Cotton reached for that page ahead of Bunch.

Together they read the English.

Olivier pointed at the screen. “This document states that Janusz Czajkowski agrees to work as an informant and provide good and valuable information to the SB. You might ask, why was such a record created? Why not just keep everything informal? It was done to ensure the absolute loyalty of the informant. At the time, to be an informant was perhaps the worst thing a Pole could do. Releasing the signed document to the public would have been a way to disgrace the signer. Informants were terrified of being exposed, as there would be repercussions from both sides. So informants did what was expected of them, mostly as a way not to be exposed.” Olivier paused. “You can also see that Czajkowski was given a code name to be used in the future. And not all that flattering either. Baran. Sheep.”

Cotton studied the handwriting on the Polish copy.

“The signature has been authenticated,” Olivier said. “I employed three world-renowned experts who reviewed comparative material in the form of 142 documents that were either drafted or signed by Janusz Czajkowski in the time frame from 1987 to last year. These included, among others, his former identity card, driver’s license, proof of vehicle registration, documents from his time serving in Parliament, documents related to his purchase of land and a home, personnel files from two employers, pages stored in the Office of the President of the Republic of Poland for the last five years, and passport files, all of which I obtained. The handwriting experts’ findings will be provided to you. They all agree, with no reservation, that the documents at issue here are all in Czajkowski’s hand.”

“And what if they are wrong,” one of the French called out. “And these are fakes.”

“I assure you, I have no intention of selling fakes. Or a pig in a poke, as Mr. Bunch put it earlier. If any of them are deemed a forgery or fake within fourteen days of this sale, I will return your money. After that, they are yours with no reservations. That should provide you plenty of time to authenticate. How much more of a guarantee do you want?”

“But you will already have our money?” one of the Iranians said.

“True. But all of you can hunt me down in a matter of hours. I recognize that fact and have given it the respect it is due.”

Smart play, Cotton thought. Address the issue of credibility up front and acknowledge that the bidders were in a superior possession. Everyone in the room seemed satisfied with both the concession and the condition.

“In the stack before you are more examples of the writings that will be for sale today. I will give you a few moments to study them. There is also an inventory sheet in your stack that provides an overview of all of what you will be buying.”

Cotton studied the list.

1 handwritten commitment to cooperate with the Security Service of 9 August 1982;

37 handwritten confirmation notes of receipt of money transferred by security service officers in return for information, all created between 12 August 1982 and 29 June 1989, totaling PLN 11,700;

49 handwritten reports of a secret collaborator, drawn up and signed with the code name “Baran”;

18 reports of a secret collaborator, not bearing the code name or any other signature, but definitely in the handwriting of Janusz Czajkowski;

26 handwritten reports of a secret collaborator prepared by Janusz Czajkowski, code named “Baran,” as outlined by the appointed security service officer (Aleksy Dilecki);

5 handwritten reports consisting of 34 pages prepared by the appointed security service officer (Aleksy Dilecki), bearing the codename “Baran”;

11 handwritten reports by the secret collaborator drawn up and signed with the code name “Baran” by the appointed security service officer (Aleksy Dilecki).

One hundred and forty-seven pages.

That was a lot for Czajkowski to deny as a forgery.

The sheer volume spoke to their authenticity, as did Olivier’s confidence in his experts and his money-back guarantee, secured, of course, with his life.

“I’m convinced,” Bunch whispered.

Again, no surprise.

“To be labeled a former communist informant today in Polish society retains the same stigma as it once possessed. Maybe even more so. But to be the president of the nation and have such a label stamped on you? That is unthinkable,” Olivier said. “Look what happened to Lech Walesa. Documents surfaced showing he, too, may have been an informant. Handwriting experts verified their authenticity. Walesa declared the documents fake, created by the communists to discredit him. Eventually, a Polish court declared that he had not been a collaborator. But the stink would not go away. Finally, Walesa admitted to signing the documents, but said he was playing the SB, trying to learn what he could about them.” Olivier shrugged. “What’s the truth? Who knows? What we do know is that the taint remains. Here the situation is much clearer. Czajkowski was one of millions who joined Solidarity in the 1980s. He was no Lech Walesa. He was a nobody. No one would have created any false documents to discredit him.”

“Unless they are a more recent forgery,” one of the Chinese said.

“Which will be an easy matter to expose. My experts tell me that the originals you will be buying are from the 1980s. The paper. The ink. Everything is consistent. Czajkowski’s SB handler apparently kept many documents relative to various informants. Czajkowski was just one of many. I personally viewed his cache.”

“He’s still alive?” one of the Russians asked.

“Long dead. But the information survived. There were two filing cabinets full of paper. One drawer was special. Documents on people who had achieved prominence since 1990, people whom the SB major had once been familiar with. He kept those files separate. One of those dealt with a young Solidarity activist named Janusz Czajkowski, who went on to achieve great things.”

Olivier went silent, seemingly allowing his words to take hold.

Bunch appeared thrilled at the prospects.

Cotton remained concerned.

Nothing about blackmail ever turned out good.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Czajkowski stared at his old friend.

Had he heard right?

“You have a record of the protocol?”

“I was mindful that one day history might need proof. After we are all gone.”

Thank God for obsessive-compulsive behavior. It was what made Mirek such a superb intelligence officer, though he knew that his old friend hated the label. He’d much preferred Sowa, which was what Lech Walesa had privately called him, while always adding a sly smile.

“Are you still the Owl?” he asked.

Mirek smiled and nodded. “Solitary, nocturnal, with perfect vision, incredible hearing, and sharp talons. But I’m not much of a hunter anymore for people’s weaknesses. Thankfully, the people we dealt with back then had plenty to exploit.”

“Where is your record of the Warsaw Protocol?”

“Safely hidden away.”

“Right now, as we speak, an auction is occurring where documents that are 100 percent authentic are being offered for sale to foreigners intent on using them to blackmail me. If that happens I would then have two choices. Concede to their threats or be publicly ruined. I could even be tried for crimes against peace and humanity by the Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Polish Nation. What we did may certainly qualify. And I emphasize the we there. Many who we dealt with are still alive. Men and women who would testify against us.”

“You’re not the first who has come to me.”

He was surprised.

“Walesa came and asked the same thing you are asking to deal with his own troubles.”

He was surprised. “Why would he do that?”

“It’s simple, Mr. President. He was the one who tasked me with running the Warsaw Protocol.” Mirek paused. “He was also its first participant.”

Now he was shocked.

The idea of the protocol had been simple. Tu

rn SB’s informants into counter-informants. Not all of them, of course, as there were far too many. But enough to cause havoc within the security services. A small cadre of men and women who routinely made reports to their handlers—except those reports were Mirek’s creations. Some were innocuous, meaningless information that kept the informants in the SB’s good graces. Some were deliberate lies, sending the SB off chasing ghosts with false leads. Wasting time and resources.

But eventually the program traveled into darker territory.

The imposition of martial law changed everything. Where before everyone had hope that things were changing, that Solidarity was making progress, the strong arm of the government eventually crushed all political opposition and sent the freedom movement underground. Thousands were arrested and jailed. People fled the country by the hundreds of thousands. The SB expanded its reach and worked hard to pit Poles against Poles.

Spies were everywhere.

So Mirek devised a way to deal with those spies.

He used his army of counter-informants to turn the SB against their own. A perfect way to clear the opposition ranks. And it worked. Hundreds were arrested. People who thought themselves safe since they’d made a deal with the government to inform on their neighbors disappeared, never to be seen again. Most likely they were now rotting away in the ground somewhere, shot for their supposed duplicity. The communists were never tolerant of betrayal.

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