LONG BURIED SECRETS
JAMES DIETER Book 4
by
FRANCIS JOSEPH SMITH
ALSO BY FRANCIS JOSEPH SMITH:
THE VATICAN’S LAST SECRET (JAMES DIETER Book 1)
THE VATICAN’S DEADLY SECRET (JAMES DIETER Book 2)
THE VATICAN’S FINAL SECRET (JAMES DIETER Book 3)
THE DEVILS SUITCASE
Copyright 2021 by Francis Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, journal, or on-line.
First Printing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are in the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.
PUBLISHED BY AMAZON
www.amazon.com
Printed in the United States of America
For my Family
FACTS:
From 1936 to 1945, it is estimated the Nazis stole an incredible one-fifth of all the artworks in Europe.
To this day it is considered the largest art theft in history.
One man, Hildebrand Gurlitt, a German art dealer, was appointed by Adolf Hitler to set aside and sell many of the art works to finance Germany’s World War II effort. But Gurlitt had his own agenda, secretly amassing select pieces for himself. In the end, siphoning off over 1,500 works of art -- including masterpieces by Picasso, Matisse and Chagall -- estimated to be worth more than $3 billion in today’s economy.
Upon his death in 1956, everything was bequeathed to his son, Cornelius. For more than 70 years, the artwork lay concealed in Cornelius‘apartment before being discovered during a raid by Bavarian authorities for suspected tax evasion.
The art world was astonished since most of the 1,500 paintings were believed destroyed during World War II.
Even more bewildering, after simply paying taxes owed, Cornelius Gurlitt was permitted to retain all of the stolen art.
A month before his death at 81 in May 2014, Cornelius Gurlitt managed to bequeath the entire collection of stolen artwork to Bern’s Museum of Fine Art.
However, Cornelius Gurlitt had amassed many enemy’s while he was alive, both criminals and those in powerful government positions.
And they were about to extract their revenge…
CHAPTER 1
September 1938: Berlin, Germany
The intense afternoon sun beat down upon a line of well-dressed individuals waiting for flights out of Berlin’s Tegel airport. The line snaked from the Lufthansa check-in counter out to the airport’s sidewalk, a full 75 meters of pure desperation. Each, if they were lucky enough, were able to sit and rest on their maximum allotment of one suitcase. And they were the fortunate ones. Each had their own private reasons for wanting to escape. Some were so fearful of what might materialize if they stayed, paying nearly a year’s salary for a Transit Visa, a necessity for leaving behind Nazi Germany. Without a Transit Visa, you were forcibly turned away. Or, even worse, imprisoned.
On the Tegel Airport tarmac stood four Lufthansa Junkers JU-52 trimotor passenger aircraft, their highly polished aluminum glistening in the sun, wingtip to wingtip, each with a destination of London, England. With an air of extreme anxiety considered the new normal in Berlin, Lufthansa’s regularly scheduled service was recently increased from two to four daily flights to the British capitol. Lufthansa also deliberately increased its fares to almost double its normal rates knowing the majority of its clientele would be Jews.
Most had been waiting for hours in the hot German sun, awaiting their turn at the Lufthansa flight counter. At the counter stood two German National Police (SS) beside a flight attendant who performed double duty as desk clerk. Once they were confirmed by Lufthansa as passengers, it was the SS who actually scrutinized each passenger, then their Transit Visa and passport, and if everything was in order, allowed them to move off to an area out of sight of the other passengers.
Once out of view, a second set of SS would greet them. Only this pair had something else besides tickets and Transit Visas on their mind.
“Over here,” shouted a burly SS officer.
The SS officer indicated for the middle-aged husband and wife to place their luggage on the table in front of his fellow SS officer. The officer swiftly snapped open the husband’s luggage first, obviously searching for valuables. The other would simply watch the reactions of those being searched. In an area off to the left stood neat little stacks of silver ingots, gold coins, and artworks. Each obviously confiscated from fellow passengers desperately looking to leave Nazi Germany.
By now the SS had become experts in uncovering hidden sections in suitcases and clothing. The officer meticulously felt the sides of the case before he tugged at a fabric strip that lined the inside of the suitcase. He smiled as he looked to his partner. Pulling at the piece of fabric, he could see it was recently stitched, the stitching whiter than on the other side of the case. His eyes went wide and a smile creased his face as he soon discovered a flattened piece of canvas. He realized it was a valuable piece of artwork as soon as he eyed its frayed edges. Upon unfurling, he nodded in appreciation. He then showed his discovery to his partner. “Look at the masterful strokes, the use of color. It’s a Rembrandt,” he said.
A highly coveted and valuable Rembrandt.
The SS officer looked to the husband in whose luggage they found the painting. “We are going to keep this for further investigation.”
The man meekly protested. “But it was my late mothers.”
The SS officer withdrew his Lugar from its leather holster, pointing the weapon at the man’s forehead. “You are lucky I don’t shoot you for smuggling. I said it is staying.” He then tugged at the yellow armband on the man’s coat, one required of all Jews for identification.
The husband had already lined up a buyer in London, one who was willing to pay a tidy sum. But they still required the final Exit Stamp on their passports from the German National Police before they could board one of the aircraft.
The man’s wife felt compelled to speak up. “But we need to sell the painting in London so we have some money to live on,” she said in a slightly raised voice.
The SS officer smiled at her and nodded as if understanding their plight. “Of course you do. I completely understand.” He reached into his wallet and removed a Ten Mark bill, worth about five American dollars, rolling it up into a ball before tossing it at the wife. “That’s all its worth. I don’t care how you live, or where you live, as long as it’s not in Germany. ”
Tears welled in the woman eyes as she looked to her husband. He looked down at the marble floor to avoid her steady gaze.
The SS officer laughed aloud before he stamped both of their passports. “Now keep moving. That is unless you would rather stay? I am sure we can make some nice arrangements at Buchenwald for you. Either way, the painting stays here.”
The woman started to walk towards the painting. The SS officer anticipated as much and brought the back of his hand to bare against the side of her head. The woman fell hard to the marble floor. Her husband rushed to her side. “Please, sir,” he pleaded, “keep the painting.” He then pulled his wife to her feet, speaking comforting words to her in Yiddish.
The SS officer handed them back their travel documents and pointed to the plane. “Now leave my count
ry. We have no room for your kind.”
The man smiled and nodded to the officers as he closed the now open suitcase. He then grabbed the second still unopened suitcase as both the SS officers stood admiring the painting. The husband and wife merely slipped out and walked towards one of the waiting planes.
The man’s wife looked back at the loss of 250,000 English pounds. Their life savings. Her husband handed her one of the suitcases. “Carry this,” he said as they cleared the terminal and walked onto the tarmac. “Don’t worry. We are one of the lucky ones to escape,” he said softly as they kept walking. “Many who stay will die.”
“But now we have nothing to start a new life. How can we possibly survive in England?”
“Keep walking,” he said. “Look depressed.”
The wife shot him a menacing glance. “That is easy to do under the circumstances,” she said before complying with his meager request.
At the bottom of the boarding stairs stood a Lufthansa stewardess who simply nodded to them as they walked up the boarding stairs. At the top of the steps they were greeted by yet another stewardess who pointed them to the rear of the aircraft. The husband reached their seats first, placing his suitcase in an overhead canvas sling, before placing his wife’s beside his own. They both sat down with a look of relief realizing they were that much closer to freedom. Hannah looked out the window towards the terminal, eyeing the line of passengers gradually making their way to the aircraft.
After thirty minutes, the remainder of the seats filled with refugees just like themselves. Several more minutes
passed, and with German efficiency, the stairway was pushed back and the aircrafts door secured.
In the cockpit, the pilot checked the radiator inlet and outlets, oil cooler, and parking brake. Satisfied he set the fuel mixture to 100% before depressing the ignition button to start each engine one-by-one. Soon the wheel chocks were removed, and the pilot taxied the plane to the end of the runway. Now in takeoff position, the pilot revved the engines to maximum power, the whole aircraft shaking violently.
Suddenly the plane shot forward as if a coiled spring, barreling down the runway, the plane swiftly lifting up, now airborne.
The plane erupted into cheers.
There was no turning back now.
The husband leaned over to his wife and said, “It was a fake.”
“What,” she replied loudly, competing with the aircrafts engine noise.
Several of the passengers turned in their direction.
Her husband smiled at them. “First time on an aircraft,” he said. “She’s a bit nervous.”
Each nodded in understanding before turning back.
She grabbed her husband’s hand “Are you saying we still have the original painting?” A smile now creasing her face.
“Of course we do. Do you think I would let those SS pigs have our treasure? It is in your luggage. The one they didn’t search.”
She squeezed her husband’s hand. The Germans could keep the fake Rembrandt. A masterful fake, but still a fake.
She was free.
They were free.
It was a new beginning.
CHAPTER 2
PRESENT DAY: MARATHON KEY – FLORIDA
The Keys have always been North America’s response to the Caribbean Isles because they happen to feature many of the same amenities as its tropical brethren: plenty of sun, surf, sand and boozed up tourists. Located just a leisurely drive down the Overseas Highway from Miami, it’s the kind of journey that beckons you to take your time and soak in the ambiance as you start to feel, mile by mile, the stress melt away. With the Atlantic Ocean on one side of the highway and the turquoise of the Gulf of Mexico on the other, it provided a view that you cannot find elsewhere.
It is also a place for the unexpected. Locals often greet the news of some particularly offbeat happening by grinning, nodding and uttering, only in the Keys.
The Craggy Dog Marina was a suitable fit with its Keys neighbors. At every turn, palm trees softly swayed with the continuous warm ocean breeze, each tall and wide enough to provide shade up to the water’s edge. To top it off, the weather hovered around a constant 85 to 90 degrees.
Life is good.
With September just beginning, only six boats lay moored to the Craggy Dog’s piers, a number that could easily reach a peak of 40 when the snowbirds from Pennsylvania and New Jersey returned in winter. The boats currently tied up ranged from a “low-end” 23-foot King Fisher sail boat to a “high-end” 57-foot Jefferson Motor Yacht with the name “Irish Rebel” painted conspicuously in emerald green on its stern.
The “Irish Rebel” slept six, with a full galley, three bathrooms or heads in nautical speak, teak decking throughout, and a small two-person hot tub on the stern. Rumors circulated about the origin of its owner’s wealth, something mysterious involving Nazi gold but proved.
HAVE YOU EVER EXPERIENCED one of those days where you just wanted to curl up in your nice comfortable bed, your boat gently rocking from side-to-side, and tell the world to go blow off?
That was just the day James Dieter was having. And it was only 7am.
It all started with an early morning phone call at zero dark thirty. Someone claimed to have his friend Eian Doherty as a hostage. They might consider letting him go if his gambling debts were paid.
Rather large gambling debts.
How many times had he warned Eian about his gambling?
He now stared into his bathroom mirror at an aging face as he applied a layer of shaving cream. Where did all of the years go he thought to himself? His brown hair, now tinged with grey, was thick with willfulness that expensive cutting had not completely disciplined. This combined with his rugged features and a 6’1, 210 pound physique he maintained from his Navy SEAL days still drew many a passing stare. However, he was entering his early forties. He had to slow down. His body could not recoup as fast from the injuries he sustained from his many exploits. Exploits just like the one he was about to get himself involved in.
He had a plane to catch out of Miami in three hours, the earliest he could find that still had availability.
His wife of six months, the Pulitzer Prize winning investigative journalist Nora Robinson, still lay sleeping. The woman slept like a rock. The early morning phone call didn’t even phase her. Not even a stir. Jim stood admiring her for a few moments realizing how lucky he was. To her adoring public she was frequently compared her to a young Lauren Bacall, the movie star siren of the 1940’s and 50’s. Nora stood 5 ’8, with long shoulder length hair that seemed to constantly battle between blonde with brown roots and brown; a lithe body, and what captured men most of all were her eyes; a deep pool of blue-green that seemed to reel you in from the first instant you made eye contact.
Jim tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s go, sleepyhead,” he said softly. “We have a plane to catch.”
Nora tossed a pillow his way. “Were off for the weekend,” she replied. Her head popped out from under the blanket. “Did you say we have a plane to catch?”
“We are heading to Philly. Eian has gotten himself into a bit of trouble again. He needs our help.”
Nora let out a long sigh. “James Dieter you have got to get some new friends, ones that aren’t so high maintenance.”
For once Jim agreed with her. “Right you are.” He then pulled the blanket off Nora. “Out of bed. Now.”
She tossed a second pillow at him. “I’m up.”
“No, you’re not.” He picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “We have to get moving.” He carried her into the yachts bathroom, or head in nautical speak.
“James Dieter put me down,” she screamed, pounding him on his back with her fists.
Jim laid her down on the floor of the shower.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Nora said defiantly.
He turned on the cold water and went back to finish packing. A smile creased his face. “Don’t hog the cold water,” he shouted over his shoulder.
/> “I will get even with you James Dieter!” Nora shouted. “Mark my words.”
“There’s a lot of people saying that. Get in line,” was his reply.
CHAPTER 3
Clyde’s Auto body Shop
Edgemont, Pennsylvania
(15 miles west of Philadelphia)
The two-story brick building was built at the tail end of the Great Depression. Nothing special. An old rusted enamel sign proclaiming Clyde’s Auto Body hung prominently across its two-story front. A faded promotion for White Owl Cigars barely visible on the south side of the structure. Strangely, for an auto body shop, it lacked a garage to handle its advertised work. From its outward appearance most people would think the auto body shop was out of business. Of course, it was all a front. The real business occurred on the second floor. Poker to be exact. The only cars parked out front were luxury ones driven by the poker players inside.
Eian Doherty eyed the five-card flush in his hand, then the games pot in front of him, now up to a little over $500,000. The marathon poker game approached its tenth hour, having started promptly at two in the afternoon of the previous day.
Eian picked up his remaining chips. “My last six thousand,” he said in a slight Irish accent, placing six chips one-by-one onto the pile. “I’ll call.”
Eian stood an easy six feet, pushing a solid 220 pounds. His once handsome face attested to the fact that at one time he liked to box. However, with injuries and age he was forced to give up the sport and apply his energies into something he could really enjoy: gambling. He loved it. That and flying. However, in gambling circles, he was known as an easy mark. A whale. Luckily his job as a corporate pilot kept him, for the most part, out of the hole for his gambling losses. At least most of the time.
Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4 Page 1
