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“I came to meet the man who shot my son’s killer,” Thorvaldsen said.
“Why?”
“To thank you.”
“You could have called.”
“I understand you were nearly killed.”
He shrugged.
“And you’re quitting your government job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.”
“You know an awful lot.”
“Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.”
He wasn’t impressed. “Thanks for the pat on the back, and I’m truly sorry for your loss. But I have a hole in my shoulder that’s throbbing and a lack of patience. So, since you’ve said your piece, could you leave?”
Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa, he simply stared at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves.
“I love them, too,” his guest said. “I’ve collected books all my life.”
“What do you want?”
“Have you considered your future?”
He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”
“Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like it.”
He decided to play along. But there was something about the older man’s eyes that told him his visitor was not joking. Veined hands searched a suit coat pocket and Thorvaldsen laid a business card on the sofa.
“My private number. If you’re interested, call me.”
He’d made the call, then finalized his divorce, quit his job, sold his house, and moved from Georgia to Denmark.
Never regretting a day.
Earlier, in the basilica, memories of that day in Mexico City had come rushing back. People in danger. Him there. Able to act.
Do something.
And he had.
But he’d made mistakes in Mexico City, ones he tried hard never to repeat. Like underestimating the opposition.
“Mr. Bunch,” he said. “You have a highly qualified agent of a foreign government who went out of her way to let us know she’s here. There’s a reason she did that. A reason that obviously concerns Poland.”
The restaurant was becoming noisy, filling with diners. Bunch sat oblivious, sipping his expensive wine. Cotton did not like discussing such a sensitive subject in so public a place.
“Should we not leave?” he asked, looking at Stephanie.
She motioned like, Do you really think I’m in charge.
“We can talk right here,” Bunch declared.
He shrugged, indicating, What the hell? Why not. More amateur hour.
“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “When we responded to the auction invitation, I’m told that the information sent back via email said the price of admission was us bringing a specific artifact. No artifact, no admission.”
Now he understood. “One of the Arma Christi.”
She nodded. “Ours is the Holy Lance. The Spear of St. Maurice in Kraków, Poland.”
Which might further explain Sonia Draga’s appearance.
“Of the seven relics,” Stephanie said, “five have already been taken. By who? We have no idea. But they’ll be bringing their respective relic to the auction, so we’ll learn all that then. There are two left. The Holy Lance, which is our ticket, and the Nail in the cathedral at Bamberg, Germany. We have to have the lance in our possession by tomorrow at midnight. A little more than twenty-seven hours from now. If not, then we can’t attend.”
“Just wait, then locate and raid the auction,” he said.
Bunch smirked. “It’s not that easy. No location was provided. That will come after we have the relic.”
The explanation came with an as-if-I-have-to-explain-something-so-obvious tone.
“You’re telling me you can’t find the location?” Cotton asked. “You have the most extensive intelligence network in the world.”
“The thinking,” Stephanie said, “is that the others invited will have competing interests. Some want the information. Some want it destroyed. It may not be so easy to shut things down. I’m also assuming that this Jonty Olivier will take the necessary precautions against a preemptive strike. He surely knows that there could be trouble.”
“And you have no idea what you’re buying.”
“Not true,” Bunch said. “A sample was provided with the invitation.”
Cotton was curious. “If I hadn’t come along, what were you planning on doing?”
“I had someone else in mind to work with us,” she said. “That’s what I was arranging in Brussels.”
“It’s why I’m here, too,” Bunch added. “I’ll be attending the auction, with the relic, to bid for the information.”
That was a bad idea on a multitude of levels.
“Orders from the White House and the attorney general,” Stephanie said.
He got the message. No sense beating that dead horse. But he had to say to her, “You do have a lot of problems here.”
Bunch seemed irritated. “I get it that you two think I have no business in this. But that’s not your call. The president says I do, so can we create a workable plan?”
“Does that mean I’m now acceptable?”
“Sure, Malone. Why not? What choice do I have? Stephanie’s right. Time is short.”
Who was this guy fooling. “That way, if I fail, you blame it all on her. She picked me.”
Bunch grinned. “Something like that.”
“Cotton,” Stephanie said, “we’ve already done the preliminary legwork. We know where the spear is being held and how it can be taken.”
“I saw the Spear of St. Maurice once, years ago,” he said. “It’s inside Wawel Castle’s cathedral museum.”
“Not at the moment, which is to our advantage. The message we received from Olivier indicated that the relic has to be stolen before any further information is provided. I assume the theft itself is some sort of proof. Obviously, we can’t borrow the spear from the museum, or ask the Poles to cooperate with us. Why would they? The last person they would want to obtain damaging information on Czajkowski is Fox. With Sonia here in Belgium, that means Poland is now part of this equation. They also would not want that auction to happen. I’m sure Sonia has been charged with stopping it.”
