The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(31)
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 hejna?. 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.