And that’s all Quinn remembered when he woke up five and a half hours later. When he woke up, his head was pounding and the clock read 1:15 a.m. That’s impossible, he thought to himself. I’ve been out for nearly six hours? How did I fall asleep? Then he saw the bottle and glasses on the table, and a few small granules of white powder in a paper pouch, and it came back to him.
She’s good, he said to himself. She’s damn good at what she does, but what the hell’s goin on?
Quinn, without even thinking grabbed the bottle and chugged some bourbon, straight. After he finished guzzling the alcohol, he laid down again, sprawled across the bed, and fell asleep within three minutes.
Chapter XXIi
“Katrina, we’ve got to talk,” said Quinn after stopping by the Finebaum gallery. “Let’s have dinner tonight. There are some things I need to discuss with you,” Quinn said.
“I can’t tonight, but tomorrow night I’m free,” she said.
At 7:00 the next evening he picked Katrina up, and the two went to Le Meillier Beouf again for dinner. “I have some questions for you and your uncle, but I don’t want to upset him. Have you ever heard the term Degenerate Art?” Quinn asked. “This is art that the Nazis don’t like; mostly Modern or Expressionist-type art that’s beyond their scope of understanding and toleration,” he said.
“No, I’ve never heard of the term before,” with a quizzical look she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I wonder whether your uncle has heard of the term before and knows anything about this type of art in Santa Fe,” he said.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be honest with you if he knows anything. You should ask him. I’ve never heard of this before,” Katrina stated. “I know my uncle was not allowed in one of the Modern painting groups…because his paintings were not abstract enough,” she said. “Maybe you should talk with them,” she said as she laughed and tousled her blonde locks to the side of her forehead. Katrina had a vulnerable beauty about her that was undeniable; she looked so easily breakable and precious.
“He’ll be at the gallery working tonight,” she said. “My uncle always paints on Wednesday nights. It’s when he thinks he’s most creative,” she said. They finished their dinner, a simple yet delicious French dish accompanied with blush wine. Then they returned to the Finebaum Gallery. It was dark when they arrived, but just as she told him, Joel Finebaum was found with a brush in his hand painting. He was in the back storeroom with the light on. His current project was on an easel and appeared to be an oil painting, but there were dozens of paintings lying around in the large room. It seemed as if each one was a work in progress.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, I know it’s late, but I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment,” Quinn asked.
“I normally don’t like to be interrupted while I’m working, Mr. Chase. It stops my concentration. Can you come tomorrow, say around three o’clock? It would be better for me,” Joel said.
“Of course,” Quinn said, and made to leave with respect.
“But what is it you want to talk about?” Finebaum said, before Quinn took more than five steps.
“Sir, have you ever heard the term Degenerate Art?” asked Quinn.
“Oh, yes,” replied Finebaum. “It’s the name given to abstract Modern art, or really anything not Realist or Classical, but I do not refer to this art as Degenerate. Some of the world’s great artists paint as Impressionist or in the Expressionist genre. I would hardly refer to artists like Monet, Renoir, Cezanne, or Van Gogh as Degenerate, but the Nazis do. They’ve been confiscating this art as they occupy various countries in Europe, Mr. Chase. Or, at least that’s what the papers say. I’ve heard they even burned many pieces in a public rally last year. Apparently this art is a threat to their ideology and their belief system.”
A cloud passed through Finebaum’s expression, and he abruptly turned back to his work. “Let’s talk more about it tomorrow, Mr. Chase.”
“Fine then, I’ll see you at three in the afternoon tomorrow,” said Quinn.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my work now. Goodnight, Mr. Chase.”
“Goodnight, sir,” said Quinn.
Well, if Finebaum’s involved in this he’s not acting like he’s concealing anything, Quinn said to himself as he rode in the backseat of the cab that night. It’s only natural that he would not approve of the Nazis’ contempt for Modern art, and I could see no sign that he was hiding insider knowledge of a black market. I’ll find out for sure tomorrow. The rest of the night passed without incident, and Quinn got a decent night’s sleep, after many restless and chaotic nights. The next day at 3:00 p.m., Quinn came back to the gallery and met with Finebaum again.
“Hello, Mr. Chase, come in please,” said Finebaum. “Now what else can I help you with?” he asked.
“Mr. Finebaum, I’ve heard reports that this Degenerate Art from Europe is making its way out to Santa Fe and is in this city in large quantity. I have no proof of any kind other than rumor to back that up. If it is being brought here at all, it is a matter for the police and the FBI. I’m sure they would be very interested in locating this art, as it is most likely stolen from its rightful owners in Europe. Do you know, or have you heard, anything about this?” asked Quinn.
“No, I haven’t. No, not at all, Mr. Chase. Renoir and Chagall originals and other works from the great Modern artists in Santa Fe? I surely wish that were true, but I haven’t heard a word and I am friendly with most of the artists in town. As you know Mr. Chase I have some European Art, but it isn’t Degenerate Art from the great artists. My paintings are from lesser known artists and are my personal collection I brought with me when I came to America. It would be an honor just to study and examine the works of the great painters. But unfortunately the pleasure would be bitter sweet, as the paintings would be stolen from their rightful owners in Europe. At any rate, I haven’t seen or heard anything. If I do, I’ll surely alert you immediately!”
“One more question. Does the name Berndt Kruger mean anything to you?”
At this question, Finebaum paused and his look noticeably changed. This artist is no actor, Quinn said to himself. “Yes, I’ve heard the name before. He was an art dealer I knew back in New York several years ago, Mr. Chase. Why do you ask?”
“Well, his name has been brought up as being involved somehow with this Degenerate Art,” said Quinn.
“I highly doubt he’s involved, Mr. Chase,” said Finebaum.
“Why would that be?” asked Quinn.
“Because the Berndt Kruger, the former art dealer I knew in New York, died in an apartment fire 10 years ago in Brooklyn,” said Finebaum.
Chapter XXIIi
“Katrina, we must talk,” Joel said to his niece. “What have you told this man, Mr. Chase?”
“Nothing, uncle…really,” she said. “We’ve gone out to eat twice and talked about Santa Fe a little and the art gallery. Nothing much. He’s a nice man,” she said.
“What has he asked you about the gallery? About our family?”
“He hasn’t asked much of anything, uncle,” Katrina replied. “He asked where we came from back East in New York, and how long we’ve been here in Santa Fe.”
“And what have you told him?”
“That you bought and sold art in Manhattan and traveled outside New York every now and then for your business.”
“Katrina, you know what it is we have to do…and you know how many people’s lives depend on us completing our mission here,” Joel said. “We can’t fail, Katrina. We must succeed for their safety and well-being. I think it was a mistake that I encouraged this man to renew his friendship with you. Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time with him right now.”
“Whatever you think is best, uncle. He has been a friend to me, and I don’t think he means us any harm,” she said.
“I’m sure he is well-intentioned,” said Joel, “but he’s a former police officer and now a private detective. His instincts are to prod for answer
s, search and expose whatever is being concealed. We don’t have a choice with regards to our behavior, Katrina. And you are aware we are committing a crime by assisting the German government. But our families’ lives back there are being held as ransom. Over 50 of our immediate family could face terrible consequences, Katrina, if we don’t do as we’re told here. Do you understand?”
Katrina looked at her hands as a blush crept across her pale face.
“You cannot talk about any matters involving our family with him. Our background, relatives, or anything about the gallery, Katrina. The next few months will be important. Berndt Kruger will be here at the gallery and at the warehouse. You cannot mention his name or our association with anyone arriving from Europe. Once we get the inventory cleared from the warehouse, we can concentrate on our next mission. I will explain that to you at the proper time, Katrina. Be very careful what you say to anyone about the gallery—and especially to Mr. Quinn Chase. I know he’s your friend, but without even intending to, he can cause us great harm!” said Joel.
“Then I won’t see him at all, uncle. I’ll make up an excuse or something,” she said.
“No, no, don’t do that,” replied Finebaum. “We can’t withdraw completely from public life. Now more than ever we must try to go about our daily lives and be normal in our behavior. Just be careful of what you say to this man or anyone else about our family and about the gallery. We won’t act differently right now. It could create too much suspicion about us, and we don’t want that. After all, we’re not from Santa Fe or New Mexico, and we are Jewish. You must let me know if he keeps questioning you about our family, the gallery and particularly about me.”
Chapter XXIV
Marika Kraus went to the bar at the La Fonda Hotel on Sunday afternoons because she knew FBI agents would be there. If she became romantically involved with the right one, much information could be gained. But she underestimated the loyalty and professionalism of the FBI. She was aware the United States government was starting some scientific project near Santa Fe, but that’s all she knew. Her mission was to find out as much as possible by any means. Marika knew what that meant. This was a first step in making a contact. Marika had all the necessary tools. She was alluring, and cunning. She had used her sexuality in many ways with both men and women to get what she wanted. And now she was perfectly positioned to act as a spy for Germany. She showed up at the La Fonda around 3:00 p.m. that Sunday wearing a bright red dress. She sat by herself in a small corner table in the dimly lit, ornate bar decorated with a carved wood ceiling and colorful hand painted wall tiles. A lone guitarist was strumming and singing a slow Spanish ballad. The mood was easygoing and melancholy compared to the hustle of tourists and people outside in the plaza that day. The Hispanic bartender was measuring and organizing the bottles of wine and other liquor on the counter and on the shelves behind the bar. This was an upscale Spanish bar. Several different brands of tequila made up the most popular liquor in this establishment. Here, women generally preferred wine or mixed tequila drinks, like the margarita. Men normally drank their tequila, whiskey, or brandy straight on the rocks. Sometimes even with the worm from the bottle in their shot glasses. This was a familiar environment for Marika where she thought she would do well.
She didn’t have to wait long. About 20 minutes after her arrival, a group of 10 walked in and sat around two tables in the middle of the bar area. These did not look like normal citizenry. With them came three tall men wearing dark suits and fedoras. The men sat at another table just off to the side of the large group in the middle. Two other men similarly dressed entered and sat at the bar. All of the men sat positioning themselves where they could keep watch on the large group at the table. Marika could only guess this group had something to do with the government project. She would do what she could to find out. She moved up to the bar counter and took a seat on a stool. The bar counter was made of heavy wood with colored tiles on top.
She sat next to one of the men there. Then she took out her silver monogrammed cigarette case and pulled out a cigarette. “Do you have a light?” she asked the man with the crew cut.
“Yes, of course,” said the man as he pulled out his lighter and flipped the top, thus igniting the wick. He lit Marika’s cigarette.
“Thank you,” she said. She looked at him. “I’m Marika,” and she stuck out her right hand, palm down. The man did not kiss her hand, but reluctantly shook hands and mumbled his name.
“What brings you here on a Sunday afternoon?” she asked the man as she stared at him and took a drag on her cigarette.
“I should be asking you that question,” he said.
“Oh, I want to drink a little, and meet a nice man,” she smiled and said matter-of-factly.
The man’s facial expression changed. “Excuse me,” he said as he got up and relocated to the other side of the bar away from Marika.
What did I do wrong? This is obviously the wrong tactic, she said to herself. Something’s very strange here.
The table of 10 burst out laughing. “George, you always come up with the corniest stories,” said one of the women to the tall man sitting at the table. What seemed strange to Marika was that everyone at the table appeared to be young. Under the age of 40, for sure. And it was a mixed group. The women sat together, and the men all sat together around the large table. Some of the men appeared to be Spanish, Italian, or Eastern European. Marika couldn’t tell whether or not the women and men were together as couples or not.
“Brigid…you know we have to be back by seven tonight,” said one of the young women. One of the other women raised her index finger to her lips as a sign for the first girl to “shut up.”
“Oh, what’s the big deal?” the first girl asked as she looked up at Marika who sat on the barstool. “This is still the USA. It’s not like Nazi spies are hanging around listening to us,” she said while laughing.
“Jeanny, shut up now,” the older woman said.
The younger woman stared at Marika and asked, “Why don’t you sit down and join us?”
Marika smiled her semi-mischievous grin and said, “Thanks so much, but I really must be going soon. It’s very kind of you, though. Perhaps some other time,” as she smiled at the younger woman. The slightly intoxicated miss looked back at Marika and said, “Where are you from?”
Marika answered, “I’m Dutch…I’m from Amsterdam, Holland.”
“Oh,” said the girl, her mouth setting into a pretty pout.
Marika could sense the girl was interested in her. “Excuse me, please, I’ll be right back,” said Marika as she got up, leaving her cigarette case on the bartop. She headed for the ladies’ restroom. It didn’t take long before the young woman with auburn hair stood up and said she’d be back soon as well…and headed for the restroom.
When the younger woman entered, Marika was staring into the mirror, applying red lipstick while combing her short blond hair. Marika was tall for a woman at that time, about five feet ten inches, and she had a well defined hourglass figure.
“I hope I didn’t put you on the spot back there,” the younger woman said.
“Oh, no, it was a very kind gesture,” said Marika smiling. The girl stood next to her and stared into the mirror as well, checking her lipstick, and Marika’s.
“My name’s Jeanny,” said the younger woman as she extended her hand.
“I’m Marika,” said the blonde as she shook hands in a gentle fashion. Marika’s light blue eyes sparkled in the light. When the two women touched hands, a mild shock of excitement was felt by both. “Where are you from?” asked Marika.
“Oh…up on the hill. That’s what we call it,” said the younger woman. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” she whispered.
“How often do you come here?” asked Marika.
“Well, we’re allowed to come every Sunday afternoon for a little while,” said Jeanny. “I look forward to the break every week.”
“Oh, you must work hard up there…on the hill,” said Marik
a.
“We’re really not supposed to talk about that, either,” said the young woman.
“I see,” said Marika. “Why did you ask me to join your group?”
“Well, you look interesting and I thought I might want to get to know you,” said Jeanny.
“That was very nice of you…I would like to get to know you too,” said Marika.
“Well, I’ll be back next Sunday,” said Jeanny.
“You have such pretty hair,” said Marika with her melodic, deep voice of seduction. She then took her right hand and fluffed up the younger woman’s hair on her right side and gently caressed Jeanny’s ear. The younger woman nearly melted into Marika’s arms.
“I hope to see you again, Jeanny,” Marika then said as she made an impromptu about-face showing her tight dress and body. When Marika turned, her well-defined buttocks’ cheeks protruded seductively in outline form. Jeanny watched in mesmerized fashion as Marika walked out the door.
Chapter XXV
The next Sunday afternoon, the group was back at the La Fonda. The accompanying FBI agents were there, too, and Marika Kraus was there. Jeanny sat with her chatty group of Los Alamos scientists but couldn’t help looking up at Marika and at her blonde hair nearly every 20 seconds or so. Marika, for her part, was wearing an attractive green dress. Marika flirted and laughed with the bartender, but every now and then she would sneak a look over at Jeanny. Finally, after a few minutes passed, their eyes met and locked for about 10 seconds. And Jeanny couldn’t stand it any longer…she excused herself from the group and headed towards the restroom. About a minute later, Marika got up from her barstool, leaving her silver cigarette case and drink at the bar.
When Marika opened the door, Jeanny was alone and waiting for her. “Hi, again,” Jeanny said. This time there was no hesitation on Marika’s part. She walked up, grabbed Jeanny behind her head, and gently kissed her on the mouth. To Jeanny, this was a surprise that approached ecstasy. Jeanny couldn’t resist the alluring older woman. The two held this kiss for the next 45 seconds as Marika roamed over Jeanny’s body with her free hand. “We don’t have enough time or privacy now,” said Marika. “We have to find a way to meet…where we can be alone.” Marika stated.
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