Page 62 of Spymaster

CHAPTER 38

MINSK, BELARUS

The only person Artur Kopec could trust with more than one hundred thousand dollars in cash was Tomasz Wójcik.

Wójcik had made a fortune in bribes and kickbacks while head of Poland’s Central Anticorruption Bureau, or CBA. If not for Kopec, he probably would have gotten away with it. Wójcik was absolutely amazing when it came to offshore banking and laundering money.

What had tripped him up was a singular piece of misfortune. He had employed someone who was already an intelligence asset on Kopec’s payroll. When the asset informed Kopec of who Wójcik was and what he wanted, Kopec encouraged him to take the illicit job and further the relationship. Once Wójcik had fully implicated himself, Kopec had sprung.

He had given the corrupt official two choices—he could be prosecuted and go to jail, or he could come to work for Kopec. The man had chosen wisely. He had gone to work for Kopec.

It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Considering the side jobs Kopec took from time to time, like the one he was on for the Americans right now, a man like Wójcik was good to have on the payroll.

Now, a leather Gurkha messenger bag slung from his shoulder, Wójcik made his way through Gorky Park—the oldest park in the city—named after the Soviet-era writer known as Maxim Gorky.

Wójcik’s psoriasis was flaring up. Even though he had slathered his body with ointment before leaving the hotel, the flaky patches of red skin had returned. They were inflamed and itched terribly.

Though it was the stress, he blamed the weather. He hated it in Europe. He would have much preferred retiring to the Caribbean, or maybe the Florida Keys, but Kopec had forbidden it. Vacations? No problem. Permanent residency outside Poland? No way.

The Polish intelligence officer lorded his power over him. Wójcik’s life was not his own—at least not to the degree any free person would have desired. Though he lived comfortably in Warsaw, he lived as an indentured servant. Kopec could pull his passport at any time. Even more troublesome, he could turn him over to the authorities.

Wójcik tried to keep that in mind and to find the bright side. His wife of forty-seven years had died the winter before. He had been by her side when she passed, rather than rotting away in a Polish prison cell. He saw his children and grandchildren on a regular basis. He came and went, within reason, as he pleased. It was a prison of sorts, but it could have been much worse.

He thought about that as he strolled through the park toward the planetarium on the other side of the fifty-six-meter-high Ferris wheel.

It was a Saturday night and the park was quite lively—packed with families and lots of young people. He could hear music and laughter all around.

Kopec had sent him as a courier, his leather bag filled with American currency. He was to meet with his counterpart from Belarus, Pavel Kushner.

Kushner had been chairperson of the Central Department for Combatting Organized Crime and Corruption at the Belarusian Ministry of Internal Affairs.

The pair had met, quite by accident, via a shared private banker in Switzerland. Certain financial synergies quickly became apparent. Within months, they had discovered a very profitable way to exploit the border between Poland and Belarus.

That exploitation was why Wójcik had been sent to see his old friend and business partner.

At the third bench before the observatory, Wójcik took a seat and unslung the messenger bag.

Setting it next to him, he slid his hand beneath his coat and scratched at the painfully dry skin of his upper left arm and shoulder.

Unfortunately, it didn’t bring him much relief and might have only made it worse.

Fishing a flask from his interior coat pocket, he looked around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, unscrewed the cap, and took a long pull of a spiced Polish liqueur known askardamonka.

Down the esplanade, he could see Kushner, slightly bent, and in his trademark black trench coat, walking in his direction. Wójcik returned the flask to its hiding place and stood to greet him.

The two men embraced each other and then sat down.

“I’m sorry to take you away from your weekend,” said Wójcik. “Thank you for coming back into town to see me.”

“Our dacha is only an hour away,” replied Kushner. “Besides, you said it was important. And worth my while.”

Wójcik nodded at the Gurkha. “The money and the photos are inside.”

Unzipping the briefcase, Kushner looked inside. “I don’t know much about missile technology,” he said. “But if your missing upgrade kits came into Belarus, there’s only a handful of people who can move them. I know someone I can ask.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Give me a couple of days. Where are you staying?”

---