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.
His expert was also on site, brought in earlier by Vic, to verify the authenticity of each relic. So far everything had seemed in order. All deemed authentic, including the Nail from Bamberg. Now a fourth participant was arriving.
He stepped from the foyer out into the bright morning sun. The Slovakian weather was cooperating with another glorious late-spring day. A black Mercedes coupe motored into the courtyard and came to a stop. Two men emerged from the backseat. Tall, dark suits, broad-shouldered, Slavic features. Russians. And neither man looked happy to be there.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said to them in English.
One of them answered with a few lines of Russian. He did not need a translator to know the meaning.
He waved a finger. “As advertised, this auction will be conducted in English.”
Neither said a word.
He continued, “I apologize for the insistence, and I mean no disrespect. But please know every effort has been made to make you as comfortable as possible. We have some lovely pelmeni, wrapped in light, paper-thin dough.” He patted his midsection and laughed. “As you can see, I’ve enjoyed a few. I chose the filling myself, a combination of beef, lamb, and pork, spiced with pepper, onions, and garlic. I assure you, they are quite delicious.”
Both Russians broke into a smile.
“How can we refuse such generosity,” the one said in English that tended to thicken the consonants and round the vowels. “I have not had a good pelmeni in some time.”
He noticed that the other man held a small wooden box.
“Is that the Holy Blood from Bruges?”
“It is, indeed.” The man handed it over. “Our ticket to enter.”
He led his new guests into the castle and down a wide corridor to the great hall. He watched as, like the others already there, the new arrivals surveyed the room to ascertain who else would be bidding. He excused himself and caught the attention of the headwaiter, who immediately marched over.
“Please make sure the Russians have whatever they desire to drink. Mention the Tovaritch vodka we have on hand. And bring out the pelmeni.”
The man hurried off.
He, too, glanced around the room.
Four teams there.
Two to go.
Both were en route.
He glanced up at the second-floor railing and spotted Eli taking in the scene. Beside him stood Art Munoz, looking as dour as ever. Jonty had tried to apologize for the wire-down-the-throat business, but the Bulgarian had not been receptive. He’d even offered some generous monetary compensation for the pain and suffering, which was also refused. Apparently, this Bulgarian was not the forgiving type.
Eli tossed him a casual wave, as if to say that he was pleased things were progressing. Germany’s two chairs in the great hall had been removed, and Eli would watch the proceedings from the second floor, out of sight. They’d already agreed to make another trip into the mine in two days’ time to begin a cursory inspection of the containers. He was on the prowl for an expert, one with the historical knowledge along with the discretion to work quickly and quietly. He still liked the idea of selling it all, en masse, to the Poles. But that would be a discussion for another day.
The auction was all that mattered now.
Vic entered the hall and approached.
“The other two teams will be here within the half hour.”
“Is everything okay?”
“So far, no problems. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be any.”
He agreed.
The Iranians and the Russians would be the most dangerous. Both had a lot to lose from American missiles in Poland. Both had few to no scruples and were capable of almost anything. He was betting on them to use money instead of violence, maybe even join forces to raise their bid to astronomical levels, forcing America to counter even higher.
The possibilities seemed endless.
He checked his watch.
Everything would start soon.
CHAPTER FORTY
Cotton sat in the backseat with the black cloth bag over his head, feeling like a fool. Bunch didn’t seem to mind, as he’d not said a word over the past twenty minutes. They’d waited in the tunnel for the decoy Mercedes to lead away any drone that may have been observing. A bit overdramatic in scope but, he had to admit, effective. Obviously, a lot of planning had gone into this.
They’d stayed on a smooth road for most of the way, maintaining a constant rate of speed south, with no stops. That meant a major highway, as there’d been few curves. Then a turn to the west and a curvy path that first ground its way up, then leveled off.
“You can take the hoods off,” one of the men said.
He yanked the cloth off his head and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.
And he saw a castle.
The Mercedes motored beneath a heavy, iron-studded gate, protected by a portcullis, which had been raised to admit them. A stonemason’s sign on the rough wall bore the inscription 1564.
They entered a graveled courtyard. Five-sided. Towers rose to the bright sky, each crowned with a cupola. Some kind of Slovakian fortress. A rotund man in a tweed jacket and bow tie waited near a pedimented door.
“That’s Jonty Olivier,” Bunch whispered.
The Mercedes came to a stop.
Cotton gave the rear floorboard a quick once-over trying to find the tracker, but saw nothing. He could only hope no one ever noticed it.
“You can get out,” the driver said.
He glanced at Bunch who never hesitated, grabbing the black lacquered box with the spear and opening his door. So much for coordinating how they would handle things.
“Gentlemen,” Jonty Olivier said, his arms spread wide. “Welcome.”
Bunch extended a hand, which Olivier shook.
“You work with President Fox?”
“I do,” Bunch said. “He sent me personally to handle this. I believe you and the president spoke?”
Olivier raised a fin
ger to his lips and shushed Bunch quiet. “That’s a secret. Between us. Not everyone received such personal attention.”
Cotton tried to gauge their host. Fashion-conscious? It certainly seemed so. Self-assured? Definitely. In control? That was the impression the man was trying to convey.