wanted to sight the pistol, maybe even break it down. But he had a cover to maintain, so he played it cool.
“How many rounds?”
“Sixteen in the mag, one in the chamber—well, one in the hand, eh?” She held out her open palm.
“Oh, yeah.” Jack dropped the brass into her hand.
They locked eyes. Jack felt a tingling in the back of his neck. Somewhere else, too. Was she checking him out?
Or just testing him?
He smiled and handed her the gun back, butt first.
She slammed the mag home and racked the slide, putting one in the chamber, then dropped the mag and loaded the last bullet into it, then reloaded the mag and holstered her weapon.
Jack knew she’d keep count of the number of shots fired in a gun battle. Seventeen was her number, and she wasn’t going to screw that up.
“Ready.”
“Lead the way, Officer.”
* * *
—
The Warsaw air was cool but delightful, and the sky clear. A perfect day to walk anywhere, but especially to lunch.
“I can’t thank you enough for all of the help you’ve given me today,” Jack said.
“You’re welcome. It’s a nice change of pace from what I normally do.”
“That’s right, I forgot. You’re an undercover piano player for the Polish security services. What’s your latest case? Let me guess. The Austrian Mafia is smuggling unlicensed harpsichords into the country.”
She laughed. “I wish. I’m working on a very nasty drug case at the moment, and with a vile human trafficking ring. Young Eastern European girls who were promised the moon, only to be dumped into Dante’s Inferno.”
Jack wanted to commiserate with her. The child-trafficking case in Texas that The Campus had worked on