Page 17 of Spymaster

Kopec understood that she was limited in what she could divulge. The key lay in coming up with the right questions. “What about warheads? Are any of them nuclear-tipped?”

Once again, the look on her face said it all.Jackpot.

“Jesus, Lydia,” he muttered. “No wonder you don’t want my government involved. What kind of yield are we talking about?”

“I can’t go into detail.”

“I’m going to needsomething. Are they strategic or tactical? How about that?”

She was slow to answer. They were on very dangerous ground.

“From what I understand,” said Ryan, “they’re tactical. Low-yield if that makes any difference or makes you feel any better.”

“Not really.” Kopec knew that the presence of smaller, low-yield “battlefield” nukes only meant they were more likely to get used. And once tactical nukes were in play, the larger, much more devastating strategic nukes were only a step away.

“Artur, if this gets out, understand that the United States is going to deny any knowledge.”

“They can deny it all they want, but if even one of your upgrade kits turns up on Polish television or in one of our newspapers, you’ll be in a bad spot.”

“Which is why I’m asking for your help,” she replied. “The car park where the robbery took place has CCTV cameras. Do you have people back in Poland you trust? Someone you can put on this?”

The man thought for a moment and then nodded.

Pressing forward with the toe of her beige pump, she slid the blue and gold Brooks Brothers bag nearer to Kopec. “I think I got your size right. You can keep the shirt. The file’s underneath.”

“What about expenses? I may need to spread some money around.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand for starters. If this is some low-level criminal operation stealing from parked cars, I may not even need it.”

“And if it’s something else?”

“I may need more. Possibly a lot more.”

She understood. “You’ll provide me with an account?”

Kopec removed a tiny pen and a small pad of paper from his jacket pocket. Writing down a bank name and a series of numbers, he tore off the page, folded it in half, and slid it across the table.

With that part of their business—for the moment—complete, he turned back to the subject of Lydia’s boss. Raising his glass, he offered a toast. “To Reed Carlton. A fine intelligence officer and an even finer gentleman.”

They clinked glasses and drank. A silence then fell over the table. An accomplished intelligence officer herself, Ryan knew better than to move to fill it.

Eventually, it was Kopec who spoke. “I’d like to see him; spend some time with him, before he passes.”

She had expected the request. In fact, she had rehearsed her response. Even so, she spoke her next words carefully.

If the Polish spy-runner sensed anything was off, it would be the end of everything.

CHAPTER 13

HAINAUTPROVINCE, BELGIUM

FRIDAY

Harvath and his team had set up shop in a semirestored, seventeenth-century fortified “chateau.” It didn’t look much like a chateau to him. It looked more like an elongated, three-story farmhouse, surrounded by a high stone wall.

The property was at the end of a gravel road in the Belgian countryside, halfway between the Brussels South Airport in Charleroi and NATO’s Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE) in Mons.

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