by Steve Berry
Many of the pages brought back memories of people and places. Of things that he’d done. Of fateful decisions that had consequences then and now. Would he do anything different?
Not a thing.
It all turned out as it should.
Poland was free.
He sat and watched the flames, enjoying a splash of whiskey, which seemed one of his more constant comforts of late.
The door to the room opened and Anna walked inside. He’d told the staff to send her this way as soon as she arrived. She’d stayed in the south all of yesterday, fulfilling obligations as the country’s First Lady. That was the thing about her. She performed her duties with grace and dignity. A credit to the nation. Sadly, they were not as dedicated to each other.
But at least they were friends.
She came inside and closed the door. Over her shoulder hung a cloth bag that appeared heavy.
“Is that it?” he asked.
She nodded and removed a thick pocket folder stuffed with paper. “I went through some of it. Lots of names, dates, places. Payments made. Bribes. Hacia seems to have played the game well with the communists. One list details people who worked directly with him. A lot of names. Yours is on that list, near the top. Proof positive.”
“Sadly, nobody would have cared. They would claim it all was a forgery, done to protect me.”
“But there are surely many still alive who were part of the protocol. They can be found for corroboration.”
“I doubt a one of them will want to talk about it. Like me, they prefer to leave it in the past.”
She pointed to the stack of paper on the table. “Is that what they were going to sell?”
He nodded. “And if any of it were true, it would be quite damaging.”
She sat in one of the high-backed chairs. He’d told her yesterday on a secure call about what happened in the mine, omitting only that he shot two people.
Better to leave that alone.
“What you did, Janusz, back then, was brave. I realized that while I was speaking with Hacia. You and he dealt with a horrendous situation that life had presented. Wałęsa and all the other Solidarity leaders had to work in the limelight. They were the face of the movement. But to be able to do that it was necessary that you, Hacia, and the others noted in that file work in the shadows. In secret. Doing what had to be done against an unrelenting enemy.”
He sipped more whiskey. “Together we changed the world. But we also ended people’s lives.”
They both sat in the quiet, listening to the crackle of the fire, deep in their own thoughts.
“No matter where we end up,” she finally said, “I’ll always love you. Maybe not as a wife should love her husband, but as a woman feels for a man she respects and admires.”
He smiled. “That’s about the nicest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.”
“I mean it. I truly do.” She pointed at the hearth. “No one asked why you wanted a fire started in June?”
“I received some looks, but I told them it calms me down.”
More silence passed between them.
“What of us, Janusz? What now?”
Her voice was low and soft.
“We run for reelection. If we win, we keep doing what we’re doing. Once this is over, in five years, we’ll end the marriage.”
“Seems so hypocritical on our part.”
He savored another short swallow of whiskey. “Maybe so but, as you say, we deal with what life gives us.”
“I’m glad she loves you.”
He’d not expected that. “She saved our asses.”
“Tell her thank you from me.”
He smiled at her graciousness. “You did good, too. And you searched Hacia’s room? That was bold.”
“I don’t think he saw that one coming. The good brother probably thought his monastery more than adequate protection.”
But he wondered. After his visit with Hacia, the Owl would have known that what he had was now in play, his room the first place anyone would look. So he should move whatever might be hidden there. No. Instead, he’d left it right there, ready to be found. Maybe his old friend had had a change of heart after their talk and used Anna’s visit as a way to make amends?
Who knew?
“And the missiles?” she asked. “Is that over, too?”
“I informed President Fox yesterday that under no circumstances would I agree to their deployment on Polish soil. I’ve prepared an address to Parliament where I will state my case, and that refusal will become a cornerstone of my reelection platform. So they’ll have to beat me at the polls to make it happen. My advisers tell me the issue will play well with the public, and a comfortable majority will agree with me.”
“It’s time the world learns that Poland is not their playground.”
He concurred. “Too bad it cost so many lives to make that point.”
He’d not told her anything about what had happened in Slovakia. That was a state secret, and would remain so. As would one other piece of information they’d learned. Apparently, Eli Reinhardt and Jonty Olivier had visited the salt mine together, had been taken down into the extreme lower recesses four days ago. Where? Nobody knew. Maybe it had to do with hiding away the documents for the auction? But if so, why had Olivier and his man DiGenti visited the mine the night before? Maybe there was something else down there? The matter had been referred to the Agencja Wywiadu, and Sonia would personally lead a search party to see if there was anything else to find.
He stared over at Anna. She was the perfect political wife. But his heart now belonged to another. He finished the whiskey and stood.
“Shall we?”
He lifted the stack of incriminating paper retrieved from the mine, and she grabbed the thick file. Together they approached the fire and fed both into the flames. The old paper smoldered, turned brown, then dissolved into the flames with a dull whoomph.
They watched as it all turned to ash.
“The Warsaw Protocol,” he said, “is finally over.”
* * *
Cotton sat with Cassiopeia at a window table in the Café Norden. It was a lovely Sunday evening in Copenhagen, the Højbro Plads cobblestones busy.
She looked wonderful, as always, dressed casually in a silk blouse, jeans, and heels. Little jewelry and makeup, just the bracelet he’d bought her at Cartier for Christmas. Pink gold, set with ten brilliant-cut diamonds, fashioned onto the wrist in a perpetual oval, removed only with its pink-gold screwdriver. It was meant to be worn constantly, and she had every day since December.
The café sat across the square from his bookshop, which was closed for the day. He never opened on Sundays, not for any religious reason, just because his employees deserved a day off. He lived above the shop in the fourth-floor apartment, which he’d been sharing with Cassiopeia since she arrived on Friday. He’d beaten her to town by about two hours. But he hadn’t been an idiot, and had told her everything. Luckily, his unilateral, extracurricular activity had not affected their weekend.
The past couple of days had been wonderful.
“Have you heard from Stephanie?” she asked him.
“She emailed late last night. The attorney general notified her that she was suspended, pending possible termination. Fox was not happy with the outcome from Poland, and made good on his threat. But she’s civil service, entitled to a hearing, and I imagine she’ll get one.”
There was also the matter of Tom Bunch’s body. Fox wanted it found, but Cotton doubted that was possible. The Poles had sanitized Sturney Castle, all of the dead long gone, surely burned and buried, never to be found.
“You and Stephanie both did the right thing,” she said to him.
“That’s not much consolation, considering the fallout. If Fox could, there’d be ramifications for me, too. But I imagine my punishment will be no more freelance work.”
“That’s no real loss,” she said.
“I like the money.”
They were done wit
h dinner, having eaten early, and were enjoying the evening, waiting on dessert. The café always sported an enticing array of sweets. The second-floor windows all hung open to the warm evening. She was scheduled to stay until Tuesday, returning then to her home in southern France. Next time, he’d travel her way for a visit.
“Hopefully,” he said staring out the window to the crowd below, “Fox won’t hurt me with any of the other foreign intelligence services I work for from time to time.”
“I doubt it’s going to be a problem. Those people have to see what’s going on here, too. They know you’re the best.”
He smiled at her compliment.
“Cotton,” she said in a tone that grabbed his attention.
His gaze met hers, and he could see she was focused on something behind him.
He turned in the chair.
Danny Daniels stood alone at the top of the stairway leading down.
Perhaps the last person he expected to see in Copenhagen.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head full of thick silver hair, the former president of the United States, and current junior senator from Tennessee, was dressed casually.
Daniels walked over to their table.
Cotton stood. “Is this about Stephanie?”
His friend held up two hands in surrender. “She’s made it clear that’s none of my business.”
“So what are you doing in Denmark?” Cassiopeia asked.
Concern filled the older man’s face.
“I need your help.”
WRITER’S NOTE
This one involved some really unique journeys. The first was to Bruges, Belgium, a spectacular, living museum of medieval life. Then there were two trips to Poland that involved time in Kraków and the nearby salt mine. Both are world-class treasures. If you’ve never visited any of these three places, I highly recommend them as a trip you will not forget.
Now it’s time to separate fact from fiction.
Mokotów Prison exists in Warsaw, the scene of many horrible things during both the Nazi occupation and the Soviet domination (prologue and chapter 16). The beating described in the prologue is based on an actual event, one of countless “interrogations” that occurred behind those walls. Many also died there, those deaths commemorated by a memorial now affixed to the outer walls (chapter 16). Spies were also sometimes recruited through demonstrations of extreme cruelty.
Bruges is full of olden houses, cobbled squares, and canals straight out of the 16th century. All of its locales—the fish market, central square, cafés, and streets (chapters 7, 9, 15) along with the canals and tour boats (chapter 3)—are faithfully described. One item, though, that I was unable to fully work into the manuscript was the swans. There is only a brief mention in chapter 10. Since 1448 swans have occupied the canals. Why? In the late 15th century the people of Bruges rose in revolt against the unpopular Emperor Maximilian of Austria. They managed to capture and imprison Maximilian along with his adviser, a man named Pieter Lanckhals. When Lanckhals was sentenced to death, Maximilian was forced to watch the beheading. Of course, the emperor eventually escaped and took his revenge, retaking the city and decreeing that, until the end of time, Bruges would be required to keep swans on all of its lakes and canals. Why swans? Because they have long necks, and Dutch for “long neck” is lange hals—a word so similar to Pieter Lanckhals’ name.
Be aware that is just one of several versions of the legend I was told.
All of them quite colorful.
The Basilica of the Holy Blood stands in Bruges, and little about its fanciful exterior reveals the somber style within. The Veneration of the Precious Blood occurs each day. It’s a quiet affair, held as depicted in chapter 1, including the dropping of money into a basket before being able to approach the relic. The reliquary itself is a Byzantine marvel. It’s been there a long time, and remains one of Europe’s most precious objects. Each year, on Ascension Day, the local bishop carries the phial through the streets in the Procession of the Holy Blood. The first one occurred in 1291, and it’s still happening to this day.
Belgium is a wonderful place to visit. The Dame Blanche (White Lady) that Cotton speaks about in chapter 1 is a mainstay in every café. These are sundaes extraordinaire, made even more delicious by a liberal use of fine Belgian chocolate and real whipped cream. Each establishment sells its own version, and I must confess to enjoying more than a few.
Religious relics have a checkered and troubled past (chapter 9). A belief in something larger than life has perpetually seemed a human necessity. We also have an insatiable urge to preserve what we believe, regardless of authenticity. An excellent example is the infant Jesus’ foreskin. Supposedly it was placed within an oil-filled, alabaster box following circumcision. It first appeared in the 9th century, said to have been gifted to Charlemagne himself by an angel. Eventually it ended up in the Basilica of St. John the Lateran in Rome. Stolen in 1527 by invaders, it reappeared in nearly twenty different places over the next four hundred years, stolen for the last time in 1984. Millions venerated it. Churches exploited it for untold revenue. Never mind that it rang contrary to the doctrine that Christ ascended to heaven intact.
The same is true of the Arma Christi, something else of long standing within Christendom. Not one, but a collection of relics of the passions of Christ, many depicted in countless religious paintings and art. An excellent treatise on the subject is The Arma Christi in Medieval and Early Modern Material Culture, edited by Lisa Cooper and Andrea Denny-Brown. Of course, no one knows which of the many objects, scattered around the world, are the true Arma Christi. Unlike in the novel, there is no official list from the Vatican. I randomly chose seven (chapter 9) from the many eligible for my weapons of Christ. But the story of the Empress Helena, and how the veneration of relics began, related in chapter 9, is true.
The European Interceptor Site was first proposed by George W. Bush and ultimately canceled by Barack Obama. The idea (as detailed in chapter 9) was to land-base interceptor missiles in Poland as a deterrent to Iran. Moscow hated the idea, as did most of Europe and a sizable amount of Poland. My resurrection of the concept is fiction.
The Aegis Ballistic Missile Defense System (chapter 50) would have been the weapon of choice, though there were issues then, and now, as to its effectiveness. The controversy over the canceling of the project, as described in chapter 50, happened, with many Polish leaders thinking it a sellout to Moscow at Poland’s expense. Ironically, the end came on September 17, 2009, seventy years to the day after the Soviets invaded.
The Agencja Wywiadu (chapter 11), AW, exists as Poland’s foreign intelligence service. The Biuro Ochrony Rządu, BOR, Government Protection Bureau (chapter 5), shields the president of Poland every day. The former Służba Bezpieczeństwa, the SB, the communist security police (chapter 12), wreaked havoc on Poles for decades, torturing, killing, and recruiting spies as detailed in chapter 38. Thankfully, it no longer exists. The Dreyfus affair, recounted in chapter 65, is part of history. And the qualifications to be eligible for the presidency of Poland (chapter 5) are accurate. Those elected serve a five-year term, with the possibility of only one reelection thereafter.
Kraków is also another place straight from the past. Rynek Główny, the massive central square, is impressive, as is the cloth market. The hejnał mentioned in chapter 20 is a legend of long standing, and you can still hear the mournful notes of the lone trumpeter daily.
Wawel Castle has dominated Kraków for centuries, once the center of Polish political power. Many kings and queens are buried within its walls. The castle’s rooms and geography are both faithfully recounted (chapters 28, 30, and 32), including the armoire in which Cotton hides (which is there), the back entrance into the palace, and the outer loggia. The Dragon’s Den exists and can be visited. It is one of the oldest continuously occupied sites in all of Europe, and the legend associated with the dragon (chapter 32) is part of Kraków’s mythology.
The restaurant Pod Aniołami (chapter 54) is a terrific plac
e to enjoy traditional Polish cuisine. The Sheraton Grand Kraków stands in the shadow of Wawel Castle, and there is a terrific view from its Royal Wawel Suite (chapters 27 and 34). The Monastery of the Camaldolese Monks sits on a hill outside Kraków. A truly unique locale. If possible, pay it a visit, but be warned, the monks are a bit traditional (chapter 22). One rumor says they sleep in coffins, which is ridiculous. But they do keep the skulls of their predecessors in their hermitages. Also, women are only allowed inside to visit a few days a year.
The Holy Lance exists in a world of doubt. There are many around the world that lay claim to being authentic, the major contenders described in chapter 20. The one in Kraków known as the Spear of St. Maurice remains on display in the cathedral museum atop Wawel Hill. Unlike in the novel, the real museum underwent its restoration a few years ago. The stories associated with the spear, how the Holy Roman Emperor bestowed it onto the king of Poland, how it survived multiple invaders, and how the Germans stole then returned it, are all true (chapter 20). The Spear of St. Maurice remains a Polish national treasure, and stands as a symbol of strength and unity, along with the single-headed eagle (chapter 60).
Lech Wałęsa was indeed accused of being a former communist informant (chapters 27, 45). There were many charges and countercharges. At first Wałęsa called it all a hoax created to discredit him. A court did exonerate him of any complicity. Years later, under renewed pressure, he admitted to signing certain documents that seemed to implicate him as an informant, saying he did so to gain the government’s trust and learn what he could from the inside. That’s where the idea for my Warsaw Protocol originated, though I took it to a more radical extreme (chapter 38). The documents described in chapter 44 are based on real ones. To be labeled a communist informer then, or now, within Poland is a horrible thing. There may be no greater insult, so Janusz Czajkowski’s fears were well founded.
Memories of all that happened from 1945 to 1990 remain fresh. The Institute of National Remembrance, and its Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Polish Nation (chapter 12), are tasked with making sure those memories never fade. Both maintain a vast archive of documents from both the Nazi and communist times. Documents still turn up from time to time, many from private individuals who’ve held the information for decades. As in the story, one such cache was actually offered for sale by the widow of a former party official. The Pantry (chapter 25) is my invention, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that such a thing might exist. And what better place to hide away lots of valuable old paper than in a salt mine?