by Steve Berry
Cotton reached for that page ahead of Bunch.
Together they read the English.
Olivier pointed at the screen. “This document states that Janusz Czajkowski agrees to work as an informant and provide good and valuable information to the SB. You might ask, why was such a record created? Why not just keep everything informal? It was done to ensure the absolute loyalty of the informant. At the time, to be an informant was perhaps the worst thing a Pole could do. Releasing the signed document to the public would have been a way to disgrace the signer. Informants were terrified of being exposed, as there would be repercussions from both sides. So informants did what was expected of them, mostly as a way not to be exposed.” Olivier paused. “You can also see that Czajkowski was given a code name to be used in the future. And not all that flattering either. Baran. Sheep.”
Cotton studied the handwriting on the Polish copy.
“The signature has been authenticated,” Olivier said. “I employed three world-renowned experts who reviewed comparative material in the form of 142 documents that were either drafted or signed by Janusz Czajkowski in the time frame from 1987 to last year. These included, among others, his former identity card, driver’s license, proof of vehicle registration, documents from his time serving in Parliament, documents related to his purchase of land and a home, personnel files from two employers, pages stored in the Office of the President of the Republic of Poland for the last five years, and passport files, all of which I obtained. The handwriting experts’ findings will be provided to you. They all agree, with no reservation, that the documents at issue here are all in Czajkowski’s hand.”
“And what if they are wrong,” one of the French called out. “And these are fakes.”
“I assure you, I have no intention of selling fakes. Or a pig in a poke, as Mr. Bunch put it earlier. If any of them are deemed a forgery or fake within fourteen days of this sale, I will return your money. After that, they are yours with no reservations. That should provide you plenty of time to authenticate. How much more of a guarantee do you want?”
“But you will already have our money?” one of the Iranians said.
“True. But all of you can hunt me down in a matter of hours. I recognize that fact and have given it the respect it is due.”
Smart play, Cotton thought. Address the issue of credibility up front and acknowledge that the bidders were in a superior possession. Everyone in the room seemed satisfied with both the concession and the condition.
“In the stack before you are more examples of the writings that will be for sale today. I will give you a few moments to study them. There is also an inventory sheet in your stack that provides an overview of all of what you will be buying.”
Cotton studied the list.
1 handwritten commitment to cooperate with the Security Service of 9 August 1982;
37 handwritten confirmation notes of receipt of money transferred by security service officers in return for information, all created between 12 August 1982 and 29 June 1989, totaling PLN 11,700;
49 handwritten reports of a secret collaborator, drawn up and signed with the code name “Baran”;
18 reports of a secret collaborator, not bearing the code name or any other signature, but definitely in the handwriting of Janusz Czajkowski;
26 handwritten reports of a secret collaborator prepared by Janusz Czajkowski, code named “Baran,” as outlined by the appointed security service officer (Aleksy Dilecki);
5 handwritten reports consisting of 34 pages prepared by the appointed security service officer (Aleksy Dilecki), bearing the codename “Baran”;
11 handwritten reports by the secret collaborator drawn up and signed with the code name “Baran” by the appointed security service officer (Aleksy Dilecki).
One hundred and forty-seven pages.
That was a lot for Czajkowski to deny as a forgery.
The sheer volume spoke to their authenticity, as did Olivier’s confidence in his experts and his money-back guarantee, secured, of course, with his life.
“I’m convinced,” Bunch whispered.
Again, no surprise.
“To be labeled a former communist informant today in Polish society retains the same stigma as it once possessed. Maybe even more so. But to be the president of the nation and have such a label stamped on you? That is unthinkable,” Olivier said. “Look what happened to Lech Wałęsa. Documents surfaced showing he, too, may have been an informant. Handwriting experts verified their authenticity. Wałęsa declared the documents fake, created by the communists to discredit him. Eventually, a Polish court declared that he had not been a collaborator. But the stink would not go away. Finally, Wałęsa admitted to signing the documents, but said he was playing the SB, trying to learn what he could about them.” Olivier shrugged. “What’s the truth? Who knows? What we do know is that the taint remains. Here the situation is much clearer. Czajkowski was one of millions who joined Solidarity in the 1980s. He was no Lech Wałęsa. He was a nobody. No one would have created any false documents to discredit him.”
“Unless they are a more recent forgery,” one of the Chinese said.
“Which will be an easy matter to expose. My experts tell me that the originals you will be buying are from the 1980s. The paper. The ink. Everything is consistent. Czajkowski’s SB handler apparently kept many documents relative to various informants. Czajkowski was just one of many. I personally viewed his cache.”
“He’s still alive?” one of the Russians asked.
“Long dead. But the information survived. There were two filing cabinets full of paper. One drawer was special. Documents on people who had achieved prominence since 1990, people whom the SB major had once been familiar with. He kept those files separate. One of those dealt with a young Solidarity activist named Janusz Czajkowski, who went on to achieve great things.”
Olivier went silent, seemingly allowing his words to take hold.
Bunch appeared thrilled at the prospects.
Cotton remained concerned.
Nothing about blackmail ever turned out good.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Czajkowski stared at his old friend.
Had he heard right?
“You have a record of the protocol?”
“I was mindful that one day history might need proof. After we are all gone.”
Thank God for obsessive-compulsive behavior. It was what made Mirek such a superb intelligence officer, though he knew that his old friend hated the label. He’d much preferred Sowa, which was what Lech Wałęsa had privately called him, while always adding a sly smile.
“Are you still the Owl?” he asked.
Mirek smiled and nodded. “Solitary, nocturnal, with perfect vision, incredible hearing, and sharp talons. But I’m not much of a hunter anymore for people’s weaknesses. Thankfully, the people we dealt with back then had plenty to exploit.”
“Where is your record of the Warsaw Protocol?”
“Safely hidden away.”
“Right now, as we speak, an auction is occurring where documents that are 100 percent authentic are being offered for sale to foreigners intent on using them to blackmail me. If that happens I would then have two choices. Concede to their threats or be publicly ruined. I could even be tried for crimes against peace and humanity by the Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Polish Nation. What we did may certainly qualify. And I emphasize the we there. Many who we dealt with are still alive. Men and women who would testify against us.”
“You’re not the first who has come to me.”
He was surprised.
“Wałęsa came and asked the same thing you are asking to deal with his own troubles.”
He was surprised. “Why would he do that?”
“It’s simple, Mr. President. He was the one who tasked me with running the Warsaw Protocol.” Mirek paused. “He was also its first participant.”
Now he was shocked.
The idea of the protocol had been simple. Tu
rn SB’s informants into counter-informants. Not all of them, of course, as there were far too many. But enough to cause havoc within the security services. A small cadre of men and women who routinely made reports to their handlers—except those reports were Mirek’s creations. Some were innocuous, meaningless information that kept the informants in the SB’s good graces. Some were deliberate lies, sending the SB off chasing ghosts with false leads. Wasting time and resources.
But eventually the program traveled into darker territory.
The imposition of martial law changed everything. Where before everyone had hope that things were changing, that Solidarity was making progress, the strong arm of the government eventually crushed all political opposition and sent the freedom movement underground. Thousands were arrested and jailed. People fled the country by the hundreds of thousands. The SB expanded its reach and worked hard to pit Poles against Poles.
Spies were everywhere.
So Mirek devised a way to deal with those spies.
He used his army of counter-informants to turn the SB against their own. A perfect way to clear the opposition ranks. And it worked. Hundreds were arrested. People who thought themselves safe since they’d made a deal with the government to inform on their neighbors disappeared, never to be seen again. Most likely they were now rotting away in the ground somewhere, shot for their supposed duplicity. The communists were never tolerant of betrayal.
The Warsaw Protocol allowed Solidarity to continue to function without some of the prying eyes of the government. Was it 100 percent effective? Absolutely not. But it was effective enough to ensure that the movement survived.
And Wałęsa himself created it?
“What are you saying?” he asked Mirek.
“In the 1970s Wałęsa was recruited as an informant. Of course, at the time he was just a young electrician at the Gdańsk Shipyard. A nobody. But he was tough and scrappy. He hated the communists and everything they had done to Poland. He wanted to know more about them. So he allowed himself to be recruited. It was quite an education, one he put to good use years later when he helped lead a revolt.”
When all of the furor arose over any supposed complicity, Wałęsa stayed silent for a while, but eventually stated that he was never an agent, never spied on anyone, took no money, and would prove it all in court. He also boldly stated that if he had to repeat his life, he would not change a thing.
Now Czajkowski knew why.
“Wałęsa came here,” Mirek said. “We sat at this same table. He wanted me to testify before the court and prove his innocence. He knew of my record of the protocol and wanted it made public. I refused.”
“He took quite a public beating.”
“That’s true. But he survived. As you will, too.”
“This is much different. He did not have to face an electorate. The safety of the Polish people was not at stake. Those missiles make us a target on Moscow’s radar. They threaten our existence. We would have chosen sides in the conflict between East and West. My opponents will skewer me with those documents, if they are made public. Then the weak will bow down to the United States.”
“You have little faith in your government.”
“I have no faith. I believe only in me.”
Mirek smiled. “You always were the tough one. I saw that the first day we spoke, and you proved it every day thereafter. You were a fighter.”
He appreciated the kind words.
“I sympathize with your situation,” Mirek said. “I truly do. But it doesn’t change things.”
No, he supposed not.
“I took Wałęsa’s idea and expanded it from one person to hundreds, to eventually over a thousand. Not only did we learn about our enemy, we were able to mislead them, all made easy since they were too stupid and too anxious to be careful. In the process, yes, Poles were killed. But I have no regrets over those deaths. We had to weed out the traitors, and what better way to deal with them than allowing the government to kill its own. But what we did must remain secret. To reveal anything now would only taint what we accomplished.”
“I have no regrets, either,” he said. “Those people chose their fate when they became spies against their neighbors.”
“That is exactly what Wałęsa said. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. I swore upon the Bible, to God, that I would take that secret to my grave. I kept a record only to clarify history, if that was ever needed, after I was gone. What happened to Wałęsa, what’s happening to you now, requires no clarification. This is not my problem.”
He shoved the chair back and came to his feet. Anger surged through him. “Not your problem? You coerced me into your scheme. Me and all of the others. We had no choice. Then I helped you recruit so many others. They, and I, worked for you so we could justify in our minds the weakness we’d shown to the SB.” His voice kept rising. “We convinced ourselves we were doing the right thing playing both sides. And we were, Mirek. It helped win the war. We took down a government. We threw the communists out. We gave courage to all of Eastern Europe to follow our lead. We changed the world.”
The white-robed prelate never moved, his face set in stone. He allowed a moment for his words to take hold. Finally, Mirek said, in barely a whisper, “That does not alter what we all agreed to.”
“I can go public and expose it all.” He pointed. “You included.”
Mirek looked up at him. “You can. But the taint upon you will still be there.”
“So what? I’m destroyed at that point. There are others, still alive, who participated. They can speak out, too.”
“Not a one of whom would ever admit to being an informant, much less a counter-informant. None of those people want to relive any of that. Why would they? And if they do, it is merely their word. There is no proof. You will stand alone, Mr. President. Just as Wałęsa stood alone. Be strong, as he was.”
“If I do nothing, I will be ruined. Poland will be infested with foreign missiles, and, if aggressions ever escalate, we’ll be the first target Moscow will destroy. We’ll be nothing but a puppet to the West. Beholden to it for our safety. Our existence. History has shown that nobody gives a damn what happens to Poland. But I do.”
“You can draw comfort from the fact that you know the truth. That we did what was necessary and changed the world. In fact, what we did allows you to be in the position you now are in. It was glorious, Janusz. Glorious.”
He headed for the door.
This had been a waste of time.
He turned back and faced Mirek, his expression cold, his eyes conveying the rage he felt. “That glory doesn’t mean a thing anymore. It only counts within the mind of the pathetic coward who hides behind these walls.”
And he left.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Cotton now understood what all the furor was about. Somehow Jonty Olivier had managed to acquire 147 documents, most in President Janusz Czajkowski’s own hand, that directly implicated the president of Poland as a former communist informant.
He had to admit, it definitely looked bad.
“President Fox is going to love this,” Bunch whispered. “It’s everything he needs to make those missiles happen.”
“And you think Poland is just going to roll over? Give you what you want? Without a fight?”
“Get real, Malone. What can they do? If Czajkowski wants to stay president, he’ll work with us. It’s that simple.”
No, it wasn’t.
Far from it, in fact.
The Poles were a tough, resilient people who had survived both the Nazis and the Soviets. That was no small feat. They were now, once again, a free nation and Cotton doubted they would relinquish that independence without a fight. Actually, he was counting on a fight. A part of him knew that his duty was to aid his country. But another part told him that his country was dead wrong.
“Are there any questions?” Olivier asked from the front of the gathering.
“Will we have the documents today, when we leave? You’ve insisted tha
t payment has to be verified and completed immediately. When will we get what we paid for?” one of the French asked.
“The documents are not here. I have hidden them away in a place that is fairly inaccessible. I’m sure you can understand that precaution. I am the only one who knows that location. But again, all of you possess a vast multitude of resources, so obtaining them will be easy. I will inform my assistant, Vic DiGenti, of the location after the auction, and if you desire he can be your guide. I’m hoping that gesture is a further demonstration of my good faith.”
“And your distrust of us,” one of the Russians added.
“What is there to trust?” Olivier said. “Each of you is here for differing reasons, most of which conflict with the other. I realize that none of you are above using violence to get what you want. So no, I trust none of you. As I’m sure none of you trust me. This whole endeavor is not about trust. It’s about power.”
“It’s about blackmail,” Cotton said. “And coercion.”
Olivier faced him. “I suppose it is. A most unpleasant business.”
“But profitable,” he said, adding a smile.
“That it is. Or at least, I’m hoping so.”
Olivier extended his arms in a welcome embrace.
Everyone looked back in silent anticipation.
“Shall we begin?”
* * *
Czajkowski rode in the back of the car driven by his two security people, still unnerved by the meeting with his former boss. Mirek had always been a hard man, difficult to know, even harder to like. But the nature of the job had demanded a certain degree of detachment. Of all the recruits, only a few managed to get close. He’d always thought himself one of those. How many counter-informants had he personally recruited for Mirek? Fifty? More like a hundred. People who’d placed their lives on the line. Some even gave their lives. Others had them taken. Which would all come out if the protocol became public. The good and the bad. How would the people react? Would he face charges? Had what he’d done been a crime against peace and humanity? Hard to say. And that indecision troubled him.