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.