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 Czestochowa, 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.”
“I prefer to concentrate on the future. Part of that is keeping this country safe. American missiles will make us a prime target for Russia and Iran. I cannot allow that to happen. The United States wants to force me either to resign or to lose the coming election. If my people cannot contain that auction, the whole country will see me as a traitor. Only you and I will know different.”
“But, Janusz, that was the whole idea. Secrecy is what made it all work. Nothing could have been accomplished otherwise.”
He knew this was going to be difficult, but he had to try. “Mirek, if the Americans acquire those SB documents, they will use them to force me to accept missiles inside our borders.”
“Would you do such a thing?”
“I would be placed in an untenable position. If I resign, the marshal of Parliament will become acting president and he will definitely allow them to be placed here. If I refuse, they will expose me as some sort of traitor. I prefer better options than that.”
The older man sat silent.
He’d never been able to gauge this enigma’s thinking.
“During the Second World War, Polish resistance fighters met here, inside this library, to plot strategy,” Mirek finally said. “They assumed they were safe in a monastery and, for the most part, they were. Those brave men and women did a lot of damage. They disrupted German supply lines, provided military intelligence, and saved more Jews than any Allied government. All part of the great Polish Underground State. Which we inherited when we began the fight against the Soviets. We were the new Polish Underground State.”
“And those sacrifices have not been forgotten. We celebrate them every September 27. The Day of the Polish Underground State. The Nazis and the Soviets are gone, Mirek. The enemies today are much different. Many times they are your friends. The world has changed. I’ll say it again. I need your help.”
“I want to show you something.”
Mirek rose and approached the shelves, removing one of the tall leather cases, from which he freed an old tome.
“This is the first volume of the Miraculorum Beate Virginia Monasterii Czestochoviensis, a record of 498 miracles attributed to Our Lady from 1402 to 1642.”
He was amazed. “They actually kept records?”
“Oh, yes. The Pauline monks we
re quite meticulous. They handwrote and documented each one of the miracles with facts about how it occurred, along with witnesses to the event. Two handwritten and five printed registries still exist that inventory the miracles over a four-hundred-year period. Whether those accounts are true is impossible to determine. All we know is that they exist.”
“I assume there’s a point to this.”
Mirek smiled. “Definitely. I, too, have a record.”
He waited.
“Of the Warsaw Protocol.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Cotton stared at the big screen, which displayed an image of a handwritten document, the page filled with a heavy masculine script, all in Polish. At the bottom was a signature, a bit smeared but readable.
Janusz Czajkowski.
Along with a date.
August 9, 1982.
“As you can see, in the lower left corner is a seal, one used by the Sluzba Bezpieczenstwa from the 1970s until 1989 to certify its records. There are hundreds of thousands of these SB documents in existence with the same seal. Many are archived at the Institute of National Remembrance. The documents at issue today were kept by a former SB major, a man named Aleksy Dilecki, who recruited a young Solidarity activist, Janusz Czajkowski, as a government informant. You have a copy of this document in the stack of papers before you. Please take a closer look.”
Bunch was already reaching for the sheet.
“Do you read Polish?” he asked Bunch.
“Hell, no. If it’s not English, it’s not important to me.”
Why was he not surprised.
Languages were easy for him, thanks to an eidetic memory he inherited from his father’s side of the family. Unfortunately, Polish was not in his repertoire.
“For those of you not proficient,” Olivier said, “I have provided a translation in your native tongues on the next sheet.”