by Josh Lanyon
He said instead, “Sam should be down any second.”
Petty nodded, glanced automatically at the elevators. When he turned back to Jason, his expression was odd. He said, “Did he tell you about me?”
Jason frowned. On the one hand, nice to know his instinctive unease regarding Petty was not misplaced. On the other, he had never been confronted with a situation like this, and he wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“Is there so much to tell?” he asked finally. Which probably wasn’t tactful, but he didn’t like this scenario. And he was quite sure Sam would like it even less.
Petty’s smile was wry and unexpectedly appealing. “I thought there was. I guess not.” He added thoughtfully, “This explains why he was different that last time.”
Having been on the receiving end of Sam being “different,” Jason could relate.
He opened his mouth—though he wasn’t sure what he was going to say—but the elevator doors slid open, and Sam stepped out.
“Enjoy your breakfast.” Jason raised a hand in brief greeting to Sam and then picked up his phone so he didn’t have to watch them walk out together.
Even so, he couldn’t help hearing that too eager note in Petty’s voice as he told Sam good morning—and he couldn’t help analyzing Sam’s deep tones as he replied. Neutral? Guarded? Preoccupied?
The glass doors opened, the dry summer air wafted in, the doors closed.
J.J. appeared and went straight for the coffee urns.
Jason said, “We’ve got just enough time if you want breakfast. They’ve got your Cinnabons.”
J.J. gave a full body shudder. “No. God no.”
Jason stared at him. “Are you hungover?”
“A little.” J.J. grimaced. He brightened momentarily. “That girl, West.”
“Martinez?”
“She’s a saint.”
“That must cramp your style a little.”
J.J. made a ha-ha face.
Jason was not unsympathetic, though. J.J. was still technically a new agent. He’d been in more gun battles his first year than most agents dealt with their entire careers. And now he had killed someone. Sure, they were trained for that possibility, but even so…
“We’re supposed to meet de Haan at Quilletta McCoy’s lawyer’s office.”
J.J. scowled. “De Haan’s in on that meeting too?”
Jason nodded.
“Why are we allowing a civilian to take part in these interviews?”
“Because he’s officially representing Aaldenberg van Apeldoorn. And because he’s been working this case for nearly twenty years. We’re working off his notes, his research. He knows a hell of a lot more about it than either of us do. About the case and about the treasure.”
“Treasure.” J.J. looked pained. “Can we not refer to it as treasure?”
“I don’t know what else you’d call it,” Jason said. “Fifteen missing items, including a platinum and diamond necklace, pearl and emerald earrings, two jeweled and enameled boxes, a gold locket, an altar piece by van Eyck, and nine very valuable—maybe even in one case priceless—paintings.”
“It’s the paintings you want,” J.J. said. “Especially that Vermeer.”
“If it is a Vermeer, yes, I’d like to be part of seeing that recovered. But it will go back to Amsterdam. It won’t go to a museum here.”
Or at least in principle that was what should happen. More often than not, museums, galleries, and even governments struggled with letting go national treasures—even another nation’s treasures. Particularly items that had graced museum collections for decades. The ongoing battle for the Elgin Marbles was a perfect example.
Art and artifacts looted by the Nazis were especially problematic given that the documentation needed to prove provenance was often, understandably, missing. Even when it wasn’t hard to prove legal ownership, museum curators had a way of fighting tooth and nail to keep valuable and popular exhibitions right where they were.
He sympathized a little. These were institutions dedicated to protecting and preserving art for the public. Most of the looted art was from private collections—the antithesis of a museum or gallery’s mission.
In fairness, some of the reluctance to hand priceless antiquities back to their countries of origin had to do with unstable and dangerous political situations. The fate of museum collections and archeological sites in Egypt, Iraq, and Libya were all depressing cases in point.
It was almost certain that Roy Thompson’s heirs were going to come up with some variation on that theme to explain their uncle’s theft. Private collectors were always much, much worse about returning stolen items, and by now he had heard every excuse under the sun, including I didn’t think anyone would miss it.
Seventy-something years later, over half of the hundreds of thousands of stolen pieces of art and objects recovered from the Nazis remained unaccounted for. Horrifyingly, much of those priceless works and personal treasures had gone missing during the allied occupation—much of it into personal collections.
“Whatever.” J.J. tossed the rental car keys absently. “If you don’t want media attention, you ought to stop saying the word treasure.”
Good point.
Jason swallowed a final mouthful of coffee, dropped a couple of bills on the table, and followed J.J. out.
* * * * *
Quilletta McCoy was not what Jason had expected.
True, he hadn’t formed an opinion on what to expect, but it had not been this apologetic and red-cheeked church lady. Quilletta looked a little like a middle-aged, suburban Snow White. The early Disney version with the black bob and long-lashed doe eyes. She even had that same cute little squeaky voice.
The meeting, which took place in the cushy, leather-lined law offices of Corliss, Flook & Doggett, was attended by Quilletta, her brother, Bert—who looked like he was attending under pain of firing squad—and Dave Corliss, Quilletta’s “lawyer and family friend.”
“It was our understanding the statute of limitations had run out,” Quilletta explained in tones as soft and sweet as confectioner’s sugar. “That’s what the man at Christie’s told us.”
“What man?” Jason questioned.
“That is a lie,” de Haan broke in—which, of course, resulted in Corliss’s protest.
“My client is making every effort to cooperate with the government and the Aaldenberg van Apeldoorn Museum. I’m not going to sit here and have her insulted.”
“No insult is intended,” Jason said, giving de Haan his most discouraging look. “We’re simply gathering the facts of the case.”
De Haan glowered but pressed his lips tightly closed.
Quilletta had turned even pinker at de Haan’s outburst. She said to Jason, “I don’t remember which man. We—” She glanced at her brother, who had not said a word beyond a gruff hello to Jason and J.J. “I spoke to several people at the auction house. They communicated that they would have liked to handle the altar piece and the paintings, but their organization had come under criticism for selling a painting that once belonged to Hermann Göring himself.” Her dark eyes were wide with astonished memory.
“The Sisley,” Jason agreed.
The 2018 sale of Premier jour de printemps à Moret to a Swiss art dealer was still a scandal in the art world. Christie’s claimed every reasonable attempt had been made to check the painting’s provenance, but with an entire department dedicated to researching looted art, it was a little hard to believe the ownership gaps in the Sisley’s history hadn’t raised red flags.
Nor was it the first time Christie’s had been embroiled in a legal battle over looted art. So it was not impossible that someone at the auction house had communicated regret to Quilletta.
The part about the statute of limitations was harder to believe—Christie’s was well informed on that topic. But maybe Quilletta had misunderstood something said to her.
“There isn’t a universal statute of limitations regarding art stolen by the Nazis,” Jason said. �
�The law is complicated, but under the 1998 Washington Conference, the US and the Netherlands, along with about fifty other countries, committed to ‘fair and just solutions’ for the return of Nazi looted art. But that’s beside the point because in 2016, the Ninth Circuit essentially ruled in a similar case that Dutch law applied, and Dutch law typically favors the claims of Dutch museums.”
Corliss said, “That doesn’t mean our lawsuit would have the same outcome.”
“No. Not necessarily. But these items are not under any statute of limitations, which is my point.”
“My uncle was not a thief,” Quilletta said. Her voice wobbled, and tears filled her eyes. “He was given these items by his commanding officer so that they could be protected. It was a very dangerous situation. For the art as well as the soldiers.”
Jason repeated, “He was given these items?”
“Yes.”
Not good. Not good at all. Jason tensed, waiting for her to name that commanding officer. If she said Emerson Harley… It was not proof, but it certainly did not help Jason’s case, given that in all of de Haan’s copious research, Emerson Harley’s name was only referenced once, and that notation question-marked.
Jason had known the reference was correct because he knew his grandfather had, for a short time, been in charge of the recovery and restoration of the art stockpiled by the Nazis in the tunnels of Engelshofen Castle. It wasn’t information readily available to someone trying to build a cover story after the fact.
Quilletta continued, “I remember Uncle Roy saying the paintings were being stored in damp and dirty conditions. There was all kinds of thieving and pilfering going on. And the Russians were coming.”
Jason glanced at de Haan.
They had expected to hear justification—that the art had been moved for its own safety—but until now Jason had assumed potential accusations against his grandfather would be of omission, negligence, or, worst case and the least likely scenario, willfully turning a blind eye to war-weary soldiers claiming war trophies. There was precedent. A few allied commanders had done that very thing despite Eisenhower’s strict instructions that WWII would be different from all others in that no looting, no theft, no to-the-victors-go-the-spoils would be tolerated.
Quilletta’s version of events was especially alarming because, if you didn’t know Emerson Harley as Jason had, it might even sound plausible. A dedicated and desperate Monuments Man had violated his code of ethics and sworn duty because it was the only way to protect these priceless works.
Of course, on closer examination, such a claim made no sense because the whole point of Grandpa Harley being at Engelshofen Castle was to protect and preserve that discovered cache of art and oversee its return to its rightful owners. He had the knowledge and resources to accomplish his mission. Dispersing priceless works to troops with vague directives to ship them home and keep them safe would have been, at the least, counterproductive.
There were other problems with Quilletta’s story. Some crazy and alarming things had happened in Bavaria after the war, that was true, but a Soviet invasion had not been one of them. The Russians had occupied Eastern Germany.
It sounded like maybe Quilletta was confusing her uncle’s war stories with a viewing of the movie The Monuments Men. That didn’t mean she was lying. She could inadvertently be quoting someone else’s lies. Or she could just be confused. If there was one thing he had learned in this job, it was that people were very often confused in their facts—and just as often reluctant to admit it.
He said, “Mrs. McCoy, do you have proof your uncle was instructed to remove these items from where they were being guarded—”
“Proof be damned!” de Haan broke in. “No one had the right to disburse these paintings to anyone, nor bequeath them. What is of importance now is the itemization of the treasures in her possession.”
Jason snapped, “We have to know what happened.”
“We know enough! Assigning blame is secondary to our main concern.”
“There is proof,” Quilletta put in timidly.
De Haan was surprised into silence.
“By proof, do you mean you have written documentation?” Jason demanded.
She cast a nervous look at Corliss, who nodded. “I-I don’t have it. It does exist. Or it used to. I did see it.”
“Where did you see it? What documentation was there?”
He was trying to keep his tone noncommittal, but she must have heard something that further alarmed her. She licked her lips. “All the time he was overseas, Uncle Roy wrote letters home. I remember seeing them.”
“Was the name or rank of this commanding officer mentioned?”
“Yes. I think so. I believe so. I don’t remember what it was. It’s been years since I saw the letters.”
De Haan opened his mouth. Jason said quickly, “What happened to the letters?”
He could feel both de Haan and J.J. staring at him. Or maybe that was just his guilty conscience. His question was valid. Maybe not priority in the ordinary way of things. Priority for him.
“I-I don’t remember.”
Bert said suddenly, “Doc has them, doesn’t he?”
“Does he?” Quilletta looked blank.
“Who’s Doc?” Jason asked.
“Doc Roberts. Edgar Roberts,” Bert said. “He and Uncle Roy were…friends.”
What did…friends mean?
“I see. So, to your best knowledge, this Edgar Roberts has possession of the letters which you say prove your uncle was ordered by a commanding officer to take these items and ship them back home?”
“Yes. Well, I mean, I don’t know,” Quilletta said. “I know the letters prove Uncle Roy was not a thief. It was never his idea to move those items. Never. He would have as easily thought of moving the moon. But I don’t know for a fact that Edgar has them. I don’t know why he would. If it matters, all Uncle Roy’s letters home were published in the Bozwin Daily Chronicle.”
Jason’s heart stopped. He could think of absolutely nothing to say.
Published.
A weird silence seemed to fall over the office.
Jason felt J.J.’s glance, but could honestly not find the words he needed. This was a disaster he had not counted on.
J.J. said, “Regarding the items not already listed for sale—”
Quilletta said quickly, “But that’s just it. That’s why Bert and I wanted this meeting. We don’t want trouble. We don’t have money for a big lawsuit. We don’t want the IRS to come after us. We’re willing to work with the government and the museum and the-the heirs of the other two paintings, if there are any still living, but we don’t have those other things.” She nodded at de Haan. “The things listed in the email he sent. We don’t have them. We never did.”
Chapter Seven
“She’s lying,” de Haan said.
De Haan, J.J., and Jason were sitting in a downtown restaurant and bakery called the Coffee Pot, holding an impromptu council of war after leaving the meeting at Corliss, Flook & Doggett.
“I don’t know,” J.J. said through a mouthful of freshly baked cinnamon roll. “If she’s lying, she’s pretty convincing.”
De Haan scoffed at the idea.
“If they don’t have the other items, where are they?” J.J. asked thoughtfully. “Who has them?”
Jason listened absently. His thoughts were running in circles. He needed to go through the newspaper morgue at the Bozwin Daily Chronicle and find out what, if anything, Captain Thompson had written about Emerson Harley. It was possible the archive was already digitized and online—thanks to Google’s aborted News Archive Project, thousands of newspapers and millions of pages had been scanned and made available to anyone with time and patience to sort through them all. But physical newspaper archives sometimes contained supplemental materials. Things like photos, internal correspondence, reporters’ notes, or perhaps the original letters from a homesick GI Joe. It was worth checking.
It was unlikely Thompson’s family wo
uld have handed over any letters for publication that mentioned sending art treasures home. Almost certainly Thompson would have warned them to keep quiet about the parcels he was shipping under separate cover. It was equally unlikely that a newspaper of the day would have published anything derogative about the military or military officers. But Thompson could have easily mentioned his commanding officers in an innocuous context.
That was the kind of information a good reporter would hunt down. After that, it wouldn’t be difficult to connect the dots.
And not everyone cared if the dots created a completely false picture. Sometimes members of the press just wanted a good story—and damn the personal cost to the subjects of that false narrative.
There wouldn’t be just one commander in Captain Thompson’s life. Emerson Harley’s mission had been tangential to that of the 3rd Infantry Division. Thompson would have had to answer to a whole chain of command. But this was a story about stolen art, so even if Thompson did not specifically point the finger at Harley, the Deputy Chief of the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives program was naturally going to be the prime suspect.
And if Quilletta was right, if her uncle did name Harley in his letters, it was going to be case closed in the eyes of a lot of people.
Which was one more reason why Jason had been reluctant to hand this case over to anyone else. Generally speaking, the ACT liked—and typically received—good press. Another agent was not going to do his best to make sure the story of Thompson’s treasures was DOA. Just the opposite.
“All fifteen items disappeared at the same time,” de Haan said. “It’s too great a coincidence that two thieves should be at work.”
“Maybe they were working together,” J.J. said.
De Haan scoffed at this idea, and J.J. glanced at Jason.
“West?”
Jason snapped out of his preoccupation. “Hm?”
“Something bugging you?”
“No. Just thinking.” He hit rewind on the last few seconds of conversation. “It’s possible Thompson had a partner. It’s also possible—”
