The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(44)

He checked the corridors one last time. Empty. Before heading up the stairs he noticed a large 3-D model of the castle grounds that filled one side of the vestibule. He took a moment and examined the exterior layout, particularly the east fa?ade, where the intel had said the spear was being stored in a top-floor outer room. He noticed the same columned loggia he’d spotted before entering the castle and the buttresses that helped keep the wall upright. A solitary exterior window, adjacent to the loggia, had to open into the room he sought.

He climbed the stone risers and approached the closed wooden door at the landing. A small metal plate read 122. He assumed with so many doors the only way to distinguish among them was to assign numbers. Before opening the lock he worked the braided wire that formed a seal on the door back and forth enough that heat snapped it. Then he picked the lock and freed the tumblers, turning the handle.

He stepped inside and quickly reclosed the door.

Before him stretched a dimly lit exhibit area, the space filled with glass cases displaying some fine Persian carpets, many stitched with blooming trees and fairy-tale animals. Others had lions, bears, gazelles, pheasants, and unicorns. He hustled toward the open portal in the far wall and entered another room displaying battle flags, swords, and saddles, all Turkish, surely acquired during the many invasions. He turned left, following the floor plan ingrained in his memory, seeing it as if it hung before his eyes. Through three more chambers he came to another stairway, which he bypassed, entering what was identified as the Senators’ Hall, the walls decorated with figural tapestries, all with biblical themes.

And the first with a camera.

It hung in the corner to his right with a diagonal view of the checkerboard floor. Hard to know for sure how wide a lens it sported, but the intel recommended staying close to the south wall, the tricky part at the end, where another open doorway awaited.

He hustled forward, hugging the wall, moving sideways, staying as flat as possible. Ten feet from the end he sucked a breath and rushed through the doorway, disappearing on the other side to the left, using the wall for protection. If he was going to be spotted, this was the moment.

He hesitated and listened.

Footsteps were approaching from ahead. A steady click of leather heels on stone. He spotted a tall chair and sought refuge behind it, but the footsteps stopped before reaching him.

A door opened, then closed.

The footsteps faded.

Had to be a guard making rounds.

He held steady for a moment, then kept going, moving through the Eagle Room, the Bird Room, and ending up in the Battle of Orsha Room, each festooned with coats of arms, crossed swords, and dark-aged beams. An ethereal glow came from amber night-lights. Several had walls of cordovan and were decorated with period paintings, portraits, wall friezes, floral motifs, glazed ceramic stoves, sculptures, and heavy period furniture. Coffered ceilings stretched overhead with carved and gilt rosettes.

In the Orsha Room he spotted the double pedimented doors in the east wall that he’d been told were there. They should be unlocked, and he quickly discovered that was true. They led to a small anteroom atop what was known as the Danish Tower. The space was lined with faux-painted walls, the coffered ceiling gilded. There were a few inlaid chairs, a desk, a chest, and a large copper mirror. Two side tables were draped with a green wool cloth. Once it had surely been a small study that opened out to the columned loggia. A perfect place for a king to relax and enjoy some fresh air. A closed door led outside. Paintings dotted the walls, more stacked upright on the floor, five and six deep. Three heavy oak tables were covered with vases, clocks, statues, and busts. The room seemed to be doubling now as a storage chamber. He turned to the right and tried another door, one that he knew led to an even smaller space.

His destination.

Locked.

Damn.

That was not anticipated.

And the lock was not one he could pick. Old style, accepting only a skeleton key. The door itself was solid and opened inward, the hinges on the other side. No way to break it down.

Damn. Sonia was making him work for it.

He remembered the castle model.

He’d come this far. Finish it.

He opened the outer door that led onto the loggia and stepped into the night. Kraków stretched below, beyond the castle wall, people moving about on the sidewalks, cars in the street. The long side of the columned terrace was open air with pillared arches, its two ends closed. The night deepened by the minute, hopefully heading toward enough darkness to shield him for a few minutes. He climbed the railing and tested the small stone ledge that extended outward. Solid. He levered himself over and held on to the short wall, adjusting his balance and peering around the loggia’s short side.

The window was there, just as on the model.

He glanced down. Maybe seventy-five to eighty feet to the ground. That fall would leave a mark, if not kill him. No way in hell Cassiopeia would ever be out here. She hated heights as much as he hated enclosed spaces.

He pressed against the ledge, hands high, searching for fingertip grips in the stone, and turned the corner. Thankfully the old castle was full of footholds, and he used the shallow ledge to move along, finally stopping at the window. Double-paneled, sixteen-paned, opening in the middle, to the inside. Not good. He pushed on the panels and felt a tiny give. He kept one arm on the sill, toes tucked into a crevice above the ledge, and pushed harder with the flat of his hand, hoping the panels might release.

No luck.