The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(61)
Noon.
“Shall we get started,” he called out.
* * *
Cotton headed for the two chairs adorned by an American flag. He noted that the other bidders were likewise denoted by their respective national colors. France, Iran, Russia, China, North Korea. He wondered why Great Britain and Germany were not involved, but perhaps they’d declined. He recalled that the Arma Christi consisted of seven relics. But only six had been on the oak table. Where was the Holy Nail? And who was the older man that had been staring down from the second-floor gallery? He hadn’t seen him the past twenty minutes.
Not knowing the players, the room, the house, or even where he was located was unsettling to say the least. But he’d been in worse situations. Tom Bunch remained oblivious, busy socializing with the French. It seemed everyone here had heeded the warning in the email instructions regarding no translators—they all spoke English.
“This is all so exciting,” Bunch said as they took their seats. “We’re right in the middle of the storm.”
“You do realize that the eye of a storm is the worst place to be, since that means trouble is raging all around you.”
“Ah, quit being such a pessimist. Here we are, representing our country. About to buy some information that will allow us to stick it to the Russians and the Iranians at the same time. How many chances at that do you get? Not many, Malone. Not many at all.”
On a small wooden table before them were two notepads and pencils, a carafe of ice water, two glasses, and a sealed manila envelope upon which was written DO NOT OPEN UNTIL INSTRUCTED. Cotton noticed that the servers had all withdrawn and the room’s heavy oak doors were closed.
Jonty Olivier stepped to the front of the assemblage, beside a big-screen television supported by a thick wooden frame. “I want to formally welcome everyone and thank you for participating. I know you’re anxious but, prior to conducting the bidding, I have some documents to show you. Each of you was provided a sample at the time of your invitation. Now I would like to share a bit more, as a good-faith offering to demonstrate the wealth and value of the information that is for sale here today.”
“We appreciate that,” Bunch called out. “Nobody likes to buy a pig in a poke.”
Cotton caught the curious look on the faces in the hall. Probably not a phrase many outside of America had much familiarity with.
“No, Mr. Bunch,” Olivier said. “No one ever likes to do that, and we will make sure no one buys a problem today. Everything I have for sale is authentic. Now, some further instructions before we begin. I want everyone to conduct themselves with courtesy and respect. Civility is expected. As you can see, I have not employed any security personnel to keep order. I am trusting each of you to maintain a proper decorum. Are we clear?”
“We not children,” one of the Russians said.
“Certainly not,” Olivier replied. “But you are all passionate people, here on a mission, with differing goals and objectives. That can lead to … irrational thinking. Let us not have any of that.”
No one else chimed in.
“All right, please open the envelope before you. Remove the clipped stack of documents and place them on the table.”
* * *
Jonty stepped over to the big-screen television facing his twelve guests, black at the moment, but about to come alive thanks to the laptop connected to it, resting on a shelf behind. The agenda was simple. Tantalize them with more of what he possessed, then, once their appetite had been whetted, open the bidding. Everyone had already been notified that the auction was with reserve, which meant he could reject any offer prior to accepting the final bid.
And for good reason.
He had no intention of selling what he had cheap.
What would the ultimate price be? Hard to say. He’d make a decision on what to accept as things progressed.
He resisted the urge to glance upward at the second-floor gallery, not wanting to draw any attention that way. He’d told Eli to stay out of sight and it appeared his nemesis was heeding that directive. Vic knew to keep an eye on things and would alert him of anything out of the ordinary. Everyone else was gone from the premises, as previously arranged, including all of the drivers and staff. They would be recalled when the proceedings were over. His focus now turned to the people in the great hall.
He switched on the screen. “Please remove the top blank sheet on the stack before you.”
He punched a key on the laptop and brought a document up.
A crisp, high-resolution image.
“Let me explain what we are seeing.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Czajkowski entered the Chapel of the Miraculous Image, a tight, compact space topped by a ribbed, Gothic vault. Cordovan protected the lower walls, a gold-plated leather decorated with ornaments and impressions. At the far end, just past the ebony-and-silver altar, set amid a background of Baroque, hung the image that millions of pilgrims came from all over the world to adore.
Our Lady of Jasna Góra.
A Black Madonna.
Not all that large. Its ornate wooden frame about one hundred centimeters tall and eighty wide, resting under a canopy, as if on a throne. The image was of a half figure of Mary, with the Child Jesus in her arms, both figures dark-skinned in the Byzantine style, their faces lost in reflection, gilded halos filled with gems wrapping their heads. Mary wore a blue cloak dotted with golden lilies, the baby a carmine robe. His left hand held a book and the right extended outward in a gesture of blessing, symbolic of the way to salvation. The Lady’s face was beautiful, piercing the onlooker with deep piety. People called her a hodegetria.