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“Unless Poland got an invite of their own,” he added.
“That’s possible,” she said. “But my gut says that didn’t happen.”
“Do you think Czajkowski knows the price of America’s admission?”
She shook her head. “Which is probably also why Sonia is here. The Holy Blood is gone. So she’s focused now on the lance and the Nail in Bamberg, waiting for us to make a move.”
“For all she knows, we took the Holy Blood,” Bunch added.
Which was the first thing this guy had said that made sense. “He has a point.”
Stephanie nodded. “It’s possible, but you’ll need to figure that out.”
Obviously the nature of the blackmail was political. And damning enough to attract a lot of interest. But he learned a long time ago to know the stakes of the game before anteing up. “Do you plan to tell me the nature of this information on Czajkowski? You got a sample.”
Bunch raised a hand to stifle the question. “I told you that’s classified, and it’s not necessary for you to know. We just need you to obtain the spear.”
He now knew what to say and stood from the table.
“I’ll pass.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jonty stepped from the car.
After dinner he and Vic had driven north from the castle, crossing into Poland, heading toward Kraków. But before reaching the city, they’d veered east and found the town of Wieliczka. He’d always had a tough time with Polish. So many different sounds to familiar letters. Wieliczka was a perfect example, pronounced Vye-leech-kah.
The salt mines had always fascinated him. According to legend, in the 13th century Duke Boleslaw of Kraków wanted a bride.
So he arranged a marriage to Kinga, the daughter of the king of Hungary. Being a practical woman Kinga asked her father for an unusual dowry, something to help build prosperity in her new homeland. So he gave her a salt mine. But it was located in Hungary, a long way from Poland. In a gesture of thanks she cast her engagement ring into the mine’s shaft. Years later, once in Poland, she visited Wieliczka where salt had recently been discovered. While there, one of the workers presented her with a lump of salt that contained a shiny object. When it was broken open she saw it to be her engagement ring, which had found its way there underground, all the way from Hungary.
That fanciful tale explained two things.
First, why St. Kinga was the patron of Polish salt miners. And second, why there’d been a salt mine at Wieliczka for the past seven hundred years.
And what a place.
Nine levels, the first one sixty meters down, the last more than three hundred. Two hundred and fifty kilometers of tunnels snaked a labyrinth through the earth, which led to over two thousand chambers hollowed by forty generations of miners. The real credit for its discovery goes to local farmers who found the salt deposits by accident, then started digging. Before that salt either had come from brine or had been imported. But after? A less expensive and plentiful alternative became available.
Salt. Gray gold.
Produced when a base and an acid react to each other. More specifically when sodium joins with chlorine, producing sodium chloride, a staple food and the only rock humans can digest.
And thank goodness.
The body could not produce salt. It had to come externally. And it was vital. Two hundred and fifty grams were lost by an adult every day and had to be replaced. No sodium? No oxygen moved through the blood. No nerve impulses or muscles moved, including the heart. No digestion. Its perpetual value came from its constant loss and the need for continual replacement. It has always been one of the most sought-after commodities, unique because even dissolved into a liquid it can be evaporated back out.
In Poland the obtaining and selling of salt had always been a royal right, making kings wealthy and keeping the locals employed. During the Middle Ages seven to eight thousand tons of salt were extracted per year from the earth below him, and that continued well into the 20th century.
The time was approaching 8:00 P.M. and the mine was closing down. Nearly two million people visited a year, all on guided tours, the last official one leaving at 7:30, as a nearby wall sign explained. After hours by special appointment, tours were available, which he assumed had been arranged through their contact.
He followed Vic inside an attractive art nouveau building that accommodated the Regis Shaft, sunk in the 14th century and the oldest of the ways down. Once the miners had descended by rope into the deep recesses. Elevators handled the task today, the ones here used by the special tours. Two other sets were in differing locations, one for the horde of daily tourists and the other for miners who still worked below keeping the passages safe and open. A few people were still around inside the building, removing olive-green coveralls and mining hats, talking with excitement, apparently just returned from a trip below.
A man waited for them, also dressed in coveralls, only his were a beige color. A name stitched to the outside read KONRAD. Jonty knew that several hundred guides led groups through the mine. Each one was trained and certified. Most worked only part-time. Konrad was a hybrid, being one of the full-time miners still employed at the site, but assigned to public relations duties for special tours. Thankfully, Konrad was also deeply in debt thanks to two failed marriages and some reckless spending. A few thousand euros had bought his unquestioned loyalty.
It bothered Jonty that an outsider was so close to things, but this situation was unusual to say the least. Timing was everything in his business. Important information today could be worthless tomorrow. The trick was to make a deal while things were hot. That’s why he’d been overly generous with this corruptible soul. As a precaution, Vic had kept a close eye on Konrad and nothing unusual had piqued their interest. Of course, the spy’s appearance and the mention of Reinhardt had sparked a new wave of paranoia.
“I didn’t realize you’d be coming,” Konrad said to him.
“Is it a problem?” Jonty asked.
“I had only planned for one for this special tour. But I can make the adjustment. Give me a minute.”
Konrad walked off.
Jonty stepped over to a large sign that mapped out the tunnels below and explained what he was about to experience.
Covered in working clothes and armed with mining equipment, visitors to the Wieliczka mine stop feeling like tourists as soon as they descend into the darkness by the oldest existing mine shaft, the Regis. The trail, located far off the busy tourist route, allows visitors to discover the inner workings of the mine. On their own, they measure the concentration of methane, grind and transport salt, set the path, and explore unknown chambers. They also experience the daily routine of underground life and the secrets of mining traditions and rituals, and experience firsthand the real taste of miners’ work.
It all sounded so adventurous.
Visitors receive a protective coverall, a lamp, and helmet. Please bring warm clothing. Temperature underground ranges between 14° and 16°C. Wear comfortable, waterproof footwear.
Which he’d done.
He’d come a long way from his beginnings.
He started out as a black-market dealer, mainly fencing stolen supplies acquired from U.S. military bases scattered across Europe. Anything and everything. The supply of buyers had seemed unending. He made a lot of money and managed to stay out of jail. Then he progressed into people, becoming a recruiter. If someone needed an experienced burglar, a qualified arms expert, or a high-tech hacker, he found the right person for the right price. Incredible that no one had started such a service before. Everybody thought criminals either all knew one another or formed their alliances on a whim. Not so. An inability to advertise, the scrutiny of law enforcement, and an overall lack of honesty made it tough to find good help. After all, you couldn’t ask for references. He’d solved that problem and made a lot more money in the process. He’d had only one rule. He never worked for murderers, terrorists, or kidnappers. For nearly a decade he was the underworld’s number one employment agency.
Then a third shift. Into information.
Another service few had exploited.
Unfortunately, no university offered any degree in his line of work. No trade unions sponsored apprenticeships. No traditions existed upon which to draw. You simply learned as you went. And he had, making mistakes here and there, but never repeating them. His reputation had grown such that he was considered one of half a dozen people in the world who could supply good, reliable information. Now he was on the verge of the biggest deal of all. Provided he could keep everything under control for another two days.
Every life had a turning point. This was his.
Konrad returned. “All is done. I laid out mining kits for you both in the locker room. Slip on the coveralls, then meet me with your helmets and lights over there at the elevator.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cotton left the restaurant.
Stephanie had offered no argument to get him to change his mind, her eyes signaling that she understood. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars was nowhere near enough compensation to deal with a guy like Tom Bunch. He actually felt for her, but Stephanie was a big girl. She could handle things. Still, whoever else she had in mind to team with Bunch?
God help them.
He wondered why she stayed on the job. Just retire. Find something else to do. She could make a fortune in the private sector. But he knew the answer. The Magellan Billet was her life. She was a loyal soldier, the kind you wanted on your side, and normally he’d do anything for her. But his personal bullshit-tolerance level had long ago dropped to zero and he was simply not the guy to babysit Tom Bunch.
The fading light of a northern dusk had taken hold, t
he June evening air dry and pleasant. The streets were choked with people, vendor carts, and bicycles that sped along at a fast clip. He’d had an interesting afternoon, to say the least. He missed the job, for sure. But he didn’t miss dealing with assholes like Bunch. And he’d had his share of them. He hated leaving Stephanie in the lurch, and knew that her not insisting he stay meant he owed her one.
But that was okay. He’d owed her before.
He kept walking, retracing the route he and Stephanie had taken earlier, past the fish market, the old town hall, and the Basilica of the Holy Blood. All was quiet at the church, the front doors closed for the day, the square out front still dotted with camera-toting tourists. No sign of any police or any other indication something unusual had happened there earlier. He followed another busy street and passed retail stores on both sides, most still trying to lure in a few last customers. The path drained into the central market, his hotel on the far side of the open expanse.
He should call Cassiopeia. They spoke at least once a day. He missed her. Strange to have those feelings about someone else, but he’d come to welcome them. Thankfully, each provided the other a wide berth. No clinginess. Each cherished their own space, but they also cherished each other. He’d even given the M-word a little thought. Marriage would be a huge step. But they both always found a reason to avoid the subject, their relationship a mixture of need, apprehension, and shyness. He’d been divorced awhile, and his ex-wife lived back in Georgia with their son, Gary. All was good there. Finally. But it had taken a struggle.
