* * *
Cotton approached the light-colored BMW that he’d seen on the monitor upstairs in the room where Vic DiGenti had been killed. He’d retrieved the keys from the body, hoping they were for the vehicle, and was pleased when the fob opened the door locks.
On the rear seat he spotted various containers that held the relics of the Arma Christi. He noticed that there were six. When he subtracted the one Sonia had taken, it made for seven. Where had the seventh come from? Earlier, one had been missing on the table in the great hall.
Another mystery.
No matter, though, he now had the relics and he was certain that the churches from which they’d been taken would be grateful beyond measure for their return. It would be quite a feather in Stephanie’s cap to be able to make restitution. He needed to call her, but had no way at the moment. It would have to wait until he was back in Poland. Right now he just needed to get as far away from here as possible before the crap hit the fan.
He was still playing a hunch.
One he knew Stephanie would want him to pursue.
And though he no longer had any dog in this fight, he was intent on finding out if the information on Czajkowski was still out there, capable of being located.
Was the threat still active?
The silence around him was broken by the cawing of a crow.
An omen?
He hoped not.
He was alive thanks to Sonia’s intervention, and what he was doing by keeping in pursuit might be deemed a problem by her.
She’d wanted this to be over.
But something told him there was still a way to go.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Czajkowski wanted this day to end. It had been one of the most nerve racking of his life—and he’d experienced some pretty harrowing ones. Speaking with Anna had brought back memories he preferred not to relive.
It happened so fast on the night of December 12, 1981.
When the Polish military swept in and imposed martial law.
Most of Solidarity’s leaders were rounded up and herded to freezing detention centers, cast on the mercy of brutal guards. Over forty thousand people. Neither he nor Mirek Hacia was part of that roundup. Hacia because he constantly stayed in the shadows, and himself as a nobody.
It had all been horrible.
But people had debated for years whether Poland, without martial law, would have made it through that winter.
Widespread famine seemed imminent. The health care system was about to collapse. The economy was gone. Anarchy loomed, and neither the government nor Solidarity possessed the ability to develop workable solutions. With power came responsibility. Leaders had to get along. Put petty differences aside. Avoid division over trivial matters. But Solidarity had constant problems with unity. At least it wanted to compromise, but the Red Bourgeoisie, who would have had to relinquish many of their class privileges, refused to budge.
No deals.
By then, all that remained of the Polish Communist Party was the complacent, the incompetent, the corrupt, and the evil. Thankfully, the army stayed at bay. Polish soldiers refused to fire on Polish workers. But the militia, the SB, and the special forces were another matter. They did the dirty work, one person at a time.
He recalled the sense of defeat that dominated throughout that winter.
Poles seemed to know that Poles always lost.
It had been that way for centuries. Doomed by geography and ideology, they had never effectively governed themselves. The whole idea of martial law had been to isolate and neutralize any obstructive groups and deprive the people of knowledge, save for what the government decreed. For years Solidarity had existed out in the open, keeping the people informed. Now it was gone. Subverted. Made illegal. There was no more information network: Phone lines were cut, television shut down. Everything required a permit. Even typewriters had to be registered.
So implementing the Warsaw Protocol had been easy.
Feeding the SB false information had been easy. Turning one against the other, setting up traitors, even easier.
Their deaths just the price to be paid.
And the last holdouts?
Two thousand coal miners in Silesia, barricaded underground in protest, cooped up in low, dark, clammy shafts, thick with winter dampness. No ventilation, no light. Just days before Christmas. To get them out, the government engaged in its own form of the Warsaw Protocol by feeding down false stories of ill family or wives in labor. Women impersonated their loved ones begging them to surrender. Anything to break their resolve. But the coal miners knew a lie when they heard one. They were tough. They’d always been regarded with high honor. The aristocrats of Polish labor. They’d not joined in previous labor unrest actions and were among the last to go on strike.
But strike they did.
With the result being just another stalemate.
And the only way out of a stalemate was to change the rules.
Which was what the Warsaw Protocol had done.
Attacking the SB at its core.
His limousine glided to a stop and he prepared himself to step from the car. He’d been driven fifty kilometers southwest of Kraków to Wadowice, population twenty thousand, a fairly unremarkable town beyond the fact that it was here, on May 18, 1920, that the future St. John Paul II had been born. That event turned an otherwise sleepy municipality into a place of pilgrimage, complete with all of the tacky tourist trappings. Everything of interest revolved around the central square, appropriately named Plac Jana Pawła II. The main attraction was the Wojtyła family house. Twelve hundred square meters of exhibition space over four floors that charted the great man’s life. Family photos, heirlooms, manuscripts, even the gun used in the 1981 attempt on the pope’s life were on display.
A renovation of the site had just been completed and he’d come to see the work and bestow his presidential blessing. The trip had been scheduled yesterday as camouflage on the pretext that since he was nearby, why not drop in for a quick visit.
Sonia had called two hours ago and said she was on her way back from Slovakia. He’d told her about the detail of BOR agents he’d dispatched, and she told him what had happened. They’d agreed that the agents would scrub the castle clean and dispose of the bodies, removing and destroying all the written materials distributed to the participants, along with the computers on site. Michał Zima would oversee it all. The hope being only they, the Russians, and Eli Reinhardt knew about what had happened.
Then there was Cotton Malone.
He doubted the Americans would make trouble. If so, they’d have to explain how one of their own made it out unscathed. Unlikely the Chinese, Iranians, or North Koreans would accept any explanation. Not to mention the French, a supposed ally. More likely, they’d all think that the United States had the information and Washington’s denials would fall on deaf ears.
He checked his watch. 3:20 P.M.
He exited the car into sunshine muted by clouds rapidly dominating the afternoon sky. Some of the local politicos were waiting to greet him and he took a moment to shake hands and chat with them, assuming a patrician but warm smile of welcome. Off to his right he caught sight of Sonia with a black box in hand. He grabbed the attention of the head of his security detail and motioned. He entered the house, greeted by the curator. They exchanged pleasantries and he asked if there was a room where he might have a moment. The man offered his office and he followed him there, where he was left alone. A soft knock came to the door, then it opened and Sonia entered. She laid the box on the desk. He took her in his arms, hugging her tightly.