“What do you want?” he asked again.
“Are you still forcing people into doing what you desire?” he asked Mirek as they walked.
“There’s not much call for my services within the order. I dedicate myself these days to more selfless endeavors.”
He doubted that, since this man had headed Solidarity’s most secret intelligence and counterintelligence units. For more than ten years Mirek had wreaked havoc with the SB, disrupting the security services at every turn, turning their own tactics against them, creating nothing but chaos.
They entered the Basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary and Founding of the Holy Cross, an enormous brick-and-stone structure elongated toward the north. Its vaulted ceiling was covered in rich stucco frameworks, everything colorful and airy. Frescoes abounded, as did polychrome paintings, all geared to the Virgin Mary—appropriate, since the entire monastery was a Marian shrine. Groups of people milled about admiring the spectacle, all accompanied by white-robed guides.
Mirek had stayed within Solidarity until 1991. Once Wałęsa had been elected president, there was no further need for his services. He’d then moved into the government and worked there for a while, but eventually faded away. About ten years ago he resurfaced as a Pauline monk.
“Why did you turn to the church?”
Mirek shrugged. “God called me. I simply answered.”
Short. Concise. To the point. Classic Mirek.
“I never thought of you as religious,” he said. “Not ever.”
“Faith is a personal matter. One we keep to ourselves. But with what we did, faith seemed the only way for me to stay sane.”
That was true. Faith among those who once fought the communists had been strong. The church had played a key role in all that happened, aided by the fact that the pope at the time was Polish. Many took that as a sign from God that they were on the right track.
“Now it is my life,” Mirek said.
And he believed that. Mirek, if nothing else, was a pragmatic man, and whatever he did, he did well. Their first encounter in 1982 had been both unexpected and confrontational. But after that, they became more than colleagues. Perhaps even friends. Until 1991 they worked closely together, behind the scenes, implementing what they called the Warsaw Protocol.
Mirek stopped, standing beside him. “It’s interesting, is it not? The two of us, here, and no one seems to know who we are. Me? That’s understandable. I was always anonymous. But you. Once anonymous, but no longer.”
Several hundred people roamed about around them, many headed toward the Chapel of the Miraculous Image, the main reason why pilgrims traveled to this holy spot.
“This is about as anonymous as my job ever gets,” he said.
“What’s happening?” Mirek finally asked in a whisper, his old friend’s gaze still out into the basilica.
“The past is coming back.”
“Did you ever think it gone?”
“I’d hoped so. I was wrong.”
“A wise person once said that the past cannot be changed. Only the future is in our power.”
“I prefer what Napoleon said. If we open a quarrel between past and present, we shall find that we have lost the future.”
Mirek chuckled. “And the election is fast approaching.”
“Precisely.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Enough that you and I have to deal with it.”
“Just you and I?”
“No. Thankfully, I have other resources and they, too, are dealing with it, as we speak.”
Mirek motioned ahead.
“Then let us visit with Our Lady and see if she can help us find wisdom.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jonty surveyed the great hall for the final time.
Everyone had arrived, and now all six delegations were milling about enjoying food, drink, and conversation. Even the Iranians and North Koreans, who seemed far more cordial than he’d envisioned. Frequent visits of the servers offering fresh trays of food and drink attested to the growing ease among the bidders. His expert had verified that all seven of the Arma Christi were authentic—which was good news—and they were safely tucked away in a car, just beyond the inner courtyard, awaiting him after the auction. The expert had been paid and was gone. He and Vic would leave as soon as the business was concluded. He’d deal with Eli tomorrow from long distance.
Reinhardt and his sidekick were behaving themselves, disappearing from the second-floor gallery, prepared to listen to the auction from an open, upper bedroom door, out of sight. He was certain that everyone was nervous, considering they would be bidding against one another, each wondering if the other might do something stupid. Vic’s latest report was that all remained quiet both inside the castle and beyond.
He checked his pocket watch.
A Breguet. Eighteen-karat gold. Hand-engraved on a rose engine. Nearly $750,000 U.S. A gift to himself after another lucrative deal. He’d have to reward himself big after today.
Outside, a sonorous bell unleashed a cascade of peals.
Noon.
“Shall we get started,” he called out.
* * *
Cotton headed for the two chairs adorned by an American flag. He noted that the other bidders were likewise denoted by their respective national colors. France, Iran, Russia, China, North Korea. He wondered why Great Britain and Germany were not involved, but perhaps they’d declined. He recalled that the Arma Christi consisted of seven relics. But only six had been on the oak table. Where was the Holy Nail? And who was the older man that had been staring down from the second-floor gallery? He hadn’t seen him the past twenty minutes.
Not knowing the players, the room, the house, or even where he was located was unsettling to say the least. But he’d been in worse situations. Tom Bunch remained oblivious, busy socializing with the French. It seemed everyone here had heeded the warning in the email instructions regarding no translators—they all spoke English.
“This is all so exciting,” Bunch said as they took their seats. “We’re right in the middle of the storm.”
“You do realize that the eye of a storm is the worst place to be, since that means trouble is raging all around you.”
“Ah, quit being such a pessimist. Here we are, representing our country. About to buy some information that will allow us to stick it to the Russians and the Iranians at the same time. How many chances at that do you get? Not many, Malone. Not many at all.”
On a small wooden table before them were two notepads and pencils, a carafe of ice water, two glasses, and a sealed manila envelope upon which was written DO NOT OPEN UNTIL INSTRUCTED. Cotton noticed that the servers had all withdrawn and the room’s heavy oak doors were closed.
Jonty Olivier stepped to the front of the assemblage, beside a big-screen television supported by a thick wooden frame. “I want to formally welcome everyone and thank you for participating. I know you’re anxious but, prior to conducting the bidding, I have some documents to show you. Each of you was provided a sample at the time of your invitation. Now I would like to share a bit more, as a good-faith offering to demonstrate the wealth and value of the information that is for sale here today.”
“We appreciate that,” Bunch called out. “Nobody likes to buy a pig in a poke.”