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Why not?
He’d hidden in worse places.
He wiggled his way into the space and settled his spine against one of the side walls, his knees folded up but not all that uncomfortable. He’d be fine for a few hours. He closed the doors. Hopefully, no one would inspect inside.
He found his phone and made sure it was set to silent.
A text had come from Cassiopeia.
WHERE ARE YOU?
He knew she wasn’t going to like the truth.
IN POLAND, HIDING INSIDE A CABINET, WAITING TO STEAL A 1000-YEAR-OLD ARTIFACT.
So he opted to not reply.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
7:50 P.M.
Jonty was back inside the Wieliczka Salt Mine. Vic had arranged for another special tour, this time for three people. Eli had supplied some of what he knew, and their guide had brought along another map that, hopefully, would lead them where they needed to go.
“This is an old drawing,” Konrad said. “From when the communists ran this place.”
They stood inside the magnificent Chapel of St. Kinga, a hundred meters underground. Twenty thousand tons of salt had been removed to create it. Thirty meters long, fifteen wide, nearly twenty tall, its floor spanned five hundred square meters of polished salt. One of the largest underground churches in the world, it was laid out in the late 19th century with loving devotion.
He admired its lavish decoration and iconography.
Once, when miners lived underground for weeks at a time, exchanging sunlight for lamps and candles, religion played a big part in their lives. Hymns accompanied their descent. They greeted each other with a reverent God bless. Eventually, to pass the time, some of them became artisans, carving in the salt, molding larger-than-life statues and dioramas scattered across the mine. Forty chapels were eventually created and, since the 17th century, Catholic services had been routinely held in many of them. St. Kinga’s was the crown jewel. More a cathedral than chapel, decorated by five massive chandeliers made of elaborate salt crystals, numerous sculptures, and three-dimensional bas-reliefs of breathtaking detail, all inspired by New Testament themes, a tribute generations of the miner-sculptors left to their Christian faith.
Jonty studied the map.
Nazis occupied the mine during the war and tried to use it as an underground factory, employing slave labor. But the Soviet advance thwarted the effort. After the war the communists assumed control and kept possession until 1990. Then the new Polish republic took over and had operated it ever since.
“I’ve worked here for a number of years,” Konrad said. “We’ve all been told stories of when the communists were in charge. We were still extracting salt then. I’ve heard that they also used this place as a storage facility. There’s a huge chamber down on Level IX, in a part of the tunnels that’s off limits. But I’ve seen it.”
Eli seemed intent on what he was hearing.
“It’s filled with wooden shelving,” Konrad said. “The iron frames are all corroded, though. The salt has eaten them away. Why they used iron, I have no idea. It doesn’t last down there.” With his finger, Konrad traced a route on the map. “That chamber is here.”
“How far down?” Eli asked.
“Over three hundred meters.”
His competitor clearly was not pleased with that information. “You don’t like closed spaces?”
“I don’t like prisons,” Eli said.
“You’re welcome to wait here,” Jonty said.
“I appreciate your concern for my comfort. But I’ll suffer through it and come along.”
“What are we after?” Konrad asked.
Jonty wanted to hear the answer to that question, too, as did Vic, who’d stood silent.
“A chamber named Warszawa,” Eli said.
A puzzled look came to Konrad’s face. “There is such a chamber. It’s the grand ballroom, not far from here, where banquets, parties, and conferences are held. You can’t mean that.”
“This one would be secreted away.”
“I know of lower-level chambers named Modena, Weimer, Florencja, Toskania, and other locations in Europe and Poland, but none named for Warsaw.”
As before, they were each dressed in coveralls with a helmet and light, ready for a special tour. They’d descended from the Regis Shaft, then walked half a kilometer over in a Level II drift to the main tourist areas. Jonty had wondered about the change in procedure, as they usually descended straight to Level IX in the Regis Shaft elevator.
“Why did we come here?” he asked. “And not go directly to Level IX?”
Konrad pointed. “Because this map is for Level X.”
He caught the look on Vic’s face. He was thinking the same thing. “I didn’t know there was anything that deep.”
“It was opened in the 1950s, expanded in the 1960s, but closed in the mid-1970s.”
He caught the significance of those dates. “All during the time of communist control.”
Konrad nodded. “There’s no elevator to that level. Only a wooden staircase, that’s not in good shape, from Level IX. No tour groups are ever taken down there. The elevator to get us closest to that staircase is not far from here.”
“How accurate is this map?” Vic asked.
“I have no idea. I know of
a few miners who’ve been there. They say the tunnels are fairly clear, but there’s a lot of water seepage. No maintenance has been done there in decades.”
He caught the unspoken warning. Danger existed.
“We have no options,” Jonty told Konrad. “We have to take a look.”
“The good part is that there are only a few tunnels. Lots of offshoots, but only three main drifts. As you can see on the map, nothing is labeled. No names on anything. But that could be different down there.”
Jonty stared at Eli. “Are you sure about this? It seems a lot of risk for something that could be pure fiction.”
“We’ll never know unless we look.”
He stared around at the incredible church. Its pulpit at one end imitated Wawel Hill with its fortifications and dragon. The opposite end was dominated by a salt statue of John Paul II. A sign in several languages advised that this remained a living place of worship as mass was still said here every Sunday. Visitors were busy admiring everything.
He glanced at Vic, whose good sense and patience he’d come to rely upon. His associate had not been happy when told about the budding partnership with Eli Reinhardt. Nor had he been eager to release their prisoner, who was now waiting up at ground level in the car that had brought Reinhardt north into Poland. Their past experiences with Eli had all been competitive, but this deal was different in scope and magnitude. Hundreds of millions of euros were at stake. They were juggling the competing interests of seven sovereign nations, most of which cared little to nothing for the others. All seven possessed the resources to wreak havoc, if they so chose. Now another element had interjected itself. If the Pantry proved real, the potential could be enormous. If not, then this was a colossal waste of time and an unnecessary risk.
But what the hell.
He’d not become one of the world’s most successful information brokers by being timid. Besides, Eli Reinhardt was coming with him, so both their asses were on the line.
