by Steve Berry
Now was the moment.
He reached for the cell phone.
Sonia had provided him the unit, noting it would be untraceable. He punched in the number and waited while it rang in his ear. When it was finally answered he realized that the voice had changed little in nearly thirty years. A voice he’d heard for the first time that fateful day, after Mokotów Prison, in a conversation that changed his life.
“I need your help,” he said into the phone.
“Interesting how time has shifted our positions. Once it was I who needed your assistance. What can I do for you, Mr. President.”
“We have to discuss the Warsaw Protocol.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jonty excused himself from his guests and left the great hall, walking back to the castle’s main foyer where, he’d been told, another pair of bidders was arriving. The Iranians, French, and Chinese were already on site, their escorts assuring Vic that everything seemed fine.
No tails. No problems.
He’d dressed for the day, wearing a new suit specially made by a tailor in Paris. Usually French high fashion for men centered on Balmain, Saint Laurent, and Dior. But he preferred the newcomer labels. Places like A.P.C., AMI, and Maison Kitsuné. His girth made for a challenge in crafting an acceptable look, but he genuinely loved the berets, waistcoats, and lapel pins, a mix of classic with more comfort-driven attire, the whole look more English than French. Today’s ensemble was a perfect example. Smart, with a tweed jacket, the fleck of the sturdy wool offset by a pale-blue cotton shirt, bow tie, and leather shoes.
He thought it important to personally welcome the bidders, showing them courtesy and hospitality. Each, so far, had appreciated the gesture, offering their part of the Arma Christi as a welcome, depositing it onto the oak table upon entering the great hall. The site seemed to be working its magic, all of the arrivals impressed by the surroundings and the array of uniformed staff toting trays of fresh hors d’oeuvres and drinks appropriate to each nationality.
His expert was also on site, brought in earlier by Vic, to verify the authenticity of each relic. So far everything had seemed in order. All deemed authentic, including the Nail from Bamberg. Now a fourth participant was arriving.
He stepped from the foyer out into the bright morning sun. The Slovakian weather was cooperating with another glorious late-spring day. A black Mercedes coupe motored into the courtyard and came to a stop. Two men emerged from the backseat. Tall, dark suits, broad-shouldered, Slavic features. Russians. And neither man looked happy to be there.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said to them in English.
One of them answered with a few lines of Russian. He did not need a translator to know the meaning.
He waved a finger. “As advertised, this auction will be conducted in English.”
Neither said a word.
He continued, “I apologize for the insistence, and I mean no disrespect. But please know every effort has been made to make you as comfortable as possible. We have some lovely pelmeni, wrapped in light, paper-thin dough.” He patted his midsection and laughed. “As you can see, I’ve enjoyed a few. I chose the filling myself, a combination of beef, lamb, and pork, spiced with pepper, onions, and garlic. I assure you, they are quite delicious.”
Both Russians broke into a smile.
“How can we refuse such generosity,” the one said in English that tended to thicken the consonants and round the vowels. “I have not had a good pelmeni in some time.”
He noticed that the other man held a small wooden box.
“Is that the Holy Blood from Bruges?”
“It is, indeed.” The man handed it over. “Our ticket to enter.”
He led his new guests into the castle and down a wide corridor to the great hall. He watched as, like the others already there, the new arrivals surveyed the room to ascertain who else would be bidding. He excused himself and caught the attention of the headwaiter, who immediately marched over.
“Please make sure the Russians have whatever they desire to drink. Mention the Tovaritch vodka we have on hand. And bring out the pelmeni.”
The man hurried off.
He, too, glanced around the room.
Four teams there.
Two to go.
Both were en route.
He glanced up at the second-floor railing and spotted Eli taking in the scene. Beside him stood Art Munoz, looking as dour as ever. Jonty had tried to apologize for the wire-down-the-throat business, but the Bulgarian had not been receptive. He’d even offered some generous monetary compensation for the pain and suffering, which was also refused. Apparently, this Bulgarian was not the forgiving type.
Eli tossed him a casual wave, as if to say that he was pleased things were progressing. Germany’s two chairs in the great hall had been removed, and Eli would watch the proceedings from the second floor, out of sight. They’d already agreed to make another trip into the mine in two days’ time to begin a cursory inspection of the containers. He was on the prowl for an expert, one with the historical knowledge along with the discretion to work quickly and quietly. He still liked the idea of selling it all, en masse, to the Poles. But that would be a discussion for another day.
The auction was all that mattered now.
Vic entered the hall and approached.
“The other two teams will be here within the half hour.”
“Is everything okay?”
“So far, no problems. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be any.”
He agreed.
The Iranians and the Russians would be the most dangerous. Both had a lot to lose from American missiles in Poland. Both had few to no scruples and were capable of almost anything. He was betting on them to use money instead of violence, maybe even join forces to raise their bid to astronomical levels, forcing America to counter even higher.
The possibilities seemed endless.
He checked his watch.
Everything would start soon.
CHAPTER FORTY
Cotton sat in the backseat with the black cloth bag over his head, feeling like a fool. Bunch didn’t seem to mind, as he’d not said a word over the past twenty minutes. They’d waited in the tunnel for the decoy Mercedes to lead away any drone that may have been observing. A bit overdramatic in scope but, he had to admit, effective. Obviously, a lot of planning had gone into this.
They’d stayed on a smooth road for most of the way, maintaining a constant rate of speed south, with no stops. That meant a major highway, as there’d been few curves. Then a turn to the west and a curvy path that first ground its way up, then leveled off.
“You can take the hoods off,” one of the men said.
He yanked the cloth off his head and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.
And he saw a castle.
The Mercedes motored beneath a heavy, iron-studded gate, protected by a portcullis, which had been raised to admit them. A stonemason’s sign on the rough wall bore the inscription 1564.
They entered a graveled courtyard. Five-sided. Towers rose to the bright sky, each crowned with a cupola. Some kind of Slovakian fortress. A rotund man in a tweed jacket and bow tie waited near a pedimented door.
“That’s Jonty Olivier,” Bunch whispered.
The Mercedes came to a stop.
Cotton gave the rear floorboard a quick once-over trying to find the tracker, but saw nothing. He could only hope no one ever noticed it.
“You can get out,” the driver said.
He glanced at Bunch who never hesitated, grabbing the black lacquered box with the spear and opening his door. So much for coordinating how they would handle things.
“Gentlemen,” Jonty Olivier said, his arms spread wide. “Welcome.”
Bunch extended a hand, which Olivier shook.
“You work with President Fox?”
“I do,” Bunch said. “He sent me personally to handle this. I believe you and the president spoke?”
Olivier raised a fin
ger to his lips and shushed Bunch quiet. “That’s a secret. Between us. Not everyone received such personal attention.”
Cotton tried to gauge their host. Fashion-conscious? It certainly seemed so. Self-assured? Definitely. In control? That was the impression the man was trying to convey.
“This is for you,” Bunch said, offering the box.
“The Spear of St. Maurice. How utterly exciting. Please, bring it inside.”
Olivier motioned for them to follow.
“We have a special place for it.”
* * *
Cotton studied the castle as they were led into what appeared to be its grand hall. Stout black pillars bore the weight of a flattened vaulted ceiling. A huge open hearth at one end bore the coat of arms of a former owner. Glass windows in black iron frames, high up, allowed in the late-morning sun. Four massive, electrified, gilded-bronze chandeliers provided ample illumination. Eight people milled about, chatting among themselves. Servers offered food and drink. Six pairs of chairs were arranged at the far end, facing a single high-backed chair and a large video screen. Olivier led them to a long oak table supported by legs the size of tree trunks. A portrait of Christ embossed into a copper plate, displayed on an easel, decorated the center. Four other artifacts lay about. The Holy Sponge, the Pillar of Flogging, the True Cross, and the Holy Blood. That meant the Russians were here, but he did not recognize any of the people in the room.
Bunch laid the box on the table, opened the lid and withdrew the spear. Olivier seemed impressed, which was surely Bunch’s intention.
“Quite wonderful,” Olivier noted. “Thank you for bringing it.”
“Like we had a choice,” Cotton said.
Olivier chuckled, merriment in his watery eyes. “No. I don’t suppose you did. But I thank you nonetheless. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other guests arriving.”
Two more pairs, in fact.
Who would bring the Holy Nail and the Crown of Thorns.
Olivier waddled off.
Bunch seemed pleased with himself. “So far, so good. Right, Malone?”
That all depended, but he wasn’t about to discuss those possibilities with this idiot. Hopefully, somewhere out there Sonia Draga was coming this way. He’d seen little security, but that did not mean none existed. No cameras ringed the great hall, but again they could be concealed. He’d noticed an older man on the second floor, peering down from the stone balustrade, watching with great intensity.
Just one more odd thing to add to the list.
Bunch captured a flute of champagne from a passing tray and motioned to ask if he should take another. Cotton shook his head and walked over to a table where ice water was being offered and poured himself a glass. He assumed they were about forty to fifty miles inside Slovakia. He hadn’t been able to see any of what was beyond the castle as the courtyard had totally blocked his field of vision and the windows here, in the great hall, were too high up. Olivier had made sure that there would be little to nothing that could be used to pinpoint a location. That should not hinder Sonia. But what exactly would she do?
Good question.
He glanced across at the delegates and wondered if any of them had also managed to lead the way for someone else. Or was he the only bird dog on this hunt? Bunch sauntered over and approached the Chinese delegation. One of the serving staff removed the Holy Lance from the table and carried it off. Most likely to confirm authenticity. But this auction wasn’t about sacred relics. They were merely icing. The cake was damaging information on the current president of Poland.
“Malone,” Bunch called out. “Come over here. I want to introduce you.”
The man was oblivious to anything and everything beyond himself. But something about this whole setup screamed trouble.
And he still wondered about the older guy in the second-floor gallery.
Who was he?
And why was he there?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Czajkowski liked the fact that no one recognized him. He’d dressed in casual clothes and blended in easily with the hundreds of people that surrounded him. Most were foreign tourists, many pilgrims, their presence understandable given he was entering Poland’s spiritual capital.
An abbey had stood on the hill beneath him since the 13th century, manned continuously by the Pauline Fathers. It grew into a fortified complex of thick stone walls that had withstood multiple sieges, the most notable from the Swedes in 1655. The nearby town of Częstochowa, along the River Warta, had always been a center for trade, and now was a major industrial center for metals, textiles, and chemicals.
He’d left Kraków in an unmarked car with two of his security detail. The drive north had taken a little over an hour through a picturesque stretch of limestone hills called the Jurassic Upland. Many of the mounds, which stretched for hundreds of miles in both directions, were crowned with castle ruins in what had come to be labeled the Trail of the Eagle’s Nest. Another popular destination. Buses flooded there every day, offering tourists some amazing photo opportunities of sites that once protected Poland from invaders.
He followed the crowds and climbed the wide stone steps, passing beneath the first of four gates that led into Jasna Góra Monastery. They were not only highly ornamented and strikingly beautiful, but practical, too, since they presented an invader with multiple challenges to gain entry. The rest of the monastery was surrounded by thick bastions with ramparts at each corner, all defensive in nature.
Every day, from dawn to dusk, streams of pilgrims approached the monastery via a long tree-lined avenue that led into town. He’d passed today’s visitors on the drive in, the groups deep in prayer and singing hymns. Many of the pilgrims wore badges with the name of their hometown and a number showing how many times they’d come before. Fitting that he, too, was making a pilgrimage, only of a different kind, with a different purpose.
He passed through the last gate and entered an enclosed area surrounded by buildings. Waiting for him was a stout, white-robed man with a neck and chin covered in a thick, matted beard. The man had aged in the years since he’d last seen him, the belly a bit fuller, hair thinner, the jowls drooping. Interesting that this man—whom he knew to be clever, tough, resourceful, and completely without conscience—had become a monk.
“So wonderful to see you again,” the man greeted.
It had been two decades since their paths had last crossed.
“Mirek, or I should say Father Hacia. It’s wonderful to see you, too.”
His old friend extended a hand, more like a paw, which he accepted and shook. The grip remained hard and firm. His two security men stood a few feet away, trying to blend in. People streamed in and out from the nearby ticket office. He knew that all of the tours were guided by monks.
“Not working today?” he asked Mirek.
“I was. Until you called.”
He caught the glint in the older man’s eyes. Just like the old days.
“Shall we go inside,” Mirek said. “Where we can have some privacy.”
He turned to his security men and told them to wait in place. Neither was happy about that decision, but no arguments were offered.
Above him rose a tower, over a hundred meters, one of the tallest in the country, topped by a cross. About a third of the way up the cream-colored brick façade a clock face read 11:50 A.M. He could not linger long. Sonia would be dealing with the auction soon and he had to be available when she called.
But this had to be done.
Mirosław “Mirek” Hacia once served a high position within Solidarity. Of course, he was also much younger, as they all were back then. Hacia’s job was not one that the organization had ever publicly recognized. His name had never appeared in any of the countless books that had been written about the movement. Only a few had known of his existence. But he was a man with a razor-sharp mind and a vast repertoire of talents. Czajkowski only learned of him after his unexpected visit to Mokotów Prison, when he was confronted on the street by three men and
led away to an apartment in a crowded Warsaw neighborhood.
Mirek had been waiting there.
“Please, Janusz. Have a seat.”
“How do you know my name?”
“It’s my job to know those things.”
He remained standing. “What do you want with me?”
“We need your help.”
“Who is we?”
“Your country. Your brothers in the fight against the oppressors. Solidarity. Choose one.”
“You know where I’ve just been.”
Hacia nodded. “That is exactly why we need your help.”
He was so confused. First the government had coerced him, wanting from him that which he could never deliver. Now his own people were doing the same thing.
“What do you want?” he asked again.
“Are you still forcing people into doing what you desire?” he asked Mirek as they walked.
“There’s not much call for my services within the order. I dedicate myself these days to more selfless endeavors.”
He doubted that, since this man had headed Solidarity’s most secret intelligence and counterintelligence units. For more than ten years Mirek had wreaked havoc with the SB, disrupting the security services at every turn, turning their own tactics against them, creating nothing but chaos.
They entered the Basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary and Founding of the Holy Cross, an enormous brick-and-stone structure elongated toward the north. Its vaulted ceiling was covered in rich stucco frameworks, everything colorful and airy. Frescoes abounded, as did polychrome paintings, all geared to the Virgin Mary—appropriate, since the entire monastery was a Marian shrine. Groups of people milled about admiring the spectacle, all accompanied by white-robed guides.