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Eli had kept Art Munoz as his own personal protection. The Bulgarian was ensconced in the bedroom next to Eli. Why the need for a bodyguard? Who knew. But he’d decided to allow Reinhardt whatever he wanted. The important thing was to get through tomorrow and conclude the auction. The twenty million euros he would owe Eli was a small price to pay for no drama.
Yesterday’s enemy can be today’s friend.
How true.
Vic reported that six teams had been dispatched to various points in Poland, Slovakia, the Czech Republic, and Austria. All within a few hours’ driving time. The Germans would not be participating. Eli had assumed their place and provided the Holy Nail from Bamberg Cathedral, which would be sold with the rest of the holy relics. He’d been worried about the Americans, but now they were in. Finally. He’d received both the RSVP and an image of the Spear of St. Maurice. Their presence was essential. During their phone call a few weeks back, Warner Fox had assured him that they would not only bid but actually win the auction, and that meant lots of U.S. dollars coming his way. Fox had been quite supportive of the endeavor, congratulating him on his enterprising ingenuity. More of that former businessman coming through, where money talked and more money talked louder.
He settled between the four posters, the firm mattress a wonder. The castle was wonderfully equipped. No expense had been spared in making it comfortable. For what he was paying for only a week’s worth of use, the whole place should be lined with gold.
Normally, he liked to read before falling asleep. A habit he’d acquired as a teenager, and one he’d maintained his entire adult life. He loved the classics but, if truth be told, a good mystery intrigued him, too. Something about the puzzle. Much like his own life, which at times seemed straight out of an international suspense thriller.
He was comforted to know that Vic was keeping an eye on things during the night. He doubted he’d be able to sleep otherwise. His man was also monitoring the six teams, ready to begin transportation of their charges in the morning. He’d chosen the middle of the day for the auction on purpose. Easier to spot trouble coming, and easier to get away. He trusted none of the bidders, but was counting on their parochial self-interests to ensure that all proceeded as planned.
The Pantry still bothered him. There were tens of thousands of documents there. It could take a long time to go through them and there was no guarantee there’d be anything of value. Repeatedly going in and out of that mine could eventually draw attention, though Konrad had informed them of a way down where there was little to no monitoring, used exclusively by the miners. Still, one lesson he’d learned from years of careful bargaining was never press your luck. Take what was there and get out. Nothing good ever came from prolonging things, and everything about that cache screamed long-term.
Eli had been right about one thing.
Why not make a deal with the Poles and sell it all, intact.
That would surely be worth millions of euros and he’d derive half, per his deal.
He was hungry. Perhaps he should have the staff bring him a snack. Maybe a fruit bowl. Nothing heavy. He’d always found sleep hard to acquire after too much of a good thing.
More of that never pressing your luck.
He rested a little easier knowing that all communications in and out of the castle were now being jammed. They’d stepped up that precaution before leaving for the mine earlier. So there was no way Eli could speak to anyone beyond the castle walls. He was mindful, though, of Eli’s threat about what would happen if he did not report in every few hours, so Vic had been told to allow those calls, but monitor every word. He was counting on his competitor’s greed to ensure that nothing went wrong.
He decided to pass on the snack and the reading.
His mind was already racing, and any more stimulants should be avoided.
He switched off the light.
Time for sleep.
Tomorrow would require his best.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THURSDAY, JUNE 6
10:50 A.M.
Cotton had slept fitfully, concerned over what was about to happen. He’d spent the night at a Kraków hotel, but not before performing some vital housekeeping chores. He and Stephanie had managed to convince Tom Bunch that the spear should not be transported in its wooden box. Too informal, he’d explained. Not appropriate, Stephanie had added. So they’d located another decorative container of sufficient size, lacquered and hand-painted in the Polish style, and stuffed it with the foam and velvet cloth from the original box. Bunch had seemed satisfied, never realizing what was actually happening. Sure enough, they’d found a GPS tracker embedded into the original box’s bottom, which Cotton had removed and now carried in his trouser pocket, still bouncing a signal to Sonia Draga.
Stephanie had called earlier to tell him that a story in Warsaw’s morning Gazeta Wyborcza reported a burglary last night at Wawel Castle that was being investigated by the local police. Few details had been offered and no determination had been made, as yet, on what might have been taken. That seemed more than enough to make the point, but not enough to give away the farm.
He hadn’t been able to eat much breakfast, just nibbling on some toast and sipping orange juice before they left Kraków in Bunch’s vehicle and drove sixty miles south to Zakopane, a town of about thirty thousand that sat on the Poland–Slovakia border. The city occupied a valley at the foot of the Tatra Mountains and billed itself as Poland’s sports capital, catering to summer mountaineers and winter skiers.
The Tatra Museum seemed like a big deal. There were eight different locations, all featuring the history, culture, nature, and ethnography of the Polish Tatras. The main branch was located at the city center, the building a perfect example of the brick-and-stone variety that seemed typical in the area. Bunch had been buoyant on the drive, excited to be a part of the auction. It was clearly his first venture into something like this, and he seemed to have a twisted view as to how things were played.
It’s like Mission Impossible, Bunch had said. We’re heading in on an assignment, on our own, and if either of us is captured or killed the secretary will disavow any knowledge of our actions.
The moron spouted out nonsense as if all that were a good thing. Who the hell liked to be disavowed? Agents were not suicidal. And killed? None he’d ever met had a death wish.
They found the main branch of the museum at 10 Krupówki Street and parked on the curb. They exited the car and stood on the sidewalk, outside a waist-high iron fence that encircled the building. Cotton glanced at his watch and saw they were in place with five minutes to spare.
“When whoever arrives,” he said, “it would be better if I did the talking. This has to be played carefully, and I do have some experience in this area.”
“I don’t see the problem. We’re here to go to an auction. There’s nothing to play. I’m the senior official. I’ll do the talking.”
Exactly what he thought Bunch would say. Perfect. He needed a little diversion and this guy could certainly provide it.
He figured whoever was coming would run an electronics sweep, so he had to be rid of the GPS marker before that happened. But he also needed to paint the way for Sonia, who was surely watching from afar.
The day was clear, sunny, and warm. At precisely 11:00 A.M. a black Mercedes coupe came to a stop on the street before the museum. The driver and one other man sat in the front. Both young, with a look and demeanor reminiscent of the Three Amigos in Bruges.
Cotton walked toward the new arrivals and greeted the men as they emerged. He also noticed that the car windows were down. Perfect. All he needed now was for Bunch to be Bunch, who stepped up and said, “I’m the White House’s deputy national security adviser and deputy assistant to the president of the United States.”
“Where’s the relic?” one of them asked.
“What’s the deal here?” Cotton asked.
“It doesn’t work like that. We ask the questions, you provide the answers, and we don’t have t
ime to debate things. Where is the relic?”
Cotton pointed to their car. “In there.”
He’d managed to convince Bunch to leave it inside until they knew what was happening. It’s our only ticket into the auction, he’d told Bunch, who readily agreed.
The two men headed for the car.
Bunch did not hesitate. “Hold up there. That’s ours. Not yours. If you need to see it, I’ll handle it.”
The moment provided Cotton an opportunity to remove the GPS tracker from his pocket and flick it through the Mercedes’ open window. Where it landed didn’t matter, only that it was inside, preferably toward the backseat. The device was the size of a Tic Tac and hopefully would go unnoticed.
Bunch and the other two men made it to the car at the same time.
“Stand back,” one of them said.
“You will not speak to me in such a manner.”
“We’ve been instructed to leave you here if there is any objection or resistance to our instructions. Of course, we’ll take the relic with us.”
“You will not,” Bunch made clear. “That is property of the United States of America.”
The guy chuckled. Cotton wanted to join him but knew better.
“It’s actually stolen property,” the other man said. “Please step aside and let us do our job.”
Bunch tossed over a look that asked should he do that and Cotton nodded. Amazing that he wanted some guidance considering all his “expertise” with such matters. Bunch moved away and the man removed the lacquered box from the rear seat. The other found a 9V powered signal detector in his pant pocket, the kind that can be bought almost anywhere for under $200. Small, portable, simple, and effective. He switched on the unit and scanned the box. Then he opened the top lid and scanned the lance.
Nothing registered.
They then scanned Bunch.
Clean.
And finally they walked back to where Cotton stood and determined he harbored no electronic devices, either. He and Bunch had left their cell phones back in Kraków with Stephanie. He was betting they would not scan their own car and they did not, satisfied it was already clean. One disadvantage to a proximity scanner like they were using was that it needed to be close to any detectable source.
“All right,” one of their escorts said. “You need to get inside our vehicle and ride quietly.”
The other man took control of the spear inside its box.
