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Charges of collaboration had long dogged Walesa.
Two hundred and seventy-nine pages of documents eventually surfaced, all from the widow of a former communist interior minister, who’d tried to sell them. The similarities with what was happening here, with Czajkowski, were frightening. The difference being that Walesa’s dirt went public. The Institute of National Remembrance studied it in detail, hiring experts who concluded that the documents were authentic. The story they told was of a Walesa who led protests and strikes that shook communist rule in the 1980s, but had also apparently been a paid informant for the secret police in the 1970s. Walesa claimed fraud, saying they were created by the government to discredit him. A valid charge, considering the parties involved, and a court exonerated him.
Questions remained, though.
The issue of collaboration recurred when the conservative Law and Justice party, run by a former anti-communist activist, an enemy of Walesa’s, assumed power. Eventually, Walesa admitted signing a commitment to inform for the SB, but denied ever fulfilling it. There were at least thirty reports bearing the signature of “Bolek,” the code name assigned to Walesa, all deemed authentic. In addition, there were cash receipts for payments to him that also bore his verified signature.
Quite the PR disaster for a legend.
One Walesa never really recovered from.
Enough, Jonty had hoped, to scare Czajkowski into not tempting fate, making him willing to do whatever the holder of the information on him might want.
He entered the castle and told Vic, “Let the man in the basement go.” He’d already explained on the drive back what had happened inside the restaurant. “We need to go back to the mine. Eli included. Can you arrange it?”
Vic nodded.
“Please do it fast. I want this matter resolved in the next few hours.”
He’d made a deal with Reinhardt on the condition that the cache still existed and was marketable. If so, there’d be a joint auction. If not, he’d agreed to pay twenty million euros for his competition to stay out of the way. The Arma Christi should bring that amount. The rest from the auction would be all his. He had not liked making the deal, but there was plenty of money to go around, so he decided to spend what it took to keep Reinhardt at bay. Of course, if the cache was there, and relevant, many more millions could be made.
By them both.
So what did he have to lose by taking a look?
* * *
Czajkowski sat inside the Royal Wawel Suite at the Sheraton Grand Kraków. The hotel, a modern precast-concrete-and-steel structure, faced the River Wisla, within the shadow of Wawel Castle, displayed in all its glory beyond the room’s east windows. He’d decided to stay over for the night to be close to what was about to happen, the move camouflaged by a meeting arranged with local officials, many of whom had been clamoring for a moment of his time. He’d managed to contain his anger with both President Fox and Tom Bunch. Both were treating him like a fool and Poland like a second-rate nation.
Which was nothing new.
Kings, queens, emperors, and premiers had been doing the same thing for centuries. But not this time. Sonia would make sure that would not happen.
How lucky he was to have her.
But he had to be careful. Poland remained a deeply Catholic country. While divorce was legal, the church frowned on it. Separations, though, were tolerated. But neither would be acceptable for the president of the country, and open adultery would be politically fatal.
What was the only legal grounds for divorce?
The irretrievable and complete disintegration of matrimonial life.
Along with a lack of any spiritual, physical, or economic bonds.
Which all applied to his marriage.
Thankfully, there were no children involved. His wife had steadfastly refused to have any, making that clear from the start. So he could not complain. But he’d be as big a liar as the Americans if he said that he did not regret that decision. Instead, the nation had become his child. He’d dedicated himself to Poland. Nearly forty million people depended on him making the right decisions. And he was not going to let them down.
His cell phone rang and he was glad to see it was Sonia.
“Where are you?” he asked her.
“Making preparations.”
Back at the monastery she’d explained her plan and how she intended to deal with Cotton Malone. He’d sensed there was a history between them and, for a moment, he had been jealous. He’d not felt that emotion in a long time. It had actually felt good. Made him alive once again. He realized he had no right to be jealous about anything that had happened prior to their relationship. It was none of his business. But it still bothered him. He loved Sonia, and he firmly believed she felt the same. She was doing everything she could to help him, and he appreciated that more than she would ever know.
Or maybe she might.
“Thank you for doing this,” he felt compelled to say.
“My pleasure, Mr. President.”
He loved it when she called him that.
“I’ll expect a more proper thank-you, though, in person,” she noted.
He chuckled. “And I’ll be more than happy to supply that.”
“First, I have to deal with an old adversary. He’s good. Really good. So this has to be done with precision.”
“We only have one chance.”
“I agree. And I intend to make it count.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Cotton glanced up at Wawel Castle. He stood on a busy sidewalk, facing the fortress’s east wing, the golden-stone walls rising nearly a hundred feet to a steeply pitched roof. The exterior seemed a carefully choregraphed collection of galleries, piers, columns, and balconies. Many called it the Polish Acropolis, towering over Kraków, once the seat of secular and ecclesiastical power. On the upper floor he spotted a columned loggia that, according to the information he’d been provided, led to where the Spear of St. Maurice was currently being stored.
Ordinarily, the spear was kept on permanent display within the John Paul II Cathedral Museum, located just inside the castle’s main gates. The museum housed one of the most valuable collections of art and artifacts in Poland. Hundreds of thousands of people visited every year. So many that the building had been closed for the past few months, undergoing an extensive renovation, its treasures stored away for safekeeping in several different locations. The spear had been moved inside the castle, currently locked away with a few other valuables in an upper-floor room, the windows of which he was now studying from ground level.
The time was approaching 5:00 P.M. Whoever had performed the recon for Stephanie had learned a wealth of excellent information. The castle itself was open for another twenty minutes. What was once the bakery and infirmary, a building fronting the inner courtyard, had long ago been converted into administrative offices. An interior door from that building led into the castle, for staff use only. It was locked but not impenetrable. Guards patrolled all of the floors at intervals and there were cameras, but not that many. The recon report advised that they were avoidable, if one was careful.
A photocopy of the second-floor layout had also been provided. It appeared to have come from a book on the castle, the entrance from the administrative offices circled along with the room where the spear was stored, near what was known as the loggia atop the Danish Tower. To get from one to the other meant navigating a dozen rooms along the north wing before turning into the east side of the building. That made for lots of opportunities to be discovered, but the intel advised that if he stayed to the interior side walls he could avoid all three cameras along the way.
He crossed the street and made his way up Wawel Hill along a brick-enclosed passage to a massive Renaissance gate. Humanity wheezed and murmured all around, more people flowing out than in, as the site was preparing to end another day.
He bypassed the exiting tourists and entered the castle grounds. The cathedral museum rose to his right, its en
trance barred by a rope barrier and a sign noting the building was closed. The cathedral stood to his left, few people moving in and out its iron gate. He’d bought a ball cap in town, which was now firmly planted on his head and should help with anonymity. The recon report noted that there were cameras all across the exterior of the buildings. He had to assume the Poles were watching, so he needed to move fast.
He angled left, toward the administrative building. A manicured lawn spread out between the buildings within the inner sanctum. Towers were everywhere, offering excellent vantage points. They all had names. Labels like Sigismund, Thieves, Bell, Senators’, Danish, and Hens. A large legend of the castle grounds, framed from the elements, stood off to the right. Visitors were studying the map. He took a moment and gave it a glance, too, noting the local geography, keeping a watch on the double doors. A crowd walked past and he used them for cover as he approached and slipped inside the admin building, which had not been locked for the day. Inside were offices. Whoever prepped this mission had provided a rough sketch of the corridors, showing exactly where he needed to go.
Being a field agent entailed doing things that most people shied away from. Like trespassing and breaking and entering. He’d grown accustomed to those violations as a means to get the job done. But they represented a path, he’d had to remind himself, that was no longer readily available now that he was retired.
An inner staircase led up, which he avoided. Instead, he followed a whitewashed corridor and turned right. A carpet runner lined the stone floor, and closed doors at periodic intervals on both sides led into offices. No cameras here. Nothing to steal. This was a workplace. He followed the drawing etched into his memory and found a vestibule, where a wide stone staircase led up at right angles.
At the top of the first rung of risers a small wooden door, encased within a stone frame, led from this building into the castle. He climbed to the landing and noticed that the entryway was protected by two locks. One was a simple keyed tumbler, easy to pick, the other a piece of braided wire threaded through two holders, one on the door, the other the jamb, the ends twisted together and sealed with a clamp. A simple and effective way to know if the door had been opened.
Now the hard part.
He had to disappear for a few hours.
He descended the stairs back to ground level.
The intel he’d reviewed offered little in the way of hiding places. He assumed there were people still in the building, though he hadn’t seen anyone as yet. They would soon all be gone but for the guards. He could not just hang around in the halls. The vestibule before him was empty, save for a huge rosewood chifforobe. He walked over and opened it. Empty. The inside plenty large enough to accommodate him.
