Code of Siman (17 page)

Chapter Thirty
Rolled On, Poured On, Thrown On

“Just in case? What do you mean? Oh, so you
knew
we were going to fly here anyway. When exactly
did
you know?” Dauphine asked.

“When I was offered the passports for identification and loaned the car, I thought, absolutely, we’re going to need this.” Gage gathered the passports and put them in his backpack.

“A couple of hours in a plane was definitely better than spending…how long? Twelve or thirteen hours on the road.”

“I hear ya… A couple hours sleep is all I needed. How are you both feeling?” Gage rose from his position sitting next to Natanya on the floor of the Metro station.

“Coffee anyone?”

“Yeeesss!” Natanya replied, while Dauphine put her fingers to her temples and nodded her confirmation.

“I’ll go with you, Gage. I might need something else. Something sweet,” Dauphine said, getting up off the floor. “Maybe they’ll have the train line repaired by then.”

“Yeah, this was a good plan. Take the metro train from the airport directly into Washington D.C., then a bus to the national Gallery,” Natanya said sarcastically as she sat on the floor, her high-heeled pumps on one side of her, and the backpack on the other.

“Go ahead…I’ll be fine.” Natanya closed one eye, hoping the string of orange letters would fuse and become just one instead of two, but it didn’t help.

Fidgeting with the backpack, she reflected on all that had transpired from that moment when Philippe decided to exchange the painting of the Vermeer.

Lost in her own thoughts, she realized she had avoided trouble the first time when the forged painting went undetected at Signature Art Conservatory, not to mention escaping unscathed after the dangerous transaction with Muehlmann’s buyers. Then, to be caught at a government agency using a false identity, someone else’s I.D., granted with her permission but nonetheless it didn’t belong to her. And now, they were planning to break into the National Gallery. Could her luck really hold out?

“Here it is, a large, steaming Carmel Macchiato with soymilk. Natanya? Your coffee…” Dauphine stood over Natanya holding a cup of coffee and a pastry. “I know you didn’t ask for one, but I’m pretty sure you needed one as badly as I did.”

“Oh, wow, that looks good…how could I possibly be hungry after eating so much last night? I have no idea,” Natanya sighed and reached up to accept the coffee and pastry from Dauphine.

“Where’s Gage?” Natanya patted the hard floor next to her, inviting Dauphine to sit down.

“No thanks. I don’t think grease, dirt, old gum and stale popcorn would fit in well with the design of my silk skirt.” Dauphine took a sip of her coffee, then looked around them, viewing the bustling groups of people moving in both directions in a chaotic manner, searching for Gage’s familiar long, lumbering gait, his impatient way of brushing by people without hesitation. “I don’t know where he went. He was right next to me…and then…he just disappeared somewhere. I thought I would get some coffee. He may have done the same.”

“Maybe we need to find out more about the National Gallery and why they may have decided to hide paintings there,” Gage said, suddenly appearing with a sandwich and soda in hand.

“Oh, hi.” Natanya said as he sat on the floor next to her. “I was wondering what happened to you.”

Dauphine remained standing, clicking her fingernails against the wall in agitation. “I’m going to find someone who knows more about the timeline to get the train going again. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Okay, we’ll see you later,” Natanya said to Dauphine, finding her coffee tasted just the way she had remembered. She savored it on her tongue with her eyes closed.

Gage put his knees up, balanced his elbows on each as he assailed the sandwich, nearly engulfing it in a couple of bites.

They both ‘people-watched’ while they consumed their food and drink, not attempting conversation, just relaxing in each other’s company.

After a few more minutes went by, Natanya said casually, “You know, it makes sense that the copies of the most important artwork would be stored there.”

Gage had finished his sandwich, brought a napkin to his mouth, which he used liberally, then took a long drink of his soda. Without looking at Natanya, he replied, “Really, what makes you think so?”

“Well, the way I see it, they, meaning our Secretary of State and Chief Justice, immediately acted to cover the forgery of the Vermeer. They went to great lengths to do so.”

“That’s right, they did. But why?” Gage countered.

I’m not sure, but it seems like they have an angle, doesn’t it?” Natanya asked.

“The way I see it, the likelihood of more than one painting stored at the National Gallery is pretty high,” Gage said.

“Yes, it is.” They both fell silent again.

“We have about two hours before it’s operational, and even then it’s going to be incredibly crowded. It looks like we’re stuck here for a while.” Dauphine said as she approached.

“Move the backpack over Natanya, I’m sitting down. Natanya brought the backpack closer to herself. Dauphine slowly lowered herself down to the hard, cold floor of the Metro station. She placed her small rectangular purse into the small of her back, but kept her high-heeled pumps on. “There, I’m set.”

“It’s really crowded in here, don’t you think?” Dauphine stated as she quickly pulled her feet in before they could be run over by a fast moving cart.

“We got lucky,” Gage said.

“What? Yeah, I see what you mean. With so many people around, we have less of a chance of being recognized.”

“Our luck may have just run out…let’s slowly and casually get up and start walking…”

They picked up speed as they worked their way through the crowd. Gage was careful to keep the backpack close to him.

“Don’t look back! Someone is definitely following us. We’re going to try to lose them; not draw attention to ourselves,” Gage admonished Natanya.

Natanya hadn’t been able to put her shoes on yet in her attempt at trying to keep up with Gage and Dauphine. She had one shoe in each hand, the heels pointed out.

Gage stopped abruptly; Dauphine came to a halt in front of him while Natanya crashed into him from the back, her heels pushed into his lower back.

“Hey, are you trying to put one of those heels right through me?” Gage gripped the heels, and pushed them back to her, tipping her slightly off balance.

“Who did you see? How did you know we were being followed?” Dauphine asked, her back to him.

“I thought we might have been followed to the restaurant.”

Gage said without skipping a beat, “Must have picked it up from the News Station. I noticed a car stayed close behind us, the same two guys tailed us in the airport, and are now here in this Metro Station,” Gage said, looking out among the crowd.

“I thought you said don’t look for them!” Natanya tugged on his shirtsleeve.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Gage’s words faded as he continued to look out into the crowd.

“When we stopped at the gas station, I used the restroom, and overheard two guys speaking a foreign language.” Natanya said.

“Warren, Philippe, and Pascal are in Russia at the Ragnit Castle… Could it have been Russian?” Dauphine inquired.

“Russia, you’re right…there’s the link!” Gage said.

“I don’t know if it was Russian. Wouldn’t they be following them…and not us?” Natanya asked.

“Unless they think we’re going to find something here…”

Dauphine asked Gage, “How was it that you just happened to receive three passports, all of which happened to look similar to ourselves in addition to a vehicle, and I’m just hazarding a guess…maybe a little cash too?”

“You’re right, I did receive cash, and no, I didn’t ask…I assumed it was a contact through Pascal…”

“That sounds about right…”

“We need to contact Tsun Jai at the National Gallery. I remember she helped Warren despite incurring possible harm to her self. Even after the Secretary of State and Chief Justice asked her to desist.”

“One of us needs to use a payphone, slip away somehow…” Natanya said.

“I have an idea…” Natanya darted into the bathroom, took off her suit jacket and skirt, dipped her head over the sink and poured the lukewarm caramel coffee over her head, slicking it down with her fingers, and then licking them when she finished, “God, that’s good…” She smiled at herself in the mirror, her shorts she wore under her skirt were a little shorter than she would have liked, but they would do. The V-necked t-shirt was fine, it had a couple of noticeable splotches of coffee, but since it was khaki, it wouldn’t show in a little while.

She emerged from the bathroom looking completely different in her shorts, t-shirt and darker hair. She pushed the shoes, skirt, and suit jacket into the garbage can, then walked to the public phone, confident she wouldn’t be recognized, and connected her call to the National Gallery.

“Hi, do you think these flip-flops work with my outfit? The delay in trains necessitated an exchange for a few dollars…people are getting hungry around here…” Natanya said.

“Wow, Natanya that was quite a change.” Her hair was dark again, albeit temporarily, and her suit had evaporated, shirt and shorts taking its place. Natanya wiggled her toes inside her fluorescent pink and green flip-flops as Gage and Dauphine took in her changes.

“Come on, we have to meet Tsun Jae outside,” Natanya said.

“You convinced her to pick us up and sneak us into the National Gallery? Dauphine asked.

“Yes, I did. Apparently, she’s been waiting to hear word about what happened to us,” Natanya said.

“Any sign of the men following us?” Natanya asked.

“No, we haven’t seen them, but that doesn’t mean that they haven’t seen us,” Gage warned.

“Maybe we weren’t their targets…you know, it could have been a coincidence,” Natanya volunteered, looking somewhat out of place walking next to Gage in his dark grey slacks and white buttoned down shirt, and Dauphine in her neutral tan suit and heels.

Gage took a hold of Dauphines’ hand and said, “Natanya, we’ll come around and pick you up directly out front as soon as we can. Dauphine and I are going to have to look like a couple to lose these guys.”

“Got it, I’m good with that. Don’t worry about me.” Natanya walked over to a bench to wait. “I’ll just be over here…by myself…”

They were missed entirely as the men walked by them, brushing by in a brusque manner, bumping into several other people as they tried to maneuver through the crowd.

As Gage looked on, he noticed that one of the men who brushed past him, held a bundle of clothes, his grip loosened, and the suit jacket previously worn by Natanya fell to the floor, the passport falling free of the pocket. The man stooped to pick it up, his conversation becoming more agitated as he conversed with his partner.

Gage gripped Dauphine by her elbow; veered to the side of the men presently reviewing the passport, and proceeded onward without breaking their stride.

“If they weren’t onto us before, they certainly are now!” Dauphine whispered as they exited the building.

Chapter Thirty-One
Raw and Unprimed Canvas

“How much weight can this helicopter take? And, where are we bringing them, by the way? All of these pictures…what are we doing with them?” Philippe asked Warren.

The three of them took the seats closest to the pilot since the rest of the helicopter was filled.

Before they could take off, a second helicopter came into view, and lowered itself until it touched down onto the grassy field. Their helicopter didn’t cut its engines, but the pilot got out of the cockpit, allowing the other man to get in, taking the seat of the co-pilot.

“You have paintings belonging to the Russian people; we take them to Mr. Abramovich.” The man spoke in halting English. Warren recognized him as the man who had received the note from the boy outside the estate of Roman Abramovich.

“The helicopter take you to next place. You go now.” The man turned back to the front of the helicopter, the pilot began turning knobs, and flipping switches.

“Mr. Abramovich and I have an understanding,” Warren restated this again in Russian, to which the man nodded in response. “All of these paintings do not belong to the Russian people, a few maybe, but not all.” The Russian man nodded again but looked away as if in final dismissal of Warren.

Warren was at an impasse, but realized he was not in a position to give orders. Nor was he in a position to leave the paintings either. He hesitated at the open door with Philippe close behind him, then brusquely descended the steps of the aircraft.

Once outside, Philippe quickly reached his side. “Do you think we should leave the paintings in their hands? We haven’t taken an inventory. We have absolutely no proof that we had ever had them in our possession. If they disappear…if we disappear for that matter, they have them entirely to themselves.”

“Funny that you say that, Philippe.”

“What do you mean?”

“That is just what you were saying to Pascal, when you thought I was sleeping on the way here. I overheard what you and he thought you could do with the paintings. What, exactly were you planning on doing with me?” Warren stopped abruptly to face Philippe and Pascal out on the grassy field. The castle ruins loomed behind them, looking almost as ominous as Warren as he waited for their response.

Warren laughed, “I’m not sure why I’m asking…if you were even contemplating taking the paintings and reselling them on the black market, you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be part of this mission.”

“Hold on…who said anything about selling the paintings on the black market?” Philippe’s expression darkened.

“Don’t tell me that you didn’t discuss it, because I know you did,” Warren countered, his body rigid as he confronted them.

“It had occurred to me that the paintings we would find would be worth quite a sum, and yes, it did occur to me that since we would have possession of them, without anyone else involved, it was an opportunity available to me.”

Warren began to walk away, disgusted at what he was hearing. Philippe leapt forward and grabbed his arm, spinning him around. Warren’s other arm flew forward before he realized it, the blow landed squarely on Philippe’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.

“Come on Pascal, you want to tell me what you were planning? I’m ready for you. I can’t tell you that I’ll understand…”

“It wasn’t like that, Warren…” Philippe said from the ground as he rubbed his jaw and slowly rose to his feet.

“I’ll be honest with you…” Pascal began.

“That would be nice for a change,” Warren said.

“There was a time when we had considered it,” Pascal stated.

“You were in on it from the beginning?” Warren asked.

Philippe scowled at Pascal, “Warren, you’re misunderstanding what he’s trying to tell you…I had found the contact for Muehlmann, who had initially wanted to pay us for the painting.”

“How am I misunderstanding? You had wanted to sell a forged piece of art.” Warren shrugged and looked away.

“We didn’t want that…it was later…we were…I was contacted again, and was told about the album.” Philippe bent to brush off his pants, the scowl replaced by irritation to find the state of them unsalvageable.

“I’m listening.”

“It crossed my mind…the opportunity to sell the Vermeer, but Natanya couldn’t be part of it, and I wouldn’t let her be part of something which would damage her to that extent. It’s unfathomable to me that we have the real ‘Saint Praxidus’ by Johannes Vermeer, the ‘Mont Sainte-Victoire’ by Paul Cezanne, ‘Women on a Café Terrace’, and ‘Place de la Concorde’ by Degas, not to mention a Leonardo Da Vinci, ‘Virgin of the Rocks’, to name a few. These paintings were removed from their original owners and hidden for safekeeping from the most incorrigible of any human being known to me. Do you think so little of me that I would destroy one of the only people who has truly believed in me?”

“So, what you’re saying is…if it weren’t for Natanya…you would do just that.”

“No, I’m not saying that at all…I believe in our mission to return these paintings and whatever else we find to their rightful owners. For every person who had their very lives ripped apart because of the Third Reich, I believe in restoring these paintings.”

“What I’m saying, is that it would not have occurred to me to embark on this without Natanya. Her love of art, the stories about her Aunt Rose she has imparted to me over these last few years have had a great impact. This situation fell into my lap, and instead of taking advantage of it for my benefit, I thought about what I could do for the greater good. Believe it or not, that is the truth,” Philippe stated as he walked past Warren to the waiting helicopter.

“What you heard was our discussion about the approximate worth of the paintings we have found.” Pascal didn’t attempt to console him or admonish him, he quietly walked past him to board the helicopter, leaving Warren staring after his retreating back.

Warren boarded the helicopter, stood for a moment inside the doorway, then took a seat opposite Philippe and Pascal. Buckling himself in, he said aloud. “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that…I was confronted with the possibility you could abscond with the paintings…and I acted out of turn. I was completely out of line and I apologize.”

Philippe swiped at his pants, “Yeah, we’re all under a lot of pressure.”

“So, we’re good?” Warren asked, still looking forward and not at Philippe.

Philippe leaned forward and whispered, “What we need to be questioning is the ease in which we were afforded these amenities. How far should we trust Abramovich?”

“How was it that you came across this offer to exchange an Old Master for the album of photographs unknown to most of the world except for a few?”

Philippe appeared to consider the question, “It was an International marketing conference. I met a guy at the bar of the hotel…and one thing led to another…it seemed completely unrealistic…just guys posturing about what we would do if certain opportunities availed themselves.” Philippe waited until the helicopter lifted and straightened its course, then continued.

“There was a drawing of a Rembrandt hanging on the wall of the hotel. Right there, unsecured, unmonitored, open to anyone who wanted to take it…” Philippe let his words fall unfinished as he shrugged.

“You talked about taking the painting off the wall. Stealing it,” Warren said, his voice taking on an edgy quality again.

“We were drunk…what do want? We were posturing…coming up with more and more outrageous acts until we finally retired for the night. I didn’t think anything more about it until I got the call.”

“The call?”

“The guy I met at the International Conference in Europe said he had someone who was interested if I could obtain an original Vermeer,” Philippe explained.

“And you just happened to have a girlfriend who was painting a Vermeer, a girlfriend who had access to the original Vermeer.” Warren said.

“Yes…”

“That’s when you considered taking the original offer…before the album was ever offered?” Warren asked.

“No, I said no…when the album wasn’t in the picture,” Philippe stated with conviction, shaking his head.

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?” Warren asked. He had been leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked inquisitively at Philippe, but abruptly sat back against the seat once he heard Philippe deny the sale of the painting for a cash offer.

“We’re back where we started,” Pascal said. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“What was this contact’s name?” Warren asked.

“Ahh, I shouldn’t say…but seeing how you have developed this unfounded mistrust…”

“Philippe…out with it!”

“LaGrand. His name was LaGrand. He said he would send somebody for the painting.”

“What was his connection to Muehlmann?” Warren asked.

“He said he wasn’t directly connected, it was his father who worked for a Muehlmann. I believe it was Kajetan’s half-brother Josef.”

“LaGrand was affiliated with Muehlmann, the dealer responsible for a substantial amount of organized looting?” Warren asked.

“Yes…it was made clear to me that there was an exchange for work, a promise that was never realized. Payment was to be made in paintings to avoid notice, or any government involvement, taxes and the like, but before they could be paid, the paintings began to be hidden away by the Third Reich, the Linz Museum was no longer viable, and the dealers who had been promised great riches for their involvement were pushed aside, left penniless.”

“I see. Are they going to try to recoup payment now? Well after the war? Why? I don’t understand why they would think they could.” Incredulous to this new development, Warren frowned as he contemplated the actual reasons behind the exchange for the Vermeer.

“How did LaGrand say that his father had come by the album?” Warren asked.

“LaGrand had come to Josef Muehlmann, the half-brother, and demanded payment. They were in Poland where LaGrand was the agent and accomplice to Kajetan Muehlmann; he was also the dealer representing the areas of Paris and Brussels. Josef said that he had a falling out with his brother, both of them were going to be put on trial, each of them not wanting to go to jail, briefly turned on one another. Josef had discovered his brother had an album of photographs, an album he kept hidden from everyone, including him, locked away in the safe. Josef believed since it was important enough to be kept in the safe, it must be very valuable, so he gave it to LaGrand for payment, swearing him to secrecy. Soon after, the war ended and Josef and Kajetan were brought to trial, each serving minimal sentences and released, the album was never brought to light. Until now…” Philippe’s words trailed off.

“If he hadn’t given it to LaGrand, it may have ended up being destroyed,” Warren mused.

“In all actuality, it may have been discovered by the Allied troops, and the deception would have been discovered at that time,” Pascal offered a differing view.

“So that just leaves Roman Abramovich as the unanswered piece to this puzzle,” Philippe said.

“Whether we can trust him with the paintings?” Warren asked.

“No, I think it goes way beyond that. I know people, and I know that something is not right with this situation,” Philippe said.

“So you’ve said.