by Davis Bunn
He figured a coffin would have had more light.
Then he heard a click, and the glow of an electric lantern illuminated Wadi Haddad. “You come to rescue me. How very nice.”
TWENTY-FOUR
ANTONIN TARKA’S PRIVATE JET WAS the first to depart from London’s City Airport the next morning. Storm had been awakened long before dawn by Tanya arriving with coffee and Storm’s suitcase. Storm was given a Polish ID with a photograph that might have resembled her as long as nobody looked too closely. As Poland was now part of the EU’s security zone, Tanya explained, it should be enough. If anyone spoke to her, Tanya would respond.
The jet lifted through the lingering rain and clouds into a brilliant dawn. Storm was seated across from the two men, Antonin Tarka and the Polish priest, Father Gregor. She could feel Tarka’s cane resting upon her shin. Between them was a table of burled walnut embossed with a double-headed eagle. The plane was far larger than Raphael’s but nowhere near as pristine. The leather of her seat was stained in places. The carpet down the central aisle needed replacing. Tanya was busy behind the galley curtains. Storm could smell fresh coffee and baking pastry.
“I’d like to call my friends and let them know what’s happened,” Storm said.
“I would respectfully ask that you wait until our return this evening.” Antonin Tarka was dressed in identical fashion to the day before, suited and starched and impeccable. “Officially, this trip is not taking place.”
Father Gregor asked, “Do you recall what we spoke of yesterday evening, Ms. Syrrell?”
“A mystery buyer with bottomless pockets started acquiring religious artifacts, mostly from Eastern Europe. This was followed by news that a second buyer started competing against him or her, this one represented by me.”
“Just so. Before we heard of this first man’s wild expenditures, we received word of a theft.” Tarka nodded to the priest.
“What I am about to tell you, Ms. Syrrell, must be kept in the strictest confidentiality.”
“If word was to escape,” Tarka added, “the results would be catastrophic.”
“I understand.”
“The Black Madonna of Czestochowa is a painting of Mary holding the baby Jesus. According to tradition, this icon was painted by Saint Luke himself. The painting was completed while Mary told Luke of Jesus’ life. Luke then incorporated these stories and teachings into his Gospel. He painted the Black Madonna upon a cypress tabletop made by Mary’s husband, Joseph.”
The engines whined at a comforting distance, and the sun shone brilliantly upon the side window as the two somber men seated across from her discussed events two thousand years old. They spoke with the gravity of generals around a table of war.
Father Gregor went on, “The picture remained in Jerusalem until the year 326, when it was gifted to Helen, the mother of Emperor Constantine. She brought it back to her son’s new capital, where it was housed in the city’s cathedral. When the eastern Roman Empire fell to the Ottomans, the picture was first taken to Belz, then brought to its current home in 1382. The painting is called the Black Madonna because of the soot residue that discolors the figures, caused by centuries of votive candles and incense.”
Tanya emerged from the galley bearing a silver coffee service. She set it on the table, poured three cups, then departed. Storm studied the woman’s features yet found no indication of what Tanya might think of all this.
“There have been almost two thousand years of miracles associated with the painting,” Father Gregor continued. “Spontaneous healings, the repulsion of invaders—the list is endless.”
Tarka said, “What you must understand, Ms. Syrrell, is that the painting’s importance goes far beyond any particular miracle. The Black Madonna of Czestochowa represents Poland’s ability to survive as a nation.”
Storm watched Tanya return and set down three steaming-hot croissants. The pastries rested upon plates bearing the double-headed eagle. Tanya refused to meet her eye as she padded back to the galley. Storm tore off one tip from the croissant. It was as delicious as the coffee.
“Our nation’s greatest flaw is its position,” Father Gregor said. “We occupy a plain utterly lacking in geographical defenses. No great mountain ranges, no fierce rivers. During our two thousand years of history, we have been invaded from every side. Mongol hordes. Tatars. Hussites. Swedes. Ottomans. Prussians. Austro-Hungarians. Nazis. And most recently, Stalin’s tanks.”
Antonin Tarka said, “During the Communist era, when Poland became locked behind the Iron Curtain, the Black Madonna took on special significance. The center of resistance against the Soviets was the Polish Catholic Church. When the Soviet occupiers tried to eradicate our heritage, the Church taught Polish history and language. In our darkest hour, when the powers that opposed us were overwhelming and hope was all but lost, the Black Madonna represented the eternal flame that kept us alive.”
Tanya returned from the galley and announced, “We are about to begin our descent.”
Storm took that as her cue. “So this painting has been stolen.”
“Well, yes and no, Ms. Syrrell. If the Black Madonna had simply vanished, the whole world would hear our cry of anguish.” Tarka’s face had never appeared more grave. “It was replaced with a forgery so exact we have no idea when the original was taken.”
THE DRIVE FROM THE KRAKÓW airport to Czestochowa was a journey through epochs. The nation’s scars were evident everywhere. Communist-era apartments, drab as prison blockhouses, brooded over medieval daub-and-wattle farm buildings with thatched roofs. They passed villages with impossible names—Olkusz, Slawkow, Zawiercie, Myszkow, Poczesna. They traversed a forest of silver birch, the new leaves glinting like mirrors. Then came an industrial complex tattooed with grime and poverty and hopelessness. Silent cranes hovered about a half-finished apartment complex.
Where they left the main highway, the road became lined by wild cherry trees, the knobby limbs almost lost beneath clouds of blossoms. A sudden gust of wind buffeted their car, and a snowfall of pink blossoms obliterated their vision. When the windshield cleared, they faced a green hillside crowned by a medieval structure unlike anything Storm had ever seen.
“The Monastery of Jasna Gora,” Father Gregor said. “Which translates as Luminous Mountain. The central edifice is over seven hundred years old.”
The parking lot was vast as an asphalt sea. There were hundreds of buses. They parked and joined a constant stream of penitents walking toward the monastery. Storm became surrounded by people of all ages. Some pushed wheelchairs, others ambulance-style stretchers. All eyes were upon the edifice that rose up ahead. The people’s footsteps were as constant as rain.
They let the crowd set the pace. As they walked, Father Gregor said, “On holy days, as many as two million pilgrims visit this shrine. It is common for many seeking miracles to walk from their homes in far-flung towns. The journey from Warsaw takes nine days. Villagers still line the streets and hand out provisions to pilgrims.”
They entered the monastery beneath a triumphant arch topped by a statue of winged victory armed for righteous battle. The monastery was the size of a medieval village. At its heart, a magnificent church gleamed in the sunlight.
The cathedral was vast, but even so it could not adequately hold all the supplicants. The overflow jammed open-air tents situated to either side of the main entrance and spilled down the front lawn. Loudspeakers carried the mass, which was given by different priests in a number of languages.
Father Gregor led them through the priests’ entrance into a side alcove. They waited until the mass ended, then slipped through heavy velvet curtains and entered the nave. The main chamber was fully three hundred feet long and half as wide, with massive pillars supporting an arched stone ceiling. The fragrance of incense was overpowering.
“Poland’s story is one of triumph in the face of impossible odds.” Antonin Tarka leaned heavily upon his cane and surveyed the chamber with an expression so intense Storm thought the man
might weep. “We represent a different world, one the West would do well to study. What happens to faith when all else is lost, when the human existence is reduced to rubble and tears? That is what our nation can teach.” He waved the priest forward. “Show our guest what happened.”
Father Gregor led her closer to the front of the church. The hall resonated with thousands of voices in prayer. Every side alcove was packed, as were niches holding prayer benches and votive candles and crucifixes. Double doors of embossed metal bars were folded back, opening the nave to the rest of the church. The icon resided upon the rear wall of the nave, overlooking the altar table. Flowers were banked about the nave in piles thick as clouds.
The portrait displayed a traditional composition used by many Orthodox icons. The figures’ positions formed what was known as a Hodegetria. One of Mary’s hands held the infant Jesus. The other hand gestured toward her son, directing attention away from herself. In turn, the child extended his right hand toward the viewer in an act of blessing.
The portrait was sealed within an inner frame of beaten silver. The outer frame was covered in a sheaf of gold leaf. The result was not so much primitive as timeless. The impact was fiercely compelling, as though the image itself held the power to reach across the sea of two thousand years.
Father Gregor began, “Eleven days ago, a brother arrived to prepare the sacristy for dawn devotionals. He was in his eighties and had been performing this duty for sixty-three years. The brother had been a novice during Polish independence between the world wars. He survived the Nazis, he survived Stalin, he survived capitalism.”
Father Gregor pointed at the banks of flowers lining the floor and walls around the portrait. “Every night the flowers brought by pilgrims are gathered up and disposed of. The doors to the nave are sealed. As is the sanctuary. That particular morning, the old monk was assisted by two young acolytes, who trim the candles and lay out a fresh altar cloth and sweep the floors and so forth. The elderly brother turned off the alarm system. Only he and the senior cleric knew the code. Then he unlocked the Madonna’s compartment using a key he kept with him at all times. The only other key is locked inside the senior cleric’s safe. That morning, the brother opened the nave, approached the icon, and cried something that the acolytes claim sounded like ‘Sacrilege.’ Then he gripped his chest and fell down dead. The brother had seen the icon every day for decades, adored it, and knew every detail of the surface—every whorl in the wood grain, every slight crack in the wood, every scar on its ancient surface. We can only hope he realized that it had been replaced by a duplicate the very day the theft occurred.”
“Are there security cameras?”
“They have not worked in weeks. Longer.” Father Gregor’s features had become tormented. “The senior cleric brought in an expert from the Vatican. The expert confirmed that the Madonna you see there is a forgery.”
Storm said, “Whoever did this spent a fortune on the forgery so the theft would not be discovered. Why would somebody go to all that trouble? And who would do it?”
Father Gregor said, “A government perhaps.”
Antonin Tarka limped forward to stand at Storm’s other side. “There is only one government that would be so brazen. The Soviets would take great pride in such an act.”
“Nowadays they are known again as Russians,” Father Gregor said, correcting him.
Antonin Tarka shrugged. “Same wolf, same fangs, same threat.”
Storm asked, “Why am I here?”
Antonin Tarka said, “After we learned of the theft, we frantically searched the international arts market for any hint of the Black Madonna. It was a long shot, of course. These days, most art thefts are done to order. The item never surfaces. Then we hear of a mystery Russian buyer. He pursues every early Christian artifact that comes up for sale. His interest borders on fanaticism. Money means nothing. He hides himself extremely well. Almost too well.”
Father Gregor said, “My sources at the Vatican have no idea who this buyer might be. They are naturally alarmed. Any number of treasures from our early Christian heritage are being swallowed up. Who is he, and why has he chosen this moment to surface?”
Antonin Tarka said, “And could this obsessive interest of his be behind the theft of our national treasure?”
Father Gregor said, “Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Raphael Danton appears. He represents a second mystery buyer.”
“And Danton selects you as his dealer,” Antonin Tarka said. “Of course, we were delighted with the choice, given your grandfather’s reputation. And your own.”
Father Gregor asked, “Can you determine the name of Danton’s new buyer?”
“I’ll ask. But he has every right not to tell me.” Storm found a certain satisfaction in having her concerns voiced by another. “Do you have any idea who Rausch represents?”
“We have been trying to determine that,” Tarka replied. “So far, we have come up with nothing.”
Father Gregor asked, “Perhaps your friend the Homeland Security agent can help us?”
“The American intelligence community is apparently in the dark like everybody else.” Storm hesitated, then she asked, “Can I tell her why we’re here?”
Both men frowned. “The more people who know, the greater the risk of this becoming an international crisis.”
Tarka said, “Perhaps that is what the Russians had in mind all along.”
“They are devious,” Father Gregor said in agreement. “Brutally so. Our own history is testimony to that. But they also possess a certain Siberian logic. And I fail to see how they might gain from creating a public scandal.”
“They steal it,” Storm said, thinking out loud. “Then they offer to help you find it. And when it’s recovered, they have a lever to pull you away from the West.”
Both men stared at her. Tarka asked, “You have experience dealing with Russian treachery?”
“I deal in treasure,” Storm replied. “There’s no market more devious than mine.”
A bell sounded from high overhead. Father Gregor touched her arm. “The next mass will soon begin.”
“I’ll meet you outside.” Storm stepped away from the men and started down the central aisle. She moved against the incoming tide of penitents, a multigenerational horde that poured through the rear doors.
Every surface in the vast hall was covered. Walls, pillars, all the way up to the ceiling a hundred feet and more overhead. Canes and crutches and miniature icons and rosaries and folded prayer shawls and letters. Tens of thousands of letters, all set in cheap frames, many of them so ancient the yellowed pages no longer held any words. This was more than testimony to answered prayers. Storm felt like she walked through a cave that hearkened back to another era, one where humans struggled against forces so potent the people were left utterly powerless. Their fates were gripped by forces that cared nothing for their hopes, their dreams, their lives. They had no recourse except to pray. The church was a lone haven, the ancient icon in the sacristy a single gateway to a power that might, just might, be able to save or heal or return them to happier times. Sunlight through the eastern windows sparkled over the immense array of desperate testimonies. Storm felt as though she was surrounded by everything that defied her Western mind, her ingrained beliefs in self-determination and personal freedom.
When she emerged from the front portals, Father Gregor and Antonin Tarka waited for her just beyond the throngs pressing politely for space inside the church. For the first time, Storm felt as though she could connect to the forces that had etched the two men’s features. Tanya stood some distance farther away, a stalwart woman who shared a similar conviction.
Storm walked up to them and said, “Thank you for bringing me here.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE CAVE WAS THE SIZE of a county lockup. The air was spiced with bundles of clove and cinnamon and dried herbs hanging from head-high shelves bolted to the stone walls. The ceiling was just high enough for Harry to stand upright. Burlap sacks of bean
s and brown rice and dates and dried fruit were stacked against the walls. More shelves held canned goods. Wadi boiled water over a paraffin cooker and made instant coffee. They all drank from the same lone mug.
Wadi refilled the mug, added more sugar than Harry preferred, and said, “Soon as Ahmed left for Aqaba, they took me. Morning and night, guards walk me to the latrine. The rest of the time, I am here.”
The cave was floored in sand fine as face powder. Illumination was supplied by a battery-powered lantern. Harry shifted his back against the wall. His entire body burned. “Who is after you, Wadi?”
“Some people. Very angry. They pay much money to have me.” The Palestinian looked around the cave. “I think maybe soon enough I wish I was back here again.”
“Let’s pretend we’ve still got a reason for having this conversation,” Harry said. “I’ll start off, you tell me when I get it wrong. How’s that?”
Wadi continued his silent inspection of the rock walls.
“Little honesty up front. I was hired by the Israelis to identify a source of extremely high-quality counterfeit artifacts.”
Ahmed groaned, “This is the man I decide to trust.”
“That was then and this is now,” Harry said. “This thing has moved way beyond fake treasures. Hasn’t it, Wadi?”
The man did not respond.
“So I’m brought into contact with a guy operating out of Hebron,” continued Harry. “Just as the deal is going down, I get a signal from Hassan, my driver. I ram you into the wall, which probably saves your life. Then somebody lights up the night sky.”
Wadi asked, “Why you are saving me? This I do not understand.”
“I hate counterfeits with a passion,” Harry said. “But a man who can make this level of copy is a true artist. I couldn’t just let you go down.”
Wadi hefted a handful of sand and let it slip through his fingers. “One moment I am wondering why you push me into the wall. Then a fireball blasts where I am standing one second before. You are between me and the bomb, so the flames hit your face and not mine. I am not knowing whether you live. Then I look down, and the only thing that is left of my guard is his ID. Right there at my feet.”
