by Steve Berry
He noticed five red X’s on the map beside labels.
Konrad traced a route with his finger, following the X’s. Gołębie. Barany. Sroki. Szczygielec. Jeleń. Pigeons. Sheep. Magpies. Goldfinch. Deer.
“The chambers and tunnels are named for animals, birds, famous visitors, cites, provinces, people, even one for a dragon,” Konrad said. “Most of the labels are centuries old, attached when they were first hewn from the salt.”
And what an endeavor.
Block by block the salt had been removed, starting at the top and continuing down until a vein was tapped out, forming a chamber. Then the miners moved to the next, boring long straight tunnels, called drifts, to connect the chambers, all done for not only excavation but also better ventilation. The result was a maze, kilometers long, apparently made navigable only by the names attached along the way.
“The Barany Chamber is ahead,” Konrad said. “It’s the only one that intersects with this main drift. Vic said you needed a simple clear path to find the end. Here it is.”
Jonty had held off to the last minute with this final detail, now even more important given Reinhardt’s presence. “Has anyone else inquired about this?”
Konrad shook his head. “No one.”
“Do you know if anyone has been on this level the past few days?”
“Surely some of the miners have. But you can only get down here with a fob that frees the elevator. I have one, and about fifty others do, too. We check every level daily. But if you’re asking if anyone has gone to where we’re headed? Not to my knowledge. It’s fairly remote and inaccessible. There’s no reason for anyone to be there.”
They continued down the timber-lined drift, the dry salt beneath their boots crunching with every step like packed snow. A steady breeze swept over them from the ventilation system, which helped alleviate any feeling of being entombed. The air was cool but not uncomfortably so.
Vic toted a backpack containing what would make Jonty rich. He’d decided weeks ago not to keep the cache exposed. Better to place it in a secure location and let the high bidder worry about its procurement. All seven participants possessed the resources to make that happen, along with the ability to hunt down and kill him if they did not get what they paid for.
But he had no intention of cheating anyone.
Quite the contrary.
His reputation had been built on dependability, so he planned to offer Vic’s assistance, if needed, to secure what they’d paid for. Not quite a money-back guarantee, but close enough.
They kept walking and entered another chamber. This one was huge, at least twenty meters high and more than that long and wide.
He marveled at human industry.
At one point over one-third of the entire royal treasury of Poland had been derived from salt. Twenty-seven million tons extracted over seven centuries, each block hacked from the wall with picks, axes, and wedges. Until the 14th century prisoners of war worked the mine as slaves.
Then free men took over.
And no brutality existed as it did in coal, gold, or other mines. Here there was a much more normal existence, the men living below for weeks at a time, working eight-hour shifts, being paid well, which included a generous salt allowance.
The diggers had been the most important in the social hierarchy, and rightly so. Prospectors found the salt. Carriers moved the blocks from the drifts to the shafts so they could be hauled upward. Penitents had the toughest job of all, guarding against deadly methane gas, which seeped from the rock and accumulated at the ceiling. They wore soaking-wet clothes and held long poles with torches on the end, burning off the gas before it became explosive. Water was the chief enemy, seeping down from above, forming brine, chiseling the salt from the ceilings and walls, crystallizing it into cauliflower-like glazes and stalactites, many visible here on this level, reflecting back from their helmet lights.
“This is Sroki,” Konrad said. “It’s one of the largest chambers on this level, but it’s not in good shape, as you can see. Water is seeping in everywhere. Eventually, the miners will come and make repairs.”
Rising on the far side were enormous logs, stacked horizontally onto one another, forming a table-like pillared wall. Cribbing. There to counteract the enormous downward pressure from the rock and prevent a collapse. He noticed the size of the tree trunks and that most bore no evidence of a saw. Instead, they’d been chopped down with an ax from the nearby forests, the hack marks still there, which confirmed they’d been there a long time. Yet they looked relatively recent, proof of the preservation effects a salt mine had on wood. It could last forever. Provided it didn’t burn. White paint helped make it more visible and retardant. Fire had always been the greatest threat. For centuries miners worked with open lamps in clay bowls, tallow and oil for fuel. An easy matter for a spark to flare, the fire bringing not only flames and heat but also noxious carbon monoxide. There’d been many fires in the mines over the centuries. Some were deadly and had lasted for months, as there was nothing that could be done except seal the area off and allow the flames to burn themselves out. He noticed that some of the cribbing showed traces of charring.
Konrad led the way down another drift.
Offshoots appeared periodically into more dark passages left and right. Some were labeled, most were not. Then a white sign with black letters noted that an offshoot to the right was named SZCZYGIELEC.
Goldfinch.
“That was marked on your map,” he said to Konrad.
“That’s right. It will get progressively tighter from here on. This is an area no one visits. It’s known only through old charts and records.”
Vic turned to face him with a look that asked if he was going to be okay.
“I’ve never been claustrophobic,” Jonty said. “I’ll be fine.”
They kept going into the blackness, and he felt like he was descending into the abyss. Without their lights they would not be able even to see a finger touch their nose. The passageway narrowed. They found a chamber marked GOŁĘBIE, and finally came to one labeled JELEŃ.
More names from the map.
Ahead the tunnel had fallen in on itself, leaving only a small hatchway through the salt debris, big enough for a man to pass through on his belly. A dark space opened on the other side.
Vic nodded.
Jonty faced their guide. “I need you to wait here. We need to handle this alone.”
Konrad had the good sense not to argue and simply nodded.
“I also need that map,” Jonty said.
Konrad handed it over.
No sense delaying.
This had to be done.
“Lead the way,” he said to Vic.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cotton quickly corrected himself.
Not a gun.
A Taser.
Two barbed electrodes attached to conductors shot through the air. Their needles found his chest. Electricity surged through him. White-hot pain exploded in his brain, leaving a trail of quivering nerves in its path. His muscles overloaded and he collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing into contractions. Like a leg cramp amplified a thousand times. The weapon continued to click as high-voltage current passed through him. The feeling of helplessness and vulnerability seemed overwhelming. He had complete control over his mind, but not his body.
The Taser’s clicking stopped.
The whole thing lasted no more than five seconds, but it had been the longest five of his life. He stayed conscious, aware of his surroundings, with only one thought.
For the pain to stop.
And it did.
But he was immobile.
He tried to catch his breath.
Ivan bent down and plucked out the darts. “Pass on message, Malone.”
Then the Russian left.
Son of a bitch. That hurt.
He slowly sat up.
His head and mind felt dull and heavy.
Dammit.
* * *
He entered the small lo
bby of his hotel, a fine 18th-century burgher’s house converted into a cozy, elegant establishment not far from the central market. On the walk over his nerves had settled. He should call Stephanie and pass on the message. Not because Ivan wanted him to, but because she needed to know the lay of the land. He’d make that call after getting upstairs to his room, where he’d have some privacy. He remained hungry, and his hotel, though quaint and comfortable, provided no room service. He’d have to head back out to find a snack, which wouldn’t be a problem given the number of nearby cafés.
He retrieved the room key from the desk clerk and climbed two unbroken flights of wooden stairs to the third floor, pulling himself along on the balustrade. He approached his door and opened the dead bolt. Inside, he tossed the key on the dresser. His room was a small suite with a separate area for the bed, a paneled door in between, which hung half open. No lights were on, the ambient light from outside leaking in through the windows, providing more than enough illumination.
A noise came from the other room.
A squeak.
Then another.
Somebody was there.
He approached the doorway, staying to one side. Only an idiot rushed into the dark, so he reached around the jamb and flicked the wall switch. The room lit with the soft amber glow from two lamps on the nightstands. In the bed, her back propped on a pillow, lay Sonia Draga.
Back when he was still with the Magellan Billet, during the years he lived apart from his wife, Sonia had been quite a temptation, one he’d succumbed to on more than one occasion. Those encounters had not been without passion, though more a uniting of kindred seekers, two drifting souls who took comfort in each other since they both seemed to understand loneliness.
But that was all in the old days. BC. Before Cassiopeia.
Things were different now.
“Ivan asked for a favor and I obliged,” she said. “He promised he’d behave. Did he?”
He walked over and sat on the bed, noticing that she’d removed her shoes, her toenails painted blood red. “He Tasered me.”
She touched his arm. “Would you like me to make it better? My way of apologizing.”
He needed to say something to bridge that clumsy gap between offer and caress. Years ago, as a young navy lawyer, he’d made the mistake of cheating on his wife. Why? Looking back, he had no idea. It just happened. A stupid act, a vain attempt at thinking someone else cared, finding pleasure in them, if only for a moment, regardless of the consequences. He hurt Pam more than he ever thought possible, and she repaid him with a child that he only learned years later was not biologically his. It took more than a decade to end that civil war. He and Pam now got along just fine. Gary, their son, knew the truth, and had come to terms with the fact that though he may not be a Malone by blood he was in every other meaningful way.
More important, his own feelings had finally come into focus.
Cassiopeia was important to him.
She meant something. She laughed at his jokes, admired his intelligence, sympathized with his hurts, and shared his passions. As he did with hers. She was his best friend, and that realization came with a warmth and fullness, a sense of belonging, of a purpose intertwined. He loved Cassiopeia and she loved him. How did that happen? Hell, if love could be predicted it would lose all of its power. All he knew was that he did.
“Sorry, Sonia. I’m not available.”
She tossed him a puzzled look. “Has Cotton Malone found someone?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I never thought you the domesticated type.”
She was gorgeous, with a petite, rounded face, a buttoned chin, and a small, upturned nose that made her far more pretty than glamorous. Centered between high cheeks was a small but expressive mouth. Her body had not a drop of fat or excess. Her eyes, blue to green, changing with her mood, reflected a lot about her, everything casting an air that was quintessentially feminine. One he knew was somewhat of an illusion, since this woman could definitely hurt you.
“I found someone myself,” she said.
“Yet here you are in my bed.”
“Fully clothed. This is business.” And she smiled, her puckered mouth dimpled at the corners.
“What do you want, Sonia?”
“The United States needs to avoid the auction. Walk away. With America’s departure, the value of that information diminishes greatly for Jonty Olivier.”
Interesting. She knew the seller. But he understood. “Olivier needs the haves and the have-nots. Both affect the price. And American is the biggest have. Did Poland get an invite?”
She shook her head. “Hence my alliance with Ivan. We needed a little help from someone who thinks like we do on this issue.”
“No missiles?”
She nodded.
“What did your president do that’s so bad?”
She tossed him a quizzical look. “Tom Bunch didn’t tell you?”
He decided to be honest. “Not a word.”
She smiled, her teeth white as pearls. “Is it tough being out of the loop?”
“Not at all. The tough part comes when someone wants you in the loop but tells you nothing.”
“Are you in this?”
He knew the rules. No information to outsiders. No need. They’re not in the game. But players? They were different, and sometimes you had to cast your net wider than usual to see what could be reeled in. “I haven’t decided.”
“Ivan said you weren’t all that receptive.”
He smiled. “You and he have quite the relationship.”
“Those missiles are a dead issue that your president has resurrected. Russia doesn’t want them in Poland. Nor do they want to spend the tens of millions it will take to deploy their own missiles across Central Asia in retaliation. Poland doesn’t want the missiles. Europe either. The whole thing is an unnecessary escalation so President Warner Fox can show the world that he’s a big man.”
He couldn’t argue with her assessment. “Bunch is intent on being a part of that auction.”
“But first he has to acquire a relic. Which one?”
The lies had to be consistent. “The Nail in Bamberg.”
“That will be an easy take. It’s just sitting there in a side chapel.”
“What do you know about the other relics?”
She shifted in the bed. “Ten days ago a team broke into the Monastery of Santo Toribio de Liébana in Spain and took their True Cross. I traced them back to Iran. Two days after that another team burglarized St. Anthony’s Chapel in Pennsylvania and stole their thorn from the crown. The segment of the Pillar of the Flogging, in Rome, was taken last week. The Holy Sponge inside Notre-Dame just two days ago. I’ve not been able to identify any of those thieves. The Russians took the Holy Blood today. Only the Nail and lance remain.”
She cocked her head and leaned forward, her soft lips approaching dangerously close to his. He raised a finger to stop her advance. Once he would have surrendered. When lust took control of good judgment and emotions ran on autopilot, all of it fueled by risk and anxiety.
But he would not make that mistake again.
He stood from the bed. “Time for you to go.”
Her restless blue eyes bore testimony to a hit-and-run existence. She’d always been a hive of nerves. What she was doing right now seemed typical Sonia. Playing both ends against the middle. Using every weapon she had at her disposal. But he felt the tense atmosphere that had sprung up between them, as if neither believed a word the other said. They were definitely fencing, each tossing around a measured blend of fact and fiction.
“She’s a lucky woman.”
“More the other way around.”
She rose from the bed, her body just as impressive as he remembered. She slipped on her shoes and headed for the outer room and the door. He stood propped against the dresser, arms folded across his chest.
She stopped and said, “Take Ivan’s warning seriously. Stay out of this one. It could get rough.”
> “As I recall, you liked it that way.”
She smiled.
“I do.”
And she left.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 5
KRAKÓW, POLAND
11:50 A.M.
Cotton admired Rynek Główny. At over six hundred feet on each side, the open expanse claimed the title of the largest medieval square in Europe. Its colorful perimeter buildings were all neoclassical, filled with every kind of shop, store, and eatery imaginable.
A lot like Bruges, only much bigger.
He’d contacted Stephanie after Sonia had left and told her he’d changed his mind and wanted in. Call him crazy, but he could no longer allow her to do this one on her own. So he’d packed his bag, slipped from the hotel by a back exit, then left in a car waiting at the ring road. He was driven south into Luxembourg, where he spent the night at an upscale hotel on the Magellan Billet’s dime. He caught an early-morning flight out to Frankfurt, where he changed planes on a tight connection to Bratislava. A car had been waiting in the parking lot, keys hidden inside, which he used to drive two hundred miles north, across the open Poland–Slovakia border, to Kraków. The roundabout route had been for Sonia’s benefit, to keep him off any Polish radars.
Kraków lay in a broad valley nestled close to the River Wisła. For centuries it was Poland’s capital and basked in richness and opulence. Old and new still mixed there in perfect harmony, with an almost mystical atmosphere, aided by the fact that the city escaped horrific bombing during World War II. The twin domes of St. Mary’s Church rose into the clear late-morning sky. Oddly, one tower was much shorter than the other, different in design and style, too, and he was sure there was a story in that somewhere.
Stephanie had called on the drive through Slovakia and reported that the Nail from Bamberg Cathedral had been stolen last night. That left only the Holy Lance. She’d also gone a bit old school and provided a packet of hard-copy information, waiting in the car inside a manila envelope. He hadn’t seen that in a while. Everything today was electronic. Along the way he’d stopped and read what the envelope contained, learning the things he needed to know.
