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She smiled. “That too.”
“He makes you happy?”
“Every day.”
“That’s good to hear.”
And he meant it. Stephanie had lived a solitary life. Her husband died long ago, and her son lived in France fairly inaccessibly. He knew of no close personal relationships, until Danny came along. Cotton firmly believed there was somebody for everybody. His own life seemed proof of that. He’d been divorced from his first wife for a number of years and thought love something of the past. Then Cassiopeia Vitt came along and changed everything.
“How is Cassiopeia?” she asked, seemingly reading his mind.
“Feisty, like always. She’s coming to Copenhagen this weekend.”
“So you need to be done by Friday?”
“Something like that.”
People filled the square, out for an early dinner or finishing off a day of sightseeing and shopping. He scanned the faces and tried to assess threats, but there were simply too many to know anything for sure. This wasn’t like inside the cathedral where things had been more contained, the people easier to compare and contrast.
“Something strategic is occurring,” she said. “What you saw in the basilica is not the first theft of a holy relic.”
He waited for more.
“There have been four others.”
Interesting.
“All have been kept secret,” she said. “For the record, I didn’t agree with that tactic, but chalk it up to the all-knowing Fox administration, which stepped in and imposed that strategy.”
“Did other locations with relics at least beef up security?”
She shook her head. “None were advised. The know-it-alls decided it would only attract more attention.”
“Obviously not a smart decision, given what happened today.”
“There’s been a lot of those made lately in Washington.”
He could see she was frustrated, which was not normal. This woman was usually a model of self-control. Direct. Pragmatic. Truthful to the point of pain. Honest to the point of nuisance. She almost never lost her cool. And there wasn’t a political bone in her body, which could be both an asset and a liability.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“What do you know about the Arma Christi?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jonty entered the castle’s dining hall and sat at the stout table. The room stretched in a long rectangle, facing west and the vanishing sun. The table was an oak monstrosity that could accommodate at least twenty people. He loved the ornately framed, brilliantly colored paintings that adorned the walls. Lots of warriors, holding swords and spears, fighting epic battles. The rich colors conveyed strength, the free and forceful sweep of the brush illustrating a sense of exuberance. Sadly, no one was joining him for dinner. Nothing was more pleasurable than sharing conversation during a meal. But he had to maintain a low profile until the weekend, and part of that involved eating alone.
The chef had prepared a lovely dish of roasted pork and boiled red potatoes. Much more Polish than Slovakian. But here, so near the border, the cultures mixed. The damn communists had nearly destroyed Eastern European cuisine. What a horrible time. Everything had been rationed. Waiting in long lines became a way of life, hoarding an art form. No one ever knew when food would be available, or if anyone would be allowed to buy it. Restaurants were issued compulsory menus that never changed and deviations were not allowed. Government cooking manuals specified the exact amount and number of ingredients for each dish. Needless to say, creativity was stifled.
Thank goodness things had changed.
He sat and spread a black linen napkin into his lap. A glass of red wine had already been poured. With the right prompts, food and drink being two of those, people would tell a stranger nearly everything. Nothing seemed sacred anymore. Facebook, Twitter, and every other social media site seemed proof positive of that. What no one would have ever yelled from their front porch to neighbors across the street was now posted for billions to see for all eternity. Still, he loved the internet. So much could be learned so fast with little effort and no fingerprints.
He ate his pork, which had been cooked to perfection. He’d already supplied the staff with the hors d’oeuvre menu for Thursday. An elaborate international array of sweet and savory, all fitting for the guests, who would come from around the world. He’d also bought an expensive variety of liquor, wine, and champagne, anything and everything the guests might enjoy. Food and drink went a long way toward enhancing a deal. As did ambience. Which was another reason he’d selected this olden fortress in the woods of northern Slovakia. Everything about it reeked of resolution.
He finished the entrée and hoped there was more. Being a man of the world, he’d made a point of becoming familiar with the finer things. Sadly, the ones he favored most carried a wealth of calories, which all seemed to go straight to his ever-expanding girth. Weight had become a problem of late. His tailor had been kept busy altering his many suits. He was far too heavy for his height, all thanks to a horrible diet and a hatred for exercise. Physically he’d never been all that much. Flaccid, fleshy lips, a wide nose, and the bright eyes of a man who lived by guile, not brawn. His hair was cut simply and parted in the middle, squared off to either side of his perpendicular temples and whitening prematurely. He was beginning to show his fifty-three years.
He’d lived an interesting life.
His childhood was steeped in poverty. His mother, God rest her soul, cried a lot, so much that he began to believe that he was the reason. She also constantly talked about dying, or leaving. He always wondered if she’d be there when he came home from school. Eventually, maturity taught him that she’d used all that as a means of control over him, his brother, and his father.
And the tactic affected him.
If his own mother didn’t care for him, why care about anyone else? If she’d leave, anyone would. So his relationships, whether business or personal, had all been superficial, mainly his fault as he preferred to remain obtuse and uninvolved.
Life, though, had definitely treated him as a favored son, the future an inviting, well-paved highway of opportunity. He liked to think of himself as noble in bearing, virtuous in character, cultured, sophisticated, and charming. But that was all part of the wall of bluff he’d built around himself. He’d grown to love the romance of being hunted, then becoming the hunter. He’d long ago dismissed any definition of goodness that society liked to frame. Instead, he applied a code learned from bitter experience where good meant fighting the odds, clawing upward, spitting in the eye of your enemies, and not asking for help or pity. He’d never been a whiner and never would be. His mantra was simple. Do what was necessary, then force a smile onto your face and take another crack at whatever. Buddha said it best. There is no wealth like knowledge, and no poverty like ignorance. But Einstein added a great caveat. Information is not knowledge. Absolutely true since the most successful person was the one with the best knowledge.
And an investment in knowledge always paid high interest.
He liked to tell prospective clients that the price of light was far less than the cost of darkness. Information was like money. To be valuable it had to circulate, which increased not only its quantity but also its worth. Holding information only eroded its value. But thank goodness ready, willing, and able buyers existed for nearly everything.
He finished his dinner and rang the silver bell that sat next to his wine gobl
et. One of the uniformed staff appeared, and he asked that the plate be removed and a fresh one brought with a second helping of pork. While he waited, he sat in the high-backed, gilded chair and considered the next two days. Nearly everything was ready. But the unexpected was what worried him. Like the man tied up in the basement.
And Reinhardt.
He heard footsteps and assumed the server had returned with his food, which was damn quick. Instead Vic entered the dining hall and walked over to the table.
“Do you want some dinner?” he asked Vic.
“No, thank you. I’ll eat later.”
The server returned with his plate.
“Oh, sit down. Eat. Bring my friend here some pork,” he said, glad to have the company. “Along with wine.”
He and Vic had shared many meals together, so he knew his acolyte would not argue.
“So much is at stake on this deal, Vic. More so than on any we’ve ever had. It is all so exciting, wouldn’t you say?”
He made a point to always use the plural we. Never the singular I. It connoted a team, which made everyone feel included. He amplified that feeling by always sharing generously with the help. That was why so many loved to work for him, and were so loyal. He was especially generous to Vic, whom he counted on in many ways. One of those was as a handy forum upon which to test new ideas.
“I made a mistake thinking we could keep this venture quiet,” Jonty said, his voice low. “But I truly thought we had everything under control.”
“If Reinhardt knew we were in Bratislava, he knows we’re here.”
“I agree. Which is disturbing. So what is he waiting for?”
“Probably for his man to report in.”
Good point. “So he’ll soon be wondering what happened to him.”
Vic nodded. “And there will be others coming.”
The server returned. He motioned for Vic to eat, but Jonty’s appetite had waned. Assurance was what he needed, and that could not be brought to him on a plate.
