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Aleksy Dilecki.
He’d neither seen nor heard anything of the man in decades.
World War II destroyed Poland, everything bombed and gutted to oblivion with no resources and little manpower left to rebuild. The Soviets promised a rebirth and many believed them. But by the late 1970s, the lies were evident and the country’s patience had come to an end. By then everyone worked long hours, found little food in stores, and was constantly cold from a lack of coal and clothing, including coats. They were spied on all the time, fed propaganda, their children brainwashed. The threat of force never ended. Nor had hunger, with the government even dictating how much a person could eat through ration cards. We all have equal stomachs. That’s what many had echoed. And when people were hungry, when their children were hungry, they would do anything to calm the pain.
And they did.
He liked what Orwell wrote.
All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.
That had been Aleksy Dilecki.
Politicians and police were always favored. They received more rations. They shopped at special stores. They lived in better housing, with more privileges. They even had a name. Nomenklatura, a Soviet term for the list of government jobs always waiting to be filled. People were selected not on merit, but solely on loyalty to the regime. They became an informal ruling class unto themselves. The Red Bourgeoisie. Corruption and cruelty were constant means to their ends.
And he was staring at one of the participants.
He remembered what was said, all those years ago, in Mokotów Prison.
Who knows? One day you might be a big somebody.
He shook his head at the irony, and liked the fact that Dilecki was dead.
“Do you know him?” Zima asked.
He’d only briefed one person on the relevant history, and it wasn’t Zima. So he ignored the inquiry and said, “Show me what you found.”
And he replaced the photo on the table.
He followed Zima into a small storage room, the space cluttered with remnants of a family’s past. He saw the two rusted filing cabinets.
“They’re filled with documents,” Zima said. “Reports, correspondence, memoranda. All from the late 1970s to 1990. Scattered dates and incidents. No real pattern to anything. Dilecki worked for the Security Service a long time. He would have been privy to many secrets. Apparently, he removed some of those when the communists fell.”
So much had been lost during that chaotic period after the Soviet Union collapsed and Poland reemerged. Today few cared about the past. Everyone was just glad it was over. The future seemed to be all that mattered. But such shortsightedness was a mistake.
Because history mattered.
“Has anyone examined those files?” he asked.
“Only me. And my review was quick and cursory. Just enough to determine that it might be what you are looking for.”
He was curious. “How do you know I’m looking for anything?”
“I don’t. I’m merely assuming, based on what I know so far.”
He should inquire about the extent of what this man knew. But not now. “Have everything in those two cabinets loaded into the trunk of the car I came in.”
Zima nodded his understanding.
“Did Dilecki’s widow sell any of the documents?” he asked.
“No. Their son did. We have him in custody.”
That was new information.
“We arrested him a few hours ago.” Zima motioned and he followed him back to the parlor. A blue nylon duffel bag lay on the sofa. Zima unzipped the top to reveal stacks of zlotys. “Half a million. We recovered it from the son’s house.”
Now it all began to make sense. The parents were good, loyal communists, the son not so much. Decades had passed. The father was gone, the mother aging. Two file cabinets might hold the key to changing everything, especially when some of those documents mentioned the name Janusz Czajkowski. All you had to do was find a buyer.
“Has the son admitted to anything?”
Zima nodded. “He made a deal with a man named Vic DiGenti, who is a known associate of Jonty Olivier.”
“You say that name as if you know him.”
“We do. He peddles information. Somewhat reliable, too. Our intelligence services have used him on occasion. The mother was totally unaware of what the son did. She only found out last evening, when he offered her some of the money. She was not happy. They had a bitter fight, just a few hours before we arrested him.”
“Show me the rest,” he said.
Zima led him out the back door to a small corrugated-roof barn. Trees and shrubs shielded the structure from the nearby highway. Its door hung open and he entered. A weak electric lantern dissolved the shadows. Not much there. A few tools, a wheelbarrow, an old rusted car, and a woman, hanging from the rafters, her arms limp at her side, the neck angled over in death.
“She did it during the night,” Zima said. “Perhaps after learning of her son’s arrest. Or maybe out of a sense of loyalty to her husband. We’ll never know.”
She’d apparently climbed atop the old car, tied off a short length of rope, then stepped off to oblivion.
He shook his head.
Now everything depended on Belgium.
CHAPTER SIX
Cotton sat in the cell, still damp from his canal swim. He really should take a shower, though this wasn’t the Four Seasons. But as far as cells went, it wasn’t so bad. Roomy. Clean. With a toilet that worked. He’d been locked inside far worse.
So much for owing the Catholic Church one.
It was nearly 7:00 P.M. He’d been here alone for several hours. The Bruges police had not been in the best of moods when they fished him from the canal. They’d promptly cuffed his ha
nds behind his back and tried to question him. But he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Of course, at some point he was going to have to explain things. Hopefully the priest from the basilica would tell them that he’d been the one to ask him to go after the reliquary. So far all they knew was that he’d stolen a boat and crashed it in the canal. By the time the cops arrived the shooting had stopped and the Three Amigos were gone.
He was the only problem.
The police had taken his wallet. His passport was back at the hotel. They at least knew his full name, Harold Earl Malone. The nickname Cotton was nowhere on his Danish driver’s license, or anything else official. People liked to ask where the label came from and his answer was always the same. Long story. And it was, one that involved his father. He still recalled the day when he was ten years old and the two naval officers came to the house and told him and his mother that his father’s submarine had sunk, all hands lost. No body. No funeral. Everything classified. It took him nearly four decades to discover the truth, and the whole experience had bred an extreme distrust for government, no matter the level.
Which further explained why he hadn’t spoken to anyone.
When the time came he hoped the truth would work best—after all, that was all he had to work with. Surely, by now, the Bruges police knew of the theft. The Holy Blood was the most important object in the city. Hundreds of thousands came every year to see it. Since the 14th century, they’d paraded it around the town in a huge annual celebration. But if they knew it was gone, why had they not come for a chat? Seems they’d want to know what he knew.
Or maybe not.
A clang disturbed his thoughts.
One of the metal doors down the hall opened, then closed.
Footsteps echoed as they approached. A slow and steady clack.
He looked up and spotted a woman.
Petite, with a confident face and dark hair streaked by threads of silver. She was in her mid-sixties, though he knew Justice Department personnel records, which he’d once seen, contained only N/A in the space reserved for date of birth. Everybody was touchy about something. For her it was age. Two presidents had tried to make her attorney general, but she’d turned down both offers. Why? Who knew? She tended to do what she wanted. Which made her really good at what she did.
