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She looked wonderful, as always, dressed casually in a silk blouse, jeans, and heels. Little jewelry and makeup, just the bracelet he’d bought her at Cartier for Christmas. Pink gold, set with ten brilliant-cut diamonds, fashioned onto the wrist in a perpetual oval, removed only with its pink-gold screwdriver. It was meant to be worn constantly, and she had every day since December.
The café sat across the square from his bookshop, which was closed for the day. He never opened on Sundays, not for any religious reason, just because his employees deserved a day off. He lived above the shop in the fourth-floor apartment, which he’d been sharing with Cassiopeia since she arrived on Friday. He’d beaten her to town by about two hours. But he hadn’t been an idiot, and had told her everything. Luckily, his unilateral, extracurricular activity had not affected their weekend.
The past couple of days had been wonderful.
“Have you heard from Stephanie?” she asked him.
“She emailed late last night. The attorney general notified her that she was suspended, pending possible termination. Fox was not happy with the outcome from Poland, and made good on his threat. But she’s civil service, entitled to a hearing, and I imagine she’ll get one.”
There was also the matter of Tom Bunch’s body. Fox wanted it found, but Cotton doubted that was possible. The Poles had sanitized Sturney Castle, all of the dead long gone, surely burned and buried, never to be found.
“You and Stephanie both did the right thing,” she said to him.
“That’s not much consolation, considering the fallout. If Fox could, there’d be ramifications for me, too. But I imagine my punishment will be no more freelance work.”
“That’s no real loss,” she said.
“I like the money.”
They were done wit
h dinner, having eaten early, and were enjoying the evening, waiting on dessert. The café always sported an enticing array of sweets. The second-floor windows all hung open to the warm evening. She was scheduled to stay until Tuesday, returning then to her home in southern France. Next time, he’d travel her way for a visit.
“Hopefully,” he said staring out the window to the crowd below, “Fox won’t hurt me with any of the other foreign intelligence services I work for from time to time.”
“I doubt it’s going to be a problem. Those people have to see what’s going on here, too. They know you’re the best.”
He smiled at her compliment.
“Cotton,” she said in a tone that grabbed his attention.
His gaze met hers, and he could see she was focused on something behind him.
He turned in the chair.
Danny Daniels stood alone at the top of the stairway leading down.
Perhaps the last person he expected to see in Copenhagen.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head full of thick silver hair, the former president of the United States, and current junior senator from Tennessee, was dressed casually.
Daniels walked over to their table.
Cotton stood. “Is this about Stephanie?”
His friend held up two hands in surrender. “She’s made it clear that’s none of my business.”
“So what are you doing in Denmark?” Cassiopeia asked.
Concern filled the older man’s face.
“I need your help.”
WRITER’S NOTE
This one involved some really unique journeys. The first was to Bruges, Belgium, a spectacular, living museum of medieval life. Then there were two trips to Poland that involved time in Kraków and the nearby salt mine. Both are world-class treasures. If you’ve never visited any of these three places, I highly recommend them as a trip you will not forget.
Now it’s time to separate fact from fiction.
Mokotów Prison exists in Warsaw, the scene of many horrible things during both the Nazi occupation and the Soviet domination (prologue and chapter 16). The beating described in the prologue is based on an actual event, one of countless “interrogations” that occurred behind those walls. Many also died there, those deaths commemorated by a memorial now affixed to the outer walls (chapter 16). Spies were also sometimes recruited through demonstrations of extreme cruelty.
Bruges is full of olden houses, cobbled squares, and canals straight out of the 16th century. All of its locales—the fish market, central square, cafés, and streets (chapters 7, 9, 15) along with the canals and tour boats (chapter 3)—are faithfully described. One item, though, that I was unable to fully work into the manuscript was the swans. There is only a brief mention in chapter 10. Since 1448 swans have occupied the canals. Why? In the late 15th century the people of Bruges rose in revolt against the unpopular Emperor Maximilian of Austria. They managed to capture and imprison Maximilian along with his adviser, a man named Pieter Lanckhals. When Lanckhals was sentenced to death, Maximilian was forced to watch the beheading. Of course, the emperor eventually escaped and took his revenge, retaking the city and decreeing that, until the end of time, Bruges would be required to keep swans on all of its lakes and canals. Why swans? Because they have long necks, and Dutch for “long neck” is lange hals—a word so similar to Pieter Lanckhals’ name.
Be aware that is just one of several versions of the legend I was told.
All of them quite colorful.
The Basilica of the Holy Blood stands in Bruges, and little about its fanciful exterior reveals the somber style within. The Veneration of the Precious Blood occurs each day. It’s a quiet affair, held as depicted in chapter 1, including the dropping of money into a basket before being able to approach the relic. The reliquary itself is a Byzantine marvel. It’s been there a long time, and remains one of Europe’s most precious objects. Each year, on Ascension Day, the local bishop carries the phial through the streets in the Procession of the Holy Blood. The first one occurred in 1291, and it’s still happening to this day.
Belgium is a wonderful place to visit. The Dame Blanche (White Lady) that Cotton speaks about in chapter 1 is a mainstay in every café. These are sundaes extraordinaire, made even more delicious by a liberal use of fine Belgian chocolate and real whipped cream. Each establishment sells its own version, and I must confess to enjoying more than a few.
Religious relics have a checkered and troubled past (chapter 9). A belief in something larger than life has perpetually seemed a human necessity. We also have an insatiable urge to preserve what we believe, regardless of authenticity. An excellent example is the infant Jesus’ foreskin. Supposedly it was placed within an oil-filled, alabaster box following circumcision. It first appeared in the 9th century, said to have been gifted to Charlemagne himself by an angel. Eventually it ended up in the Basilica of St. John the Lateran in Rome. Stolen in 1527 by invaders, it reappeared in nearly twenty different places over the next four hundred years, stolen for the last time in 1984. Millions venerated it. Churches exploited it for untold revenue. Never mind that it rang contrary to the doctrine that Christ ascended to heaven intact.
The same is true of the Arma Christi, something else of long standing within Christendom. Not one, but a collection of relics of the passions of Christ, many depicted in countless religious paintings and art. An excellent treatise on the subject is The Arma Christi in Medieval and Early Modern Material Culture, edited by Lisa Cooper and Andrea Denny-Brown. Of course, no one knows which of the many objects, scattered around the world, are the true Arma Christi. Unlike in the novel, there is no official list from the Vatican. I randomly chose seven (chapter 9) from the many eligible for my weapons of Christ. But the story of the Empress Helena, and how the veneration of relics began, related in chapter 9, is true.
The European Interceptor Site was first proposed by George W. Bush and ultimately canceled by Barack Obama. The idea (as detailed in chapter 9) was to land-base interceptor missiles in Poland as a deterrent to Iran. Moscow hated the idea, as did most of Europe and a sizable amount of Poland. My resurrection of the concept is fiction.
The Aegis Ballistic Missile Defense System (chapter 50) would have been the weapon of choice, though there were issues then, and now, as to its effectiveness. The controversy over the canceling of the project, as described in chapter 50, happened, with many Polish leaders thinking it a sellout to Moscow at Poland’s expense. Ironically, the end came on September 17, 2009, seventy years to the day after the Soviets invaded.
The Agencja Wywiadu (chapter 11), AW, exists as Poland’s foreign intelligence service. The Biuro Ochrony Rzadu, BOR, Government Protection Bureau (chapter 5), shields the president of Poland every day. The former Sluzba Bezpieczenstwa, the SB, the communist security police (chapter 12), wreaked havoc on Poles for decades, torturing, killing, and recruiting spies as detailed in chapter 38. Thankfully, it no longer exists. The Dreyfus affair, recounted in chapter 65, is part of history. And the qualifications to be eligible for the presidency of Poland (chapter 5) are accurate. Those elected serve a five-year term, with the possibility of only one reelection thereafter.
Kraków is also another place straight from the past. Rynek Glówny, the massive central square, is impressive, as is the cloth market. The hejnal mentioned in chapter 20 is a legend of long standing, and you can still hear the mournful notes of the lone trumpeter daily.
Wawel Castle has dominated Kraków for centuries, once the center of Polish political power. Many kings and queens are buried within its walls. The castle’s rooms and geography are both faithfully recounted (chapters 28, 30, and 32), including the armoire in which Cotton hides (which is there), the back entrance into the palace, and the outer loggia. The Dragon’s Den exists and can be visited. It is one of the oldest continuously occupied sites in all of Europe, and the legend associated with the dragon (chapter 32) is part of Kraków’s mythology.
The restaurant Pod Aniolami (chapter 54) is a terrific plac
e to enjoy traditional Polish cuisine. The Sheraton Grand Kraków stands in the shadow of Wawel Castle, and there is a terrific view from its Royal Wawel Suite (chapters 27 and 34). The Monastery of the Camaldolese Monks sits on a hill outside Kraków. A truly unique locale. If possible, pay it a visit, but be warned, the monks are a bit traditional (chapter 22). One rumor says they sleep in coffins, which is ridiculous. But they do keep the skulls of their predecessors in their hermitages. Also, women are only allowed inside to visit a few days a year.
The Holy Lance exists in a world of doubt. There are many around the world that lay claim to being authentic, the major contenders described in chapter 20. The one in Kraków known as the Spear of St. Maurice remains on display in the cathedral museum atop Wawel Hill. Unlike in the novel, the real museum underwent its restoration a few years ago. The stories associated with the spear, how the Holy Roman Emperor bestowed it onto the king of Poland, how it survived multiple invaders, and how the Germans stole then returned it, are all true (chapter 20). The Spear of St. Maurice remains a Polish national treasure, and stands as a symbol of strength and unity, along with the single-headed eagle (chapter 60).
Lech Walesa was indeed accused of being a former communist informant (chapters 27, 45). There were many charges and countercharges. At first Walesa called it all a hoax created to discredit him. A court did exonerate him of any complicity. Years later, under renewed pressure, he admitted to signing certain documents that seemed to implicate him as an informant, saying he did so to gain the government’s trust and learn what he could from the inside. That’s where the idea for my Warsaw Protocol originated, though I took it to a more radical extreme (chapter 38). The documents described in chapter 44 are based on real ones. To be labeled a communist informer then, or now, within Poland is a horrible thing. There may be no greater insult, so Janusz Czajkowski’s fears were well founded.
Memories of all that happened from 1945 to 1990 remain fresh. The Institute of National Remembrance, and its Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Polish Nation (chapter 12), are tasked with making sure those memories never fade. Both maintain a vast archive of documents from both the Nazi and communist times. Documents still turn up from time to time, many from private individuals who’ve held the information for decades. As in the story, one such cache was actually offered for sale by the widow of a former party official. The Pantry (chapter 25) is my invention, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that such a thing might exist. And what better place to hide away lots of valuable old paper than in a salt mine?
