Cotton caught the curious look on the faces in the hall. Probably not a phrase many outside of America had much familiarity with.
“No, Mr. Bunch,” Olivier said. “No one ever likes to do that, and we will make sure no one buys a problem today. Everything I have for sale is authentic. Now, some further instructions before we begin. I want everyone to conduct themselves with courtesy and respect. Civility is expected. As you can see, I have not employed any security personnel to keep order. I am trusting each of you to maintain a proper decorum. Are we clear?”
“We not children,” one of the Russians said.
“Certainly not,” Olivier replied. “But you are all passionate people, here on a mission, with differing goals and objectives. That can lead to … irrational thinking. Let us not have any of that.”
No one else chimed in.
“All right, please open the envelope before you. Remove the clipped stack of documents and place them on the table.”
* * *
Jonty stepped over to the big-screen television facing his twelve guests, black at the moment, but about to come alive thanks to the laptop connected to it, resting on a shelf behind. The agenda was simple. Tantalize them with more of what he possessed, then, once their appetite had been whetted, open the bidding. Everyone had already been notified that the auction was with reserve, which meant he could reject any offer prior to accepting the final bid.
And for good reason.
He had no intention of selling what he had cheap.
What would the ultimate price be? Hard to say. He’d make a decision on what to accept as things progressed.
He resisted the urge to glance upward at the second-floor gallery, not wanting to draw any attention that way. He’d told Eli to stay out of sight and it appeared his nemesis was heeding that directive. Vic knew to keep an eye on things and would alert him of anything out of the ordinary. Everyone else was gone from the premises, as previously arranged, including all of the drivers and staff. They would be recalled when the proceedings were over. His focus now turned to the people in the great hall.
He switched on the screen. “Please remove the top blank sheet on the stack before you.”
He punched a key on the laptop and brought a document up.
A crisp, high-resolution image.
“Let me explain what we are seeing.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Czajkowski entered the Chapel of the Miraculous Image, a tight, compact space topped by a ribbed, Gothic vault. Cordovan protected the lower walls, a gold-plated leather decorated with ornaments and impressions. At the far end, just past the ebony-and-silver altar, set amid a background of Baroque, hung the image that millions of pilgrims came from all over the world to adore.
Our Lady of Jasna Góra.
A Black Madonna.
Not all that large. Its ornate wooden frame about one hundred centimeters tall and eighty wide, resting under a canopy, as if on a throne. The image was of a half figure of Mary, with the Child Jesus in her arms, both figures dark-skinned in the Byzantine style, their faces lost in reflection, gilded halos filled with gems wrapping their heads. Mary wore a blue cloak dotted with golden lilies, the baby a carmine robe. His left hand held a book and the right extended outward in a gesture of blessing, symbolic of the way to salvation. The Lady’s face was beautiful, piercing the onlooker with deep piety. People called her a hodegetria.
She who knows the way.
Legend proclaimed that it was painted by St. Luke the Evangelist upon a plank from the table at which the Holy Family ate. Reality was far different. It was a Balkan image created during the Middle Ages, tempera on canvas, attached to three lime tree boards, claimed as a war prize by a Polish prince and presented to the monastery. Miracles had always been associated with the image, particularly physical healing. That drew pilgrims, who’d come for centuries, many bringing votive gifts in return for a miraculous intercession. Many of those gifts now adorned the chapel walls as a testimony of thanks. After Hussites raided in the 15th century and vandalized the image it was restored, but the parallel slashes on Mary’s cheek were left, impregnated with red cinnabar, the marks another symbol of Poland’s constant scars.
Today the chapel was full of worshipers searching for consolation and deliverance, many approaching the image on their knees, as was customary, a sign of humility and respect. Even Hitler had shown Our Lady deference, taking the monastery but not touching the image, only forbidding anyone from worshiping. But that did not stop the Poles, who continued to come in secret all during the war.
Mirek performed the sign of the cross and he followed suit. His faith remained strong and he firmly believed that the Virgin Mary’s presence was here. He knew several people who’d been healed from a visit. They stood at the rear of the reverent crowd, beyond a stout railing, the room in utter silence, only the scrape of cloth from the knees to stone disturbing the silence. A nearby showcase featured canes, crutches, and other medical devices left behind by people who’d been cured.
Quite a testimonial.
His old friend seemed to be in deep prayer, so he joined him in the traditional plea.
Holy Mother of Częstochowa, Thou art full of grace, goodness and mercy. I consecrate to Thee all my thoughts, words and actions—my soul and body. I beseech Thy blessings and especially prayers for my salvation. Today, I consecrate myself to Thee, Good Mother, totally—with body and soul amid joy and sufferings to obtain for myself and others Thy blessings on this earth and eternal life in Heaven.
He muttered an amen and hoped it helped, as his troubles were mounting by the moment. Every minute he spent here was another minute he would not hear from Sonia. Cell phones were not allowed inside the monastery, and that prohibition included the president of the country. So any contact was going to have to wait.
Mirek finished his prayer, crossed himself again, then whispered, “Come with me.”
They left the chapel and headed back into the basilica, bypassing its opulence and finding a series of rear passages that led to a room marked BIBLIOTEKA. Inside was a magnificent paneled library, heavy with Baroque, lined with wooden cases. Decorative cartouches above each defined its subject matter. Two massive tables stood on the checkerboard marble floor, their tops a puzzle of polished wood in remarkable patterns. The shelves were lined with illuminated medieval manuscripts, all safe within gilded leather cases. One after the other. Thousands of them. The vault overhead was a sea of bright frescoes praising life and learning, the room illuminated by bright chandeliers. On the vaulting above he noticed a painted phrase. SAPIENTIA AEDIFICAVIT SIBI DOMUM. Wisdom hath built her house. He breathed in the rich aroma of aged leather and took some solace from the phrase.
“Shall we sit,” Mirek said.
They each slid out a wooden chair from one of the tables.
“The time may have come to publicly discuss the protocol,” he said to Mirek. “So much time has passed. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“But it does. We took an oath and that means something to me. It should mean something to you.”
“Remaining president of this country for another five years means more to me than any oath we took decades ago.”
His old friend gave him a puzzled look.
So he explained what he was facing.
“Do you ever think about those times?” Mirek asked when he finished. “When we changed the world.”