“Once we get moving, put those on your head.”
More old school. But an effective way to keep someone from learning where they were headed.
He decided not to argue.
Hoping Sonia stayed on the trail.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Czajkowski decided to stay in Kraków for the day, wanting to be nearby so he and Sonia could communicate quickly in person. Michał Zima, the head of the BOR, had not been pleased with the decision, preferring to have the president of the nation within the controlled environs of Warsaw. He realized that Zima wanted to know what was happening, and why an agent of the Agencja Wywiadu was so directly involved with the president. That was unusual, to say the least, but he’d rebuffed all of Zima’s renewed overtures to learn more.
His night with Sonia had been wonderful. He was beginning to miss not having her around. But feelings like that could be dangerous, so he quelled any notions of emotional attachment. Those could be dealt with later. At the moment, the auction was all that mattered.
Sonia had shown him the tracking device on her phone and that the Spear of St. Maurice had spent the night at the American consulate. Her last report was that the spear had left Kraków and been taken south to the Poland–Slovakia border. But that had been nearly two hours ago. No telling what was happening now. He could only hope that Sonia stayed with it. They’d discussed all the options, and in the end he told her to use her best judgment as to what had to be done.
He trusted her implicitly.
But he also had to be prepared to deal with the situation, if she failed.
He realized there was no way he could deny any of the documents’ authenticity, since they were all either in his handwriting or signed by him. The one showed to Sonia by the Russians seemed representative of what he recalled providing to the SB. He’d worked as a paid informant for seven years, from mid-1982 until late 1989. Dilecki had been his main contact point, though others had, from time to time, been involved.
All informants were required to provide regular reports. If not, they were subject to being rounded up and “interrogated.” For him, that had meant contact with somebody in the SB every couple of months. Something. Anything. Once someone came onto the SB’s radar, it was nearly impossible to get off. You either provided what they wanted, or you ended up like that math professor, strapped naked to a stool and beaten savagely.
Or worse.
Defending himself now was going to be next to impossible. The documents themselves would be damning, and to his knowledge only a handful of people had known the truth. Not even Wałęsa, who’d headed Solidarity, had been aware of all that had been happening.
And it all started that day in Warsaw, when he left Mokotów Prison.
A few minutes before he’d been watching a man being tortured, the implications clear that he would be next unless he cooperated with the SB.
Then the next—
The clamor of a car horn brought him back to reality.
He’d stepped into the street without looking. Thankfully, the driver was paying attention and had stopped. He stared through the windshield at an older man who continued to pound the horn. He tossed him a wave and kept going, finding the sidewalk on the other side. The image of that professor, a learned man entitled to respect and dignity, crawling across the filthy prison floor, bleeding and naked, would never leave his mind.
Nor would the defiance.
He hated Dilecki. He hated the SB. He hated the communists. The government. And anyone and everything that opposed a free and independent Poland. Nothing and no one would ever change that belief inside him. But he’d been afraid. More so than anytime in his life. He did not want to be strapped to a stool, then beaten and kicked. He did not want to be tortured or defiled. He did not want to crawl across the floor. But he also did not want to be the eyes and ears of the oppressors.
He walked down the sidewalk, busy with people. There was a meeting of the local chapter of Solidarity in two hours, one that Dilecki knew all about, demanding a full report of what was said.
“Your first test,” the irritating bastard had made clear.
He turned a corner and kept heading away from the prison.
Three men blocked his way ahead, standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the sidewalk, waiting for him to approach. He knew them, and the look on their faces was anything but cordial.
“Come with us,” one of them said.
He’d already been intimidated by the state. He was not about to allow his own people to do the same thing.
“Go screw yourself,” he said to them.
He turned to walk away and one of them grabbed his arm.
He wrenched it free.
“Please,” the man said to him. “Somebody wants to speak with you.”
He’d thought all that over. Finished. Never to be heard of again.
But that was not the case.
Far from it, in fact.
He sat alone in the hotel suite.
He was in constant communication with his staff in Warsaw, dealing with everyday problems. A lot was going on. A dispute with the European Union over local self-government seemed to be heating up. Preparations for the upcoming national budget had begun. Measures were being discussed to lessen inflation, which had recently been creeping higher. All issues that required his undivided attention. Yet he was divided, with the past intruding on the present. He’d resisted making the telephone call as long as possible. But it had to be done. His personal secretary had found the contact number two weeks ago, but the time had not been right then.
Now was the moment.
He reached for the cell phone.
Sonia had provided him the unit, noting it would be untraceable. He punched in the number and waited while it rang in his ear. When it was finally answered he realized that the voice had changed little in nearly thirty years. A voice he’d heard for the first time that fateful day, after Mokotów Prison, in a conversation that changed his life.
“I need your help,” he said into the phone.
“Interesting how time has shifted our positions. Once it was I who needed your assistance. What can I do for you, Mr. President.”
“We have to discuss the Warsaw Protocol.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jonty excused himself from his guests and left the great hall, walking back to the castle’s main foyer where, he’d been told, another pair of bidders was arriving. The Iranians, French, and Chinese were already on site, their escorts assuring Vic that everything seemed fine.
No tails. No problems.
He’d dressed for the day, wearing a new suit specially made by a tailor in Paris. Usually French high fashion for men centered on Balmain, Saint Laurent, and Dior. But he preferred the newcomer labels. Places like A.P.C., AMI, and Maison Kitsuné. His girth made for a challenge in crafting an acceptable look, but he genuinely loved the berets, waistcoats, and lapel pins, a mix of classic with more comfort-driven attire, the whole look more English than French. Today’s ensemble was a perfect example. Smart, with a tweed jacket, the fleck of the sturdy wool offset by a pale-blue cotton shirt, bow tie, and leather shoes.
He thought it important to personally welcome the bidders, showing them courtesy and hospitality. Each, so far, had appreciated the gesture, offering their part of the Arma Christi as a welcome, depositing it onto the oak table upon entering the great hall. The site seemed to be working its magic, all of the arrivals impressed by the surroundings and the array of uniformed staff toting trays of fresh hors d’oeuvres and drinks appropriate to each nationality.