“Can we get through?” Eli asked.
“We shall see,” Konrad said.
* * *
Jonty watched as the doorway was finally cleared. Vic and Konrad had used the iron bars to strip away the mortar, then extract the blocks, one by one. He’d cautioned them to be careful, because the blocks might need to be replaced. They left the last two rows at the bottom, as they could be stepped over. Beyond was a short tunnel that ended at a wooden door.
They all approached.
No lock. Only a rope handle. The salt wall had apparently been deemed enough protection.
Vic opened the door, which had been hung on wooden dowels. Beyond was another chamber. Racks of wooden shelves stood in five lines like a warehouse. None of the lumber was nailed. More dowels. The shelves were packed with black plastic bins, each container sealed at the top with heavy black tape.
“Somebody has a sense of humor,” Eli said. “The Pantry. That’s what this is, tucked safely within walls of salt. You see, Jonty. It is real.”
That it was.
He noticed the floor. A layer of crystallized salt, wall-to-wall, that had not been disturbed in a long time.
He pointed it out.
“That was done to help with moisture,” Konrad said. “The miners would crush the salt and spread it out on the floor to absorb humidity.”
For someone who dealt in information, the value of a cache like this could be immeasurable. True, the vast majority was probably unimportant and meaningless. But somewhere amid all this information there was surely something of value.
They stepped inside.
He motioned and Vic lowered one of the plastic containers to the floor, peeled away its tape, and snapped off the top to reveal stacks of paper. Some bound together with string, most loose. Hundreds of pages. All in excellent condition thanks to the climate in the mine, ideal for pulp preservation. He and Eli each grabbed a handful of the pages and examined them, most written in Polish, many in Russian. Polish he was okay with, but Russian was not part of his repertoire.
“These are surveillance reports,” Eli said, motioning with the stack he held. “From the Służba Bezpieczeństwa.”
He saw that Eli was right. Some documents were statements from SB field agents and informants, most of them originals. Others were carbon copies of reports filed up the chain of command. Lots of names, dates, and places. Where people went. Who they met with. What they said. What they saw and heard. If this one box was representative, there were tens of thousands of documents in this archive.
“The possibilities could be endless,” Eli said.
“Or useless,” he added. “All of this is from a long time ago.”
“That’s probably what someone else thought, too, and look what happened there.”
He knew exactly who Eli was referring to. Czajkowski. Good point.
Eli started to speak again, but Jonty cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Let’s you and I walk back to the other side of the wall and speak in private.”
He caught Vic’s glance and indicated that he wanted Konrad occupied and kept out of hearing range.
He and Eli left the chamber and retreated far enough away that they could speak in private.
“Keep your voice down,” he cautioned.
“Don’t trust your guide?”
“Would you?”
“Of course not. I appreciate your precautions. But come now, Jonty. You and I both know the odds—somewhere in all that old paper is information that people in positions of power and influence today would not want revealed. There’s value here. I can feel it. Look at what happened with Lech Wałęsa. He had a past that he did not want revealed. He tried hard to deny and disclaim it, but it stuck to him like a rash. There could be others just like him. And those people may be willing to pay to keep their secrets.”
From preparing for the auction he knew that the SB had utilized tens of thousands of informants. What they reported had to be documented, since the Soviets loved to write everything down. Also, somebody went to a lot of trouble to conceal this cache, and that could not have been for nothing. And Eli had a point about both Czajkowski and Wałęsa. But going through all this would take time.
“I’ve been thinking,” Eli said. “Let’s not offer this for sale tomorrow. Let’s hold it and study what’s here, finding the ones that are actively negotiable today. I know of at least one buyer who would pay to have it all, intact.”
He did, too.
Poland.
“We either need to come back here ourselves, or hire people to do it for us,” Eli said. “Those containers have to be searched.”
“That could take years, and this is not a public place.”
“We’ll do it slowly. No rush. It’s not going anywhere. And you have access through your guide in there. I realize you don’t trust him. But keep that relationship viable and we can study this at our leisure.”
Everything he was hearing made sense. “You’re cutting me in on this cache?”
“Absolutely. We made a deal. And this is too big for either of us. But together we can handle it. I also need your man to gain access. Sure, I could cultivate my own, but why start over when you already have everything in place? Less people to worry about. Let’s do this. You pay me what we agreed for my silence on tomorrow’s auction, and we’ll split what we make from this, fifty–fifty.”
He was instantly suspicious. “Why so generous?”
Eli smiled. “What choice does either of us have? I can ruin your auction tomorrow and you can ruin this for me. Why don’t we be reasonable and both profit? There’s plenty here.”
He loved a good deal. Nothing better.
“All right, Eli. That’s what we’ll do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Czajkowski stood in his suite at the Sheraton and stared at Wawel Castle. The ancient edifice was lit to the night in all its glory, five hundred meters away, high above the River Wisła. Crowds gathered at its base along the wide walkways that paralleled the river, enjoying another magnificent June night. He felt a pride knowing that, as president, he was the natural successor to the many kings who’d ruled Poland from that castle. Men like Bolesław the Brave, Casimir the Restorer, Sigismund the Old. What names. What legends. Their right to the throne was first acquired by conquest, then retained through heredity. Eventually, though, it evolved into something uniquely Polish.
Free election.
What a mistake.
The whole thing was hard to imagine. Ministers, archbishops, vaivodes, castellans, and nobles gathered on vast meadows near Warsaw and arranged themselves into a circle. Contenders would send envoys who made presentations as to why their particular man should be king. Promises were extended. Lots of them. Disputes arose. Physical violence was common. Eventually a vote would be taken and the man with the highest count won.
Few other nations in the world chose its ruler in such a bizarre way.
It reflected the Poles’ strong belief in individual freedom and hatred of central authority. But the whole thing turned out to be disastrous. Kings, by definition, were meant to be independent and rule absolutely. But Polish kings were totally beholden to the nobles who elected them. Even worse, they had to abide by the promises they made to get elected. If they reneged, the nobles had the right to withdraw their allegiance.