by Steve Berry
A lance was first described in the Gospel of John. The Romans had wanted to break Jesus’ legs, what they called crurifragium, as a way to hasten death during crucifixion. But when it came time they realized Jesus was already dead. To make sure that was the case, a soldier named Longinus supposedly stabbed Christ in the side with his lance.
And immediately there came out blood and water.
Which was why the Catholic mass always included a mixing of the two. Blood symbolizing humanity. Water, Christ’s divinity.
The confusion came from the many lances that claimed to be Longinus’ original. One was in St. Peter’s Basilica, but its provenance had always been suspect, its tip broken off and kept in Paris. Another could be found in Armenia, supposedly brought there by the Apostle Thaddeus. Antioch claimed one, too, found after a monk had a vision that it was buried in a local church. The one that garnered the most attention sat in Vienna, inside the Hofburg. For centuries, Holy Roman Emperors used it in their coronation ceremonies. When the empire disbanded in the early 19th century the Habsburgs incorporated it into their imperial regalia. A legend associated with that lance said whoever possessed it held destiny in their hands. Hence its name. The Spear of Destiny. Charlemagne, Barbarossa, Napoleon, and Hitler had all craved it. Millions came to see it in Vienna every year, but testing in 2003 revealed it to be from the 7th century, not the time of Christ—though an iron pin, hammered into the blade and set off by tiny brass crosses, long claimed to be from the crucifixion, was consistent in length and shape to a 1st-century Roman nail.
The fifth contender could be found in Kraków.
It arrived a thousand years ago, a gift from the Holy Roman Emperor Otto III to the Polish king Bolesław the Brave. Supposedly it was a copy of the original that Charlemagne had possessed. It eventually acquired a name. The Spear of Saint Maurice. When the Swedes invaded Poland in 1655, they robbed the treasury but left the spear. The Prussians and Austrians raided next, but did not take the spear. In 1785 the Germans claimed Poland and stole all of the imperial regalia, melting down the gold, but left the spear. Apparently a simple, black iron lance had no value. But to the Poles it represented their spirit and independence. Hitler seized it in 1940 and had it taken to Vienna for comparison with the Spear of Destiny.
Then something odd happened.
The Spear of St. Maurice was abruptly returned to Poland in 1944.
Which shocked everyone.
Nazis never gave anything back.
One theory hypothesized that the experts in Vienna recognized it as the real spear and returned it, wanting Hitler to have the fake, countering the legend of him holding destiny in his hands. Another story said the spears were switched and the fake was left in Austria, again so Hitler would be denied any mystical powers the artifact might contain. Either version seemed supported by the fact that Hitler failed in his quest, but Poland survived. No one knew anything for sure. Which meant that Sonia might think the Hofburg and the Spear of Destiny to be the target, not Wawel Castle. Of course, he had no idea if her information about the auction was as solid as Stephanie’s. But he had to assume that was the case.
His instructions from the envelope were for him to come to Kraków’s main square and enter the cloth market. Once the center of the medieval trade, the splendid Renaissance edifice had stood in Rynek Główny since the 14th century. A Gothic rectangle the length of a football field, its inside was lined with stalls that sold every souvenir imaginable while its outer arcades accommodated cafés and bars. Each end was open, people milling about through the covered space. He was told to head for the booth identified as number 135 and wait. He’d be approached and asked if he knew directions to the Kraków Academy. His reply? That it required a tram or bus, but walking might be faster. More old school. Oral passwords. Then counter-passwords.
He hadn’t used that one in a long time, either.
He stood outside one of the market’s open ends and caught the sound of a trumpet in the air. The hejnał. One of those long-memory things, dating back to the 13th century when Mongols invaded Poland. A sentry on duty atop St. Mary’s Church had sounded the alarm to close the city gates by playing a specific tune on his trumpet. But he was shot with an arrow in the throat and never completed the anthem. Still, the town woke from its slumber and repelled the invaders. Ever since, on the hour, the same five notes were sounded four times, one for each direction on the compass, from atop the church tower, always breaking off in mid-bar.
Talk about tradition.
He entered the cloth market and noticed that the booths, one after the other, were clearly numbered. He assumed he was coming to meet whoever had been doing the preliminary groundwork, preparing for the spear’s theft. Probably the same person who’d arranged for the car and provided the manila envelope. It would be good to know more details, particularly since he’d arrived late to this party.
He kept walking, paying attention to the merchandise and the shoppers. He seemed to fit right in, dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Once again here he was, back in the game.
At the booth marked 135 he slowed his pace and admired the hand-carved, brightly painted angels for sale. Three men immediately ringed him, blocking off any escape except through force. They were dressed casually, too, part of the crowd a moment ago.
A fourth man approached.
“Mr. Malone. Please come with us.”
The group stood, like an island on the pavement, streams of people hurrying by on all sides. A familiar stirring raised his adrenaline. He decided that he could take these four. But first he asked, “And you are?”
“Agencja Wywiadu. We’re hoping you’ll come along, as a professional courtesy.”
Polish Foreign Intelligence Agency.
The big boys.
Sonia’s people.
The guy added a smile to his request.
Now he was intrigued. “Where are we going?”
“Someone would like to speak with you.”
So much for staying under the radar. Apparently, Polish intelligence knew everything he was doing.
The smart play seemed the patient play.
“Okay. Who am I to argue with courtesy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jonty marveled at the castle’s grand hall, a cavernous space topped by a magnificent timbered roof. Remnants of medieval paintings emerged in shadow all across the gray-stone walls. Tracery windows broke the long expanse, but the ones high up at the two gabled ends, there only to illuminate the ceiling timbers, seemed unique. A railed gallery encased the hall on three sides and, past a thick stone balustrade, exposed the second floor. Seven pairs of chairs dotted the terrazzo floor, each beside a small wooden table. The communicated rules for the auction allowed two representatives for each bidder. Since there was bound to be animosity among the participants, the pairs of chairs were spaced apart. Each station came with a paddle. To further equalize matters, instead of numbers—common for auctions—each displayed the bidder’s national colors.
Russia, China, Germany, France, North Korea, Iran, and the United States.
The rules likewise provided that no outside communication would be allowed and that all transmission signals, in and out, would be temporarily blocked. Vic had already installed a powerful jammer that would run all day Thursday, until the auction ended. The event would begin at 11:00 A.M. with heavy hors d’oeuvres and drinks and should be over by 1:00 P.M., with everyone gone by 1:30. He, of course, would depart immediately after payment was confirmed. He’d already determined an escape route through the castle’s back passages, where a car could be waiting to whisk him away.
A single, high-backed chair in the center faced the others. His place. He would personally conduct the auction from there. Vic would listen from above in the gallery and verify payment before the winner was declared. The only line of outside communication would be a laptop Vic would man in one of the second-floor bedrooms with a direct internet connection.
/>
A stout oak table stood just inside the double-doored entryway. Empty at the moment but, tomorrow, each bidder would deposit atop it their portion of the Arma Christi. During the cocktail party that would precede the auction, an expert he’d employed, at considerable cost, would verify each of the holy relics. He’d been assured there were markers that could be used to ensure authenticity, and the expert had spent the last sixty days preparing for a quick analysis. He had to guard against one of the bidders swapping out the original relic for a copy. He planned to sell all seven on the black market. He’d already determined a list of potential buyers. Combined, the seven relics could bring as much as twenty million euros. Clearly, somebody had placed a lid over any public acknowledgment of the thefts. Nothing had appeared in the media. Press reports from Bruges had reported only that a fire inside the basilica had caused a panic and required an evacuation. Not a word had come about the loss of the Holy Blood, though it had been noted that there would be no more venerations for the next two weeks while repairs were made. Similar accounts had come from the other four locations, which had closed off the public exhibition of their relics, too.
Vic entered the hall and walked over to him.
“I think we have everything in place,” Jonty said, sweeping his arms out to embrace the grandeur around him.
“The arrivals have all been coordinated,” Vic said.
To protect the auction site, each bidder had been provided a different path to a different location within two hundred kilometers of where he stood. Seven teams of two people each had been hired to chauffeur each pair of participants. His former profession had aided that recruitment, as he’d been able to locate and retain fourteen highly capable, and trustworthy, individuals. His biggest fear was that one of the bidders would order a preemptive strike.
A risk, for sure.
Killing him before the auction was certainly in some of the bidders’ best interests, but it was equally not so with others. The idea was to play those competing interests against one another and keep everyone off center. The instructions to all seven invitees had made clear that nothing they were bidding upon was located on site. The winning bidder would be told where to go to find what they bought, information that would only be provided once payment was confirmed. He wanted this sale to go perfectly, and he wanted to be alive afterward to enjoy the spoils without worry of reprisals.
Germany’s loitering was a problem. But the United States’ hesitation had become worrisome. Less than twelve hours remained for an RSVP. Weeks ago he’d personally called President Fox, who’d assured him that America would participate. What’s a few million dollars? A small price to pay to bring the Russians to their knees. And besides, it’s not my money. They’d both laughed at the quip. Fox had always been a dealer, really good at using other people’s money. They’d done business a couple of times in the past when Fox had needed the kind of close information that helped cinch a tough business deal. Now the man was the president of the United States, calling for missiles to be placed in Poland. What luck. So he’d taken a chance and made personal contact, revealing both himself and some of what he possessed. Fox had been ecstatic and offered to preempt the sale with a fifty-million-euro offer. But he’d declined, knowing the auction would bring more. Had Fox changed his mind on participating?
“The Nail was taken last night,” Vic said. “But oddly, the Germans have not RSVP’d as yet.”
That was strange. “They have time. I’m sure we’ll hear from them.”
“Arrangements are in place,” Vic said, “for the five invitees already en route to spend the night at their respective locales. I’ll deal with the other two when we hear from them. They will all be transported tomorrow morning, simultaneously. Everyone should be here, on site, by 11:30.”
“Damn the United States,” he muttered.
Vic said nothing, knowing that the comment was not intended to elicit a reply. He worked hard to keep his good-mannered poise, but a powerful nervous energy had taken hold of him. Usually he could control it with harmless outlets, like reading. And he prided himself on being able to pace his emotions, whatever the pressure. But this was different.
Really different.
“Is our guest below quiet?” he asked, referring to the spy in the basement.
“I had to gag him.”
“Probably better. We don’t want the staff knowing he’s there.”
“All have been told that the basement is off limits. Luckily, these people ask few questions.”
“With what I’m paying, they should be discreet. We’re going to have to be extra vigilant, Vic.”
“We will be. I have video surveillance set up outside to watch the main entrance. Each team of drivers bringing the bidders will make sure they come with no weapons, electronic devices, or GPS tags.”
“None of which will help us if there’s a damn drone in the air, following those cars,” he said.
“None of these participants have the ability to deploy a high-altitude drone within the sovereign airspace of Slovakia. Not even the U.S. That doesn’t mean they won’t try, but the mountains and hilly terrain should work to our benefit. And we’ve set up some surprises along the way to deal with the possibility.”
Good to hear.
His cell phone vibrated.
“Keep at it,” he said to Vic, motioning for him to leave.
He answered the call.
“Good day, Jonty,” the voice said.
Oh, no.
Reinhardt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cotton stared at the Monastery of the Camaldolese Monks. The white-limestone building, topped by spires and a green copper roof, sat on Srebrna Góra, Silver Mountain, a few miles west of Kraków, amid trees and vineyards overlooking the River Wisła. Monks had lived here in solitude for nearly five centuries.
But what were he and his Polish escorts doing here?
They’d parked at the bottom of the hill, a solid two-football-fields walk up an inclined road, both sides walled. The path ended at an arched doorway flanked on both sides by two tall towers topped with more green copper spires. He’d decided that since his entire presence had been compromised, nothing would be gained by resistance. Better to see where this trail led. So he’d come along willingly, curious about who wanted to have a chat. Apparently it was also to be a private talk, as this place was about as secluded as they came.
One of his minders stepped up to the portal and pulled an iron ring attached to a long chain. A few moments later the stout plank door opened. A man appeared, dressed in a hooded white robe and sporting a long, bushy beard. He appraised them, nodded, then indicated they could enter. Not a word was spoken.
They passed through the gatehouse and entered a grassy courtyard with no trees or adornments. A concrete path led to the main doors of a huge church. At least a couple of hundred feet stretched to the top of its copper spire, the pristine limestone walls bright in the midday sun. Another white-robed monk waited at the doors. Cotton’s two escorts stopped and gestured that he should continue alone.
He entered the church and the monk left, closing the door behind him. The interior was a spacious single nave with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. A true Catholic sanctuary, rich in style, both sides lined with impressive Baroque chapels. The main altar at the far end was spectacular. Bright sun broke through the windows in fine streams of dusty light. No one was inside, save for one man, kneeling in the first pew, facing the altar. An eerie figure, backlit by candles, the whole scenario, he supposed, an attempt to deepen the hush and tighten the nerves. The man crossed himself, then stood and calmly walked down the center aisle. He was tall, heavy-chested, and handsome, in his fifties, a thin mat of brown hair brushed straight back from a wide forehead. He was clean-shaven, with a jawline tight as a clamp, dressed in a finely cut blue-gray suit.
“Mr. Malone. I’m Janusz Czajkowski.”
A hand was extended, which he shook.
“I thought it best we speak in person,” the p
resident of Poland said in perfect English. “And this place offers us absolute privacy. You can’t say that about many spots in this world. By the way, you don’t speak Polish, do you?”
He shook his head. “That’s one language I never mastered. Italian, Danish, Spanish, Latin, German. I can handle those.”
“I was told you have a perfect memory.”
“I don’t know about that, but details do stick with me. Eidetic is the term used to describe it. Are you friends with the monks?”
“I like to think so. They are a most impressive people,” Czajkowski said, staying with English. “They follow a severe code of self-imposed principles, all governed by Ora et labora and Memento mori.”
He translated the Latin. “Pray and work. Remember you must die. How practical. And depressing.”
“It works for them. They only talk to one another three times a week, and interact with the world beyond this monastery just five days a year.”
“Except when the president of the country comes for a visit.”
Czajkowski smiled. “That title does open doors. The prior and I are old friends.”
“That helps, too.”
“Life here is simple. Between prayer and work, they consume only vegetarian meals eaten in the solitude of their own small hermitage, where the only piece of décor is the skull of the previous prior. Can you imagine that? But I know for a fact that it is true.”
This man was clearly leading to something, so he let him stay at the head of the parade.
“We don’t know each other, Mr. Malone. But I’m told you’re a reasonable man. I want you to take a message back to the people in Washington.”
There it was again. Errand boy. But an interesting choice of words. Not to the president. Or the White House.
To the people in Washington.
“When I was a child,” Czajkowski said, “one day my mother received a phone call. It lasted only a few seconds, but after she hung up she told me and my brother to get our coats. While we did, she grabbed some rope and a few cloth bags, then we headed into town. She took us to a local store where we found a big stack of toilet paper. Rolls and rolls of it on the floor. We had not seen so much toilet paper in a long time. She grabbed as many rolls as she could, threading the rope through the center, tying the ends, and draping them around my and my brother’s necks. She was hurrying as fast as she could, before others arrived. Once that happened, it would not be long before all that toilet paper was gone. We called it hunting. Not shopping. Hunting. Because you never knew exactly what you’d bring home. Toilet paper was rare, Mr. Malone. A precious commodity. When it became available you had to secure all you could. We had a small bidet in our bathroom and, when we were fortunate enough to have running water, we could clean ourselves. If not?” The president paused. “I’ll leave that to your imagination. That was life under the communists, where even toilet paper was rationed. That was Poland before 1990.”
