by Steve Berry
“St. Peter of Alcantara on the left. St. Casimir on the right,” Patrycja said. “Not in good shape, as you can see. Leached by humidity and water leaks. Everything on this level has succumbed to some degree.”
With his headlamp he studied the rest of the chamber.
“The chapels were strategically placed,” Patrycja said. “Near wells and shafts, where new salt deposits were found, so prayers could be conducted. They were also landmarks. Lamps burning inside them were source points for workers, a place where they could safely congregate and reignite their own when it extinguished.”
Stephanie stayed quiet and he saw the concern on her face. Here they were. Underground. One gun between them. Were they alone? So far, so good. He found her gaze and said with his eyes, Why don’t you stay here? Let me finish this.
She shook her head.
My problem. My fix.
“St. Bobola is that way,” Patrycja said, pointing to an exit off to the right.
He gestured for Stephanie to go first.
Something echoed in the distance.
A clattering sound.
Far off, like a stone down a deep well.
And the hair on the back of his neck bristled.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Czajkowski wore coveralls, as did Sonia. They helped with anonymity, all provided by the mine manager. They were back in the security office with the video screens.
“I’m told,” the mine manager said, “that Malone and Ms. Nelle, along with the Russian you identified and two others, are now all on Level IX.”
“Are they aware of each other?” Sonia asked.
The man shook his head. “Unlikely. The trackers on the guides show them far apart, but heading in the same direction.”
“We need to get down there,” he said.
Sonia shook her head. “I’ve been thinking on that.”
He was curious. “What do you suggest?”
“At some point, they have to get out,” Sonia said. “So let’s keep them underground and force them to the upper levels, where there are lights, cameras, and people. We can take them down there.”
He saw the wisdom in the move.
She faced the mine manager. “Can you shut down the elevators that go all the way to the bottom and leave only the one up from Level IX to Level III working?”
The man nodded.
“Then all we have to do is wait at Level III,” she said. “They’ll come to us.”
He really wanted to head for Level IX. No telling what was going to happen. But there was nothing to be gained by rushing into the unknown, especially when nobody knew they were even here.
They had the advantage.
So wait.
He nodded.
“The tours are winding down for the day,” the manager said. “Fewer people will be on the upper levels, as they head for the surface. Most of the people there will be in line, waiting for an open elevator up. Those lines are long this time of day.”
“Can you stop the tours for the day?” he asked. “Close early.”
“It’s most unusual.”
“This whole thing is unusual.”
And he saw the manager understood.
“I’ll do it.”
“Then,” Sonia asked, “can you get us to Level III unnoticed?”
* * *
They descended a wooden staircase.
Strong and sturdy.
Built to last from solid timbers.
Tourists could choose walking down to Levels I and II, or take the elevators. Most rode. He and Sonia walked. He noticed that few were making the climb up, and no one was heading down. Surprisingly, after nearly four hundred steps, he wasn’t all that winded. He just hoped he didn’t have to use them to get back up. The manager had stayed above to keep an eye on what was happening on Level IX, saying he would meet them below shortly.
They came to the bottom and stepped off onto a salt floor. No cold, dark, damp passages awaited. Instead everything was well lit, with an arid but comfortable temperature and a steady breeze of fresh air. He assumed the mine had to be kept as dry as possible to prevent humidity from dissolving the salt. The manager had told them to head for the Copernicus Chamber, which was not far away. They followed the signs and passed within sight of the elevators up, spotting lines of people waiting to leave.
“Let’s keep going,” Sonia said to him.
They followed a corridor into a spacious chamber that housed a larger-than-life-sized statue of the famous astronomer. Timber frames supported masonry blocks along three walls. Logs stood at attention, one after the other forming a fourth wall behind the statue. A simple, almost modernistic representation, the arms outstretched, the open palms holding a celestial sphere. A handful of people loitered about, snapping a few final pictures before leaving.
“He studied in Kraków and lived in Frombork,” he said, pointing at the salt carving. “What courage it took to say that the earth was not the center of the universe. That simple idea fundamentally changed humanity forever.”
“You’re an admirer?”
“Absolutely. He was an astronomer, with a doctorate in canon law. He was self-taught as a physician, polyglot, translator, diplomat, and economist. He spoke five languages. He’s the father of the scientific revolution. And most important, he was a Pole.”
A placard near the statue stated that, in 1493, while a student in Kraków, Copernicus visited the mine. Perhaps the first tourist ever to do so, the text suggested. The statue was carved in 1973 to commemorate the genius’ 500th birthday.
“I don’t like being helpless,” he whispered.
“You’re not. We have the situation under control. Let Malone and the Russians fight it out below. Whoever emerges we will deal with. They have no idea we’re here, and there’s only one way out.”
The others left the chamber.
The manager appeared at the far side and walked their way.
“We have everything contained. All of the tour groups that were in the lower levels are now topside. Level IX is empty except for the two groups we’re watching. We have all the exits guarded, with the only way out through here.”
“I assume there’s a place where we can watch that elevator?”
The man nodded. “There is a spot. Not far away, down on Level III. The passageways here move between the three levels. We’ll continue to ferry people up, and, as you asked, we’ve stopped selling tickets for the day. I’ve had all of the guides instructed to keep their groups near the elevators, or in the café and the adjacent dining hall.”
He’d never been one to solve problems from the bottom. Smart people started from the top. And he’d always considered himself smart. Never had he done anything legally wrong or corrupt in his life. The Warsaw Protocol? That was war. Different rules. But if he was forced to defend himself and reveal the truth to counter the documents, how many would agree with him?
Not enough.
Most would see him as a spy for the communists, providing information on his friends, family, and acquaintances. That he sold out his country. Few would believe the Warsaw Protocol ever existed. Those who did might think him a murderer. A classic lose–lose. And the resulting firestorm would not be survivable. Candidates had been destroyed with far less damaging slander. Things like being called insensitive to war veterans. Labeled narcissistic. Elitist. Bragging about their education. Poor health. Even staring too long at a video monitor during an interview. All had been used in attempts to destroy campaigns. But an even greater danger existed, one that history cautioned should not be ignored. The possibility of dividing Poland.
Something similar had happened before.
Not here, but in France.
He knew the incident well.
In 1894 a traitor was discovered within the French army. A spy, passing information to the Germans. An investigation revealed the potential culprit. Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a French artillery officer of Jewish descent, who was found guilty and sent to solitary confinement on
Devil’s Island. Two years later an investigation unearthed the real culprit, who was tried. But officials suppressed vital evidence and the man was acquitted. The army then accused Dreyfus of more charges with more falsified evidence. Dreyfus was retried and found guilty again, but was pardoned and set free. Eventually it was proven that all of the accusations against Dreyfus were baseless.
But the whole thing bitterly divided France.
One half defended everything. Pro-army, mostly Catholic, screaming absolute loyalty to the nation. Dreyfus was a Jew who could not be trusted. He had to be a spy. The other half, anti-clerical, pro-republican, wanted justice for all, regardless of religion.
Political parties chose sides. Families split, sometimes for more than a generation. The debate continued for decades and remained even today with the “France for the French” nationalism clashing with a more global vision of the rule of law and a nation for everyone.
Incredible.
One court case created unresolvable divisions between people who never knew they disagreed with each other. It also revealed two vastly different views of what people thought was France.
The same would happen in Poland.
Revealing the Warsaw Protocol would open wounds that had never healed. What happened from 1945 to 1990 remained as fresh as yesterday in the minds of many Poles.
Divisions already existed.
Attacks on foreigners were steadily increasing.
Just recently, a fourteen-year-old Turkish girl was beaten on the street while her attackers shouted Poland for Poland. Anti-Semitic demonstrations had become commonplace with Jews burned in effigy. Jokes about the Holocaust were no longer unacceptable. Pro-fascist rallies happened monthly. Crimes committed from racial prejudice were on the rise. There’d even been a massive neo-Nazi march during last year’s celebration of Polish independence.
It would be easy for the populace to add one more divide to that mix.
Some would agree with the protocol’s radical tactics. Traitors had it coming. Solidarity did what it had to do. Others would find the lies and deaths no different from what the communists did, Solidarity nothing but hypocrisy.
The debate would be endless.
There’d be political shifts. Ones, as in France, that would split families and friends, cut across social classes, and rearrange long-standing alliances.
Old wounds would bleed again.
Sonia was staring, allowing him his thoughts. He wanted to talk to her, to explain, seek her help, but knew better. This was better kept to himself.
At least for now.
One of the curses of being president.
But the fact remained that much more was at stake here than just his political career.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Cotton ran his hand along the walls. Parts were smooth, like glass, others sharp and rough, easily capable of slicing skin.
“Why is it gray?” he asked Patrycja.
“The salt is impure. It has some magnesium and calcium mixed with it, which is good for you. That’s what once made this salt so highly valued.”
They walked in the center of the tunnel, over grooves made long ago by heavy carts. All around were stalactites and stalagmites in the irregular shapes salt crystals adopted from water intrusion. One wall was totally sheathed in bright-white cauliflower-like formations.
“Do a lot of people come down here?” Stephanie asked.
“Oh, yes. It is a busy place. When the Austrians controlled the mine in the 18th century, they set up the first tourist routes. The price of a ticket then depended on the quality of the light provided. Torches were a basic fee, but fireworks were expensive.”
“They actually set off pyrotechnics down here?” he asked.
“As crazy as that sounds, they did. And the price depended on the color used.”
The sound from earlier continued to bother him, but Patrycja explained that it was probably just another tour group. Many ventured to Level IX during each day, but, as she explained, they all stayed closer to the elevators. None ventured this deep into the tunnels.
Their path drained into another chamber, larger than the ones they’d already encountered, and different in that pillars had been left across it from floor to ceiling. He counted eight, along with spotting two other exits.
“Is this some sort of junction?” Stephanie asked.
Patrycja nodded. “The miners would use this as a starting point, then dig to the next deposits. That’s why there’s a chapel here.”
Her light revealed a small room, separate and individual, that jutted from one wall into a square-shaped cavity. Heavy timbers framed out its entrance, a set of beams securing the opening on all four sides, supported by a thick center post. Across the top, scrawled in white chalk, was KAPLICZKA ŚW. FRANCISZKA.
Patrycja pointed at the words. “Chapel of St. Francis. Kapliczka means ‘small chapel.’”
Cotton stepped across to the framed opening. Past it, in his headlamp, he spied a crucifix relief chipped from the wall. Beneath, a thick salt shelf rested on two projecting wooden dowels. A few feet away a wooden pew had been constructed of plank boards and faced the altar. Neighboring walls held small niches with crude statues, one he recognized from the book back at the castle.
St. Bobola.
Stephanie and Patrycja came up beside him and added more illumination.
“This is it,” he said.
* * *
Eli stopped.
Both Konrad and Ivan had halted, too, along with Munoz behind him.
“I heard voices,” he whispered.
“It could be another tour group,” Konrad noted.
Perhaps. But caution was the word for this day. “Let’s go slow and make sure it’s not a problem.” He stared at Ivan. “You said Malone was in the vicinity.”
“I never received report on what happened,” Ivan breathed out. “You think he’s here.”
“I don’t know what to think. But we need to be careful.”
The Russian broke into a toothy grin. “Good advice, comrade. I agree. We be careful.”
“How much farther?” Eli asked Konrad.
“Around the next two bends and we’re there.”
“Lead way,” Ivan said to Konrad, who began heading off into the darkness.
Ivan unzipped his jumpsuit, removed a gun, and kept it down at his side, finger on the trigger but shielded from view by the big man’s thigh.
The Russian headed off.
Eli turned back to Munoz, who’d done the same thing with his weapon. His acolyte nodded.
Ready.
* * *
Cotton stepped into the chapel. Simple and austere, everything stained white by humidity. Graffiti decorated the roof bars that had been inserted along the rear wall for strength. Random words and letters. Initials. Numbers. Dates. A layer of crushed salt lay across the floor like sand.
“What’s with all the writing on the wood?” he asked.
“From the miners, over the centuries. We don’t eliminate what they left.”
“What exactly are we looking for?” Stephanie asked him.
“One hundred and forty-seven pages of documents. So it should be about that thick.”
His index finger and thumb showed three-quarters of an inch or so of space.
He stepped over to St. Bobola and saw that, like the crucifix, the distorted sculpture was not a separate piece. Instead it, and the niche itself, had been chipped from the wall in bas-relief. No way anything was either behind or under. The same was true with the other images.
Everything pointed to here.
But where?
Think.
* * *
Eli heard the voices at the same time everyone else did, and they all stopped. Ivan motioned and they extinguished their lights, Konrad the last to catch on to what was happening and follow suit.
They stood in absolute darkness.
“Is our destination just ahead?” he whispered.
“Around the next ben
d,” Konrad breathed out.
“Somebody already there,” Ivan said.
Both Ivan and Munoz were armed, the darkness now concealing that fact from Konrad. Eli knew what had to be done.
“Konrad, stay here,” he said to the blackness. “We have to investigate.”
“We go ahead with one light, pointed to floor,” Ivan added.
“Agreed.”
* * *
Cotton narrowed the choices and decided there could only be one solution.
The wooden pew.
It was the only thing not built of salt in the makeshift chapel.
Crude and simple in construction, fashioned from rough-cut one-by-six and one-by-eight planks nailed together. About four feet wide. With a bench for sitting and an angled platform for resting hands or a hymnal while kneeling.
He stepped over and lifted the structure, setting it to one side. Beneath, the salt floor was solid and undisturbed. He brushed it with his shoe. Little to no give was returned. Like concrete. He looked at Stephanie. Who nodded. They were thinking the same thing. Nothing buried.
He tipped the makeshift pew over.
Nothing.
Its base was composed of one-by-eight boards fashioned into rectangles. One was set at the rear beneath the bench where a penitent could sit, while the other formed a kneeler. They were tacked together with headless nails.
“There’s a compartment formed in both of those,” he said.
The trick was opening them.
He threw his weight and gave two swift kicks with his boot. The thin wood split and parted from the frame. He pushed through the splinters and saw he was right. There was a compartment. But it was empty. He turned his attention to the other base support and pounded it, too.
Inside, taped to the boards, was a vacuum-sealed plastic pouch. Now the machine he’d spotted back at the castle made sense. It contained a manila envelope, similar to the one in which he’d found the book back at the castle.
He wrenched it free. “This is it.”