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“This is for you,” Bunch said, offering the box.
“The Spear of St. Maurice. How utterly exciting. Please, bring it inside.”
Olivier motioned for them to follow.
“We have a special place for it.”
* * *
Cotton studied the castle as they were led into what appeared to be its grand hall. Stout black pillars bore the weight of a flattened vaulted ceiling. A huge open hearth at one end bore the coat of arms of a former owner. Glass windows in black iron frames, high up, allowed in the late-morning sun. Four massive, electrified, gilded-bronze chandeliers provided ample illumination. Eight people milled about, chatting among themselves. Servers offered food and drink. Six pairs of chairs were arranged at the far end, facing a single high-backed chair and a large video screen. Olivier led them to a long oak table supported by legs the size of tree trunks. A portrait of Christ embossed into a copper plate, displayed on an easel, decorated the center. Four other artifacts lay about. The Holy Sponge, the Pillar of Flogging, the True Cross, and the Holy Blood. That meant the Russians were here, but he did not recognize any of the people in the room.
Bunch laid the box on the table, opened the lid and withdrew the spear. Olivier seemed impressed, which was surely Bunch’s intention.
“Quite wonderful,” Olivier noted. “Thank you for bringing it.”
“Like we had a choice,” Cotton said.
Olivier chuckled, merriment in his watery eyes. “No. I don’t suppose you did. But I thank you nonetheless. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other guests arriving.”
Two more pairs, in fact.
Who would bring the Holy Nail and the Crown of Thorns.
Olivier waddled off.
Bunch seemed pleased with himself. “So far, so good. Right, Malone?”
That all depended, but he wasn’t about to discuss those possibilities with this idiot. Hopefully, somewhere out there Sonia Draga was coming this way. He’d seen little security, but that did not mean none existed. No cameras ringed the great hall, but again they could be concealed. He’d noticed an older man on the second floor, peering down from the stone balustrade, watching with great intensity.
Just one more odd thing to add to the list.
Bunch captured a flute of champagne from a passing tray and motioned to ask if he should take another. Cotton shook his head and walked over to a table where ice water was being offered and poured himself a glass. He assumed they were about forty to fifty miles inside Slovakia. He hadn’t been able to see any of what was beyond the castle as the courtyard had totally blocked his field of vision and the windows here, in the great hall, were too high up. Olivier had made sure that there would be little to nothing that could be used to pinpoint a location. That should not hinder Sonia. But what exactly would she do?
Good question.
He glanced across at the delegates and wondered if any of them had also managed to lead the way for someone else. Or was he the only bird dog on this hunt? Bunch sauntered over and approached the Chinese delegation. One of the serving staff removed the Holy Lance from the table and carried it off. Most likely to confirm authenticity. But this auction wasn’t about sacred relics. They were merely icing. The cake was damaging information on the current president of Poland.
“Malone,” Bunch called out. “Come over here. I want to introduce you.”
The man was oblivious to anything and everything beyond himself. But something about this whole setup screamed trouble.
And he still wondered about the older guy in the second-floor gallery.
Who was he?
And why was he there?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Czajkowski liked the fact that no one recognized him. He’d dressed in casual clothes and blended in easily with the hundreds of people that surrounded him. Most were foreign tourists, many pilgrims, their presence understandable given he was entering Poland’s spiritual capital.
An abbey had stood on the hill beneath him since the 13th century, manned continuously by the Pauline Fathers. It grew into a fortified complex of thick stone walls that had withstood multiple sieges, the most notable from the Swedes in 1655. The nearby town of Czestochowa, along the River Warta, had always been a center for trade, and now was a major industrial center for metals, textiles, and chemicals.
He’d left Kraków in an unmarked car with two of his security detail. The drive north had taken a little over an hour through a picturesque stretch of limestone hills called the Jurassic Upland. Many of the mounds, which stretched for hundreds of miles in both directions, were crowned with castle ruins in what had come to be labeled the Trail of the Eagle’s Nest. Another popular destination. Buses flooded there every day, offering tourists some amazing photo opportunities of sites that once protected Poland from invaders.
He followed the crowds and climbed the wide stone steps, passing beneath the first of four gates that led into Jasna Góra Monastery. They were not only highly ornamented and strikingly beautiful, but practical, too, since they presented an invader with multiple challenges to gain entry. The rest of the monastery was surrounded by thick bastions with ramparts at each corner, all defensive in nature.
Every day, from dawn to dusk, streams of pilgrims approached the monastery via a long tree-lined avenue that led into town. He’d passed today’s visitors on the drive in, the groups deep in prayer and singing hymns. Many of the pilgrims wore badges with the name of their hometown and a number showing how many times they’d come before. Fitting that he, too, was making a pilgrimage, only of a different kind, with a different purpose.
He passed through the last gate and entered an enclosed area surrounded by buildings. Waiting for him was a stout, white-robed man with a neck and chin covered in a thick, matted beard. The man had aged in the years since he’d last seen him, the belly a bit fuller, hair thinner, the jowls drooping. Interesting that this man—whom he knew to be clever, tough, resourceful, and completely without conscience—had become a monk.
“So wonderful to see you again,” the man greeted.
It had been two decades since their paths had last crossed.
“Mirek, or I should say Father Hacia. It’s wonderful to see you, too.”
His old friend extended a hand, more like a paw, which he accepted and shook. The grip remained hard and firm. His two security men stood a few feet away, trying to blend in. People streamed in and out from the nearby ticket office. He knew that all of the tours were guided by monks.
“Not working today?” he asked Mirek.
“I was. Until you called.”
He caught the glint in the older man’s eyes. Just like the old days.
“Shall we go inside,” Mirek said. “Where we can have some privacy.”
He turned to his security men and told them to wait in place. Neither was happy about that decision, but no arguments were offered.
Above him rose a tower, over a hundred meters, one of the tallest in the country, topped by a cross. About a third of the way up the cream-colored brick façade a clock face read 11:50 A.M. He could not linger long. Sonia would be dealing with the auction soon and he had to be available when she called.
But this had to be done.
Miroslaw “Mirek” Hacia once served a high position within Solidarity. Of course, he was also much younger, as they all were back then. Hacia’s job was not one that the organization had ever publicly recognized. His name had never appeared in any of the countless books that had been written about the movement. Only a few had known of his existence. But he was a man with a razor-sharp mind and a vast repertoire of talents. Czajkowski only learned of him after his unexpected visit to Mokotów Prison, when he was confronted on the street by three men and
led away to an apartment in a crowded Warsaw neighborhood.
Mirek had been waiting there.
“Please, Janusz. Have a seat.”
“How do you know my name?”
“It’s my job to know those things.”
He remained standing. “What do you want with me?”
“We need your help.”
“Who is we?”
“Your country. Your brothers in the fight against the oppressors. Solidarity. Choose one.”
“You know where I’ve just been.”
Hacia nodded. “That is exactly why we need your help.”
He was so confused. First the government had coerced him, wanting from him that which he could never deliver. Now his own people were doing the same thing.
“What do you want?” he asked again.
“Are you still forcing people into doing what you desire?” he asked Mirek as they walked.
“There’s not much call for my services within the order. I dedicate myself these days to more selfless endeavors.”
He doubted that, since this man had headed Solidarity’s most secret intelligence and counterintelligence units. For more than ten years Mirek had wreaked havoc with the SB, disrupting the security services at every turn, turning their own tactics against them, creating nothing but chaos.
They entered the Basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary and Founding of the Holy Cross, an enormous brick-and-stone structure elongated toward the north. Its vaulted ceiling was covered in rich stucco frameworks, everything colorful and airy. Frescoes abounded, as did polychrome paintings, all geared to the Virgin Mary—appropriate, since the entire monastery was a Marian shrine. Groups of people milled about admiring the spectacle, all accompanied by white-robed guides.
