The Warsaw Protocol

by Steve Berry

  Mirek had stayed within Solidarity until 1991. Once Wałęsa had been elected president, there was no further need for his services. He’d then moved into the government and worked there for a while, but eventually faded away. About ten years ago he resurfaced as a Pauline monk.

  “Why did you turn to the church?”

  Mirek shrugged. “God called me. I simply answered.”

  Short. Concise. To the point. Classic Mirek.

  “I never thought of you as religious,” he said. “Not ever.”

  “Faith is a personal matter. One we keep to ourselves. But with what we did, faith seemed the only way for me to stay sane.”

  That was true. Faith among those who once fought the communists had been strong. The church had played a key role in all that happened, aided by the fact that the pope at the time was Polish. Many took that as a sign from God that they were on the right track.

  “Now it is my life,” Mirek said.

  And he believed that. Mirek, if nothing else, was a pragmatic man, and whatever he did, he did well. Their first encounter in 1982 had been both unexpected and confrontational. But after that, they became more than colleagues. Perhaps even friends. Until 1991 they worked closely together, behind the scenes, implementing what they called the Warsaw Protocol.

  Mirek stopped, standing beside him. “It’s interesting, is it not? The two of us, here, and no one seems to know who we are. Me? That’s understandable. I was always anonymous. But you. Once anonymous, but no longer.”

  Several hundred people roamed about around them, many headed toward the Chapel of the Miraculous Image, the main reason why pilgrims traveled to this holy spot.

  “This is about as anonymous as my job ever gets,” he said.

  “What’s happening?” Mirek finally asked in a whisper, his old friend’s gaze still out into the basilica.

  “The past is coming back.”

  “Did you ever think it gone?”

  “I’d hoped so. I was wrong.”

  “A wise person once said that the past cannot be changed. Only the future is in our power.”

  “I prefer what Napoleon said. If we open a quarrel between past and present, we shall find that we have lost the future.”

  Mirek chuckled. “And the election is fast approaching.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Enough that you and I have to deal with it.”

  “Just you and I?”

  “No. Thankfully, I have other resources and they, too, are dealing with it, as we speak.”

  Mirek motioned ahead.

  “Then let us visit with Our Lady and see if she can help us find wisdom.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Jonty surveyed the great hall for the final time.

  Everyone had arrived, and now all six delegations were milling about enjoying food, drink, and conversation. Even the Iranians and North Koreans, who seemed far more cordial than he’d envisioned. Frequent visits of the servers offering fresh trays of food and drink attested to the growing ease among the bidders. His expert had verified that all seven of the Arma Christi were authentic—which was good news—and they were safely tucked away in a car, just beyond the inner courtyard, awaiting him after the auction. The expert had been paid and was gone. He and Vic would leave as soon as the business was concluded. He’d deal with Eli tomorrow from long distance.

  Reinhardt and his sidekick were behaving themselves, disappearing from the second-floor gallery, prepared to listen to the auction from an open, upper bedroom door, out of sight. He was certain that everyone was nervous, considering they would be bidding against one another, each wondering if the other might do something stupid. Vic’s latest report was that all remained quiet both inside the castle and beyond.

  He checked his pocket watch.

  A Breguet. Eighteen-karat gold. Hand-engraved on a rose engine. Nearly $750,000 U.S. A gift to himself after another lucrative deal. He’d have to reward himself big after today.

  Outside, a sonorous bell unleashed a cascade of peals.

  Noon.

  “Shall we get started,” he called out.

  * * *

  Cotton headed for the two chairs adorned by an American flag. He noted that the other bidders were likewise denoted by their respective national colors. France, Iran, Russia, China, North Korea. He wondered why Great Britain and Germany were not involved, but perhaps they’d declined. He recalled that the Arma Christi consisted of seven relics. But only six had been on the oak table. Where was the Holy Nail? And who was the older man that had been staring down from the second-floor gallery? He hadn’t seen him the past twenty minutes.

  Not knowing the players, the room, the house, or even where he was located was unsettling to say the least. But he’d been in worse situations. Tom Bunch remained oblivious, busy socializing with the French. It seemed everyone here had heeded the warning in the email instructions regarding no translators—they all spoke English.

  “This is all so exciting,” Bunch said as they took their seats. “We’re right in the middle of the storm.”

  “You do realize that the eye of a storm is the worst place to be, since that means trouble is raging all around you.”

  “Ah, quit being such a pessimist. Here we are, representing our country. About to buy some information that will allow us to stick it to the Russians and the Iranians at the same time. How many chances at that do you get? Not many, Malone. Not many at all.”

  On a small wooden table before them were two notepads and pencils, a carafe of ice water, two glasses, and a sealed manila envelope upon which was written DO NOT OPEN UNTIL INSTRUCTED. Cotton noticed that the servers had all withdrawn and the room’s heavy oak doors were closed.

  Jonty Olivier stepped to the front of the assemblage, beside a big-screen television supported by a thick wooden frame. “I want to formally welcome everyone and thank you for participating. I know you’re anxious but, prior to conducting the bidding, I have some documents to show you. Each of you was provided a sample at the time of your invitation. Now I would like to share a bit more, as a good-faith offering to demonstrate the wealth and value of the information that is for sale here today.”

  “We appreciate that,” Bunch called out. “Nobody likes to buy a pig in a poke.”

  Cotton caught the curious look on the faces in the hall. Probably not a phrase many outside of America had much familiarity with.

  “No, Mr. Bunch,” Olivier said. “No one ever likes to do that, and we will make sure no one buys a problem today. Everything I have for sale is authentic. Now, some further instructions before we begin. I want everyone to conduct themselves with courtesy and respect. Civility is expected. As you can see, I have not employed any security personnel to keep order. I am trusting each of you to maintain a proper decorum. Are we clear?”

  “We not children,” one of the Russians said.

  “Certainly not,” Olivier replied. “But you are all passionate people, here on a mission, with differing goals and objectives. That can lead to … irrational thinking. Let us not have any of that.”

  No one else chimed in.

  “All right, please open the envelope before you. Remove the clipped stack of documents and place them on the table.”

  * * *

  Jonty stepped over to the big-screen television facing his twelve guests, black at the moment, but about to come alive thanks to the laptop connected to it, resting on a shelf behind. The agenda was simple. Tantalize them with more of what he possessed, then, once their appetite had been whetted, open the bidding. Everyone had already been notified that the auction was with reserve, which meant he could reject any offer prior to accepting the final bid.

  And for good reason.

  He had no intention of selling what he had cheap.

  What would the ultimate price be? Hard to say. He’d make a decision on what to accept as things progressed.

  He resisted the urge to glance upward at the second-floor gallery, not
wanting to draw any attention that way. He’d told Eli to stay out of sight and it appeared his nemesis was heeding that directive. Vic knew to keep an eye on things and would alert him of anything out of the ordinary. Everyone else was gone from the premises, as previously arranged, including all of the drivers and staff. They would be recalled when the proceedings were over. His focus now turned to the people in the great hall.

  He switched on the screen. “Please remove the top blank sheet on the stack before you.”

  He punched a key on the laptop and brought a document up.

  A crisp, high-resolution image.

  “Let me explain what we are seeing.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Czajkowski entered the Chapel of the Miraculous Image, a tight, compact space topped by a ribbed, Gothic vault. Cordovan protected the lower walls, a gold-plated leather decorated with ornaments and impressions. At the far end, just past the ebony-and-silver altar, set amid a background of Baroque, hung the image that millions of pilgrims came from all over the world to adore.

  Our Lady of Jasna Góra.

  A Black Madonna.

  Not all that large. Its ornate wooden frame about one hundred centimeters tall and eighty wide, resting under a canopy, as if on a throne. The image was of a half figure of Mary, with the Child Jesus in her arms, both figures dark-skinned in the Byzantine style, their faces lost in reflection, gilded halos filled with gems wrapping their heads. Mary wore a blue cloak dotted with golden lilies, the baby a carmine robe. His left hand held a book and the right extended outward in a gesture of blessing, symbolic of the way to salvation. The Lady’s face was beautiful, piercing the onlooker with deep piety. People called her a hodegetria.

  She who knows the way.

  Legend proclaimed that it was painted by St. Luke the Evangelist upon a plank from the table at which the Holy Family ate. Reality was far different. It was a Balkan image created during the Middle Ages, tempera on canvas, attached to three lime tree boards, claimed as a war prize by a Polish prince and presented to the monastery. Miracles had always been associated with the image, particularly physical healing. That drew pilgrims, who’d come for centuries, many bringing votive gifts in return for a miraculous intercession. Many of those gifts now adorned the chapel walls as a testimony of thanks. After Hussites raided in the 15th century and vandalized the image it was restored, but the parallel slashes on Mary’s cheek were left, impregnated with red cinnabar, the marks another symbol of Poland’s constant scars.

  Today the chapel was full of worshipers searching for consolation and deliverance, many approaching the image on their knees, as was customary, a sign of humility and respect. Even Hitler had shown Our Lady deference, taking the monastery but not touching the image, only forbidding anyone from worshiping. But that did not stop the Poles, who continued to come in secret all during the war.

  Mirek performed the sign of the cross and he followed suit. His faith remained strong and he firmly believed that the Virgin Mary’s presence was here. He knew several people who’d been healed from a visit. They stood at the rear of the reverent crowd, beyond a stout railing, the room in utter silence, only the scrape of cloth from the knees to stone disturbing the silence. A nearby showcase featured canes, crutches, and other medical devices left behind by people who’d been cured.

  Quite a testimonial.

  His old friend seemed to be in deep prayer, so he joined him in the traditional plea.

  Holy Mother of Częstochowa, Thou art full of grace, goodness and mercy. I consecrate to Thee all my thoughts, words and actions—my soul and body. I beseech Thy blessings and especially prayers for my salvation. Today, I consecrate myself to Thee, Good Mother, totally—with body and soul amid joy and sufferings to obtain for myself and others Thy blessings on this earth and eternal life in Heaven.

  He muttered an amen and hoped it helped, as his troubles were mounting by the moment. Every minute he spent here was another minute he would not hear from Sonia. Cell phones were not allowed inside the monastery, and that prohibition included the president of the country. So any contact was going to have to wait.

  Mirek finished his prayer, crossed himself again, then whispered, “Come with me.”

  They left the chapel and headed back into the basilica, bypassing its opulence and finding a series of rear passages that led to a room marked BIBLIOTEKA. Inside was a magnificent paneled library, heavy with Baroque, lined with wooden cases. Decorative cartouches above each defined its subject matter. Two massive tables stood on the checkerboard marble floor, their tops a puzzle of polished wood in remarkable patterns. The shelves were lined with illuminated medieval manuscripts, all safe within gilded leather cases. One after the other. Thousands of them. The vault overhead was a sea of bright frescoes praising life and learning, the room illuminated by bright chandeliers. On the vaulting above he noticed a painted phrase. SAPIENTIA AEDIFICAVIT SIBI DOMUM. Wisdom hath built her house. He breathed in the rich aroma of aged leather and took some solace from the phrase.

  “Shall we sit,” Mirek said.

  They each slid out a wooden chair from one of the tables.

  “The time may have come to publicly discuss the protocol,” he said to Mirek. “So much time has passed. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “But it does. We took an oath and that means something to me. It should mean something to you.”

  “Remaining president of this country for another five years means more to me than any oath we took decades ago.”

  His old friend gave him a puzzled look.

  So he explained what he was facing.

  “Do you ever think about those times?” Mirek asked when he finished. “When we changed the world.”

  “I prefer to concentrate on the future. Part of that is keeping this country safe. American missiles will make us a prime target for Russia and Iran. I cannot allow that to happen. The United States wants to force me either to resign or to lose the coming election. If my people cannot contain that auction, the whole country will see me as a traitor. Only you and I will know different.”

  “But, Janusz, that was the whole idea. Secrecy is what made it all work. Nothing could have been accomplished otherwise.”

  He knew this was going to be difficult, but he had to try. “Mirek, if the Americans acquire those SB documents, they will use them to force me to accept missiles inside our borders.”

  “Would you do such a thing?”

  “I would be placed in an untenable position. If I resign, the marshal of Parliament will become acting president and he will definitely allow them to be placed here. If I refuse, they will expose me as some sort of traitor. I prefer better options than that.”

  The older man sat silent.

  He’d never been able to gauge this enigma’s thinking.

  “During the Second World War, Polish resistance fighters met here, inside this library, to plot strategy,” Mirek finally said. “They assumed they were safe in a monastery and, for the most part, they were. Those brave men and women did a lot of damage. They disrupted German supply lines, provided military intelligence, and saved more Jews than any Allied government. All part of the great Polish Underground State. Which we inherited when we began the fight against the Soviets. We were the new Polish Underground State.”

  “And those sacrifices have not been forgotten. We celebrate them every September 27. The Day of the Polish Underground State. The Nazis and the Soviets are gone, Mirek. The enemies today are much different. Many times they are your friends. The world has changed. I’ll say it again. I need your help.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  Mirek rose and approached the shelves, removing one of the tall leather cases, from which he freed an old tome.

  “This is the first volume of the Miraculorum Beate Virginia Monasterii Czestochoviensis, a record of 498 miracles attributed to Our Lady from 1402 to 1642.”

  He was amazed. “They actually kept records?”

  “Oh, yes. The Pauline monks we
re quite meticulous. They handwrote and documented each one of the miracles with facts about how it occurred, along with witnesses to the event. Two handwritten and five printed registries still exist that inventory the miracles over a four-hundred-year period. Whether those accounts are true is impossible to determine. All we know is that they exist.”

  “I assume there’s a point to this.”

  Mirek smiled. “Definitely. I, too, have a record.”

  He waited.

  “Of the Warsaw Protocol.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Cotton stared at the big screen, which displayed an image of a handwritten document, the page filled with a heavy masculine script, all in Polish. At the bottom was a signature, a bit smeared but readable.

  Janusz Czajkowski.

  Along with a date.

  August 9, 1982.

  “As you can see, in the lower left corner is a seal, one used by the Służba Bezpieczeństwa from the 1970s until 1989 to certify its records. There are hundreds of thousands of these SB documents in existence with the same seal. Many are archived at the Institute of National Remembrance. The documents at issue today were kept by a former SB major, a man named Aleksy Dilecki, who recruited a young Solidarity activist, Janusz Czajkowski, as a government informant. You have a copy of this document in the stack of papers before you. Please take a closer look.”

  Bunch was already reaching for the sheet.

  “Do you read Polish?” he asked Bunch.

  “Hell, no. If it’s not English, it’s not important to me.”

  Why was he not surprised.

  Languages were easy for him, thanks to an eidetic memory he inherited from his father’s side of the family. Unfortunately, Polish was not in his repertoire.

  “For those of you not proficient,” Olivier said, “I have provided a translation in your native tongues on the next sheet.”