“Now the Russians, after they confiscated Major Vasli Petrov’s paintings in 1945, put them on display in various museums around the Soviet Union, including the Hermitage. They had no idea that the 20 Old World Masters were fakes. Evidently they were excellent reproductions because they fooled the experts for years. And this is why I need your help. The three of you are known as experts in the field of recovering WWII related treasures.”
Jim tapped Nora on the knee. “Did you know we were considered experts in WWII related treasures?”
Dolan expected as much. He indicated to one of his goons to place a shot past Nora’s head. The goon raised his 38 took aim, and pulled the trigger. A loud explosion was heard in the small confines of the room as the bullet flashed by her head, imbedding in the plaster wall behind her.
Jim leapt up at Dolan but the second goon was ready and landed a blow to his gut, knocking Jim back into his chair. “If I were you, I’d stay down, boy,” the goon said with a smile, albeit missing several of his teeth.
Dolan took it all in stride as he sipped his scotch. After several seconds, he looked to Jim, Nora, and Eian. “That bullet was an attention getter. May I continue my story? Maybe this time without interruption?”
Jim rubbed where the second goon had landed his blow. “I’m going to get even with that monkey of yours,” he replied through clinched teeth.
Eian knew how ruthless Dolan could be and tried to defuse the situation. “Your place, your rules,” he said.
“Well thank-you, Eian,” said Dolan. “First smart thing you said today.” He continued. “Now like I said before I was so rudely interrupted, the three of you are known as experts. That is exactly what I need, experts, because art is not my field of expertise. I work the Philly area, to include South Jersey. If you want to talk about gambling, small personal loans, or maybe some political issues, no problem. However, Europe and its art world are not on my radar. I don’t know the turf.”
Dolan held up his empty glass. One of his goons took the hint and grabbed the bottle of Scotch from the bar, refilling his glass.
Dolan continued. “What really has me worried is how the Russians recently found out about the fake paintings my dad and the other two Germans provided the Russian Major. They think I have the original paintings. That is why I need you, your wife, and Eian to help me. The Russians think my Dad smuggled paintings back to the US and placed them in hiding. But he chose, unwisely I might add, to allow his partners, the Germans, to keep them hidden in the small German town of Preisdorf until he needed some money.”
“Preisdorf?” Jim inquired.
“It’s where the mine is located. But in 2010 my father died. Cornelius used that as an excuse to move everything from Preisdorf to his apartment.”
“I take it he didn’t trust you?” snapped Eian, having hung back on commenting for most of the story. Wonder why?”
Jim cut him off. “How did they sell the stolen paintings?”
“Once they agreed on which painting to sell, Cornelius would take the train down to Switzerland and sell a painting in one of the many auction houses in Zurich or the auction house would arrange a private sale for a higher piece of the action.”
Suddenly Dolan realized he had gone too far, too late. In laying everything out for his new partners, he inadvertently exposed to his goons that the Russians sought the info. Not only that, he had laid bare how his father and Cornelius sold the paintings. His goons could potentially sell the information back to the Russians. Hell, its what he would do if in the same position. He slowly reached around to the small of his back and quickly withdrew his .38 caliber. His two goons could not react in time before he shot each of them in the head, both falling hard to the floor.
Jim and Nora sought safety on the floor, pulling Eain down with them. “Looks like a chip off the old block,” said Jim. “First his father does the same to his platoon, now the son to his own people.”
Dolan placed the handgun on the table in front of him. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not looking to harm my new friends. Especially ones that are going to make me rich.”
They looked around to make sure nothing else was about to transpire.
In a low voice Nora turned to Eian and said: “This guy’s nuts.”
Eian replied in an equally low voice, not wanting to be overheard by Dolan. “I just play cards with him. He’s no friend of mine.”
Jim, Nora and Eian eyed Dolan as he walked over to the main wall separating the bar from the card room. He seemed to be staring at a painting as if it were the first time viewing it before he promptly removed it from the wall, tossing it onto the table in front of him. “A quick art lesson for the unsophisticated.”
They each looked over to where Dolan’s two goons lay sprawled on the floor.
He followed their gaze. “Don’t be silly, I have more where they came from. Now get up off the floor. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to show you something.”
They gathered around the table, Jim closest to the .38 in case Dolan had any more devious intentions.
Dolan started speaking as if a professor. “Presently, famous artworks are copied by the dozens in places like Chengdu, China. They have artists lined up easel to easel. Orders come in from the various websites and they go to work. You even have 3D digital printers that can produce a reproduction that can look like just like the original. It’s done every day. Now to spot a fake you have to look at the colors in the painting – not all paint colors were available in the past. That's why savvy buyers will bring a color chart to see if they spot a color that wasn't available in the era the artwork was painted.”
He pointed to the painting that lay on the table. “Flip that painting over,” he said to Nora. “Look at the surface it is painted on. How does it sit on that? How does it feel and does it look aged enough? Is it nailed or stapled. Nails were only used before 1940, staples after that.”
Nora tossed the painting down on the table. “Any more magic tricks, Dolan?”
Dolan smiled at Nora. “As a matter of fact, yes. You and your husband are going to recover everything I am owed. By now I think you realize this was all carefully orchestrated to get two of the best WWII treasure hunters to work for me.”
“Three,” said Eian. “Three of the best.”
“Excuse, me,” Dolan replied, “three.”
Nora eyed Dolan with contempt. “Couldn’t you just have asked us to help? Did you have to kidnap our friend?”
“Why? Would you have helped me if I did? We aren’t exactly the best of friends.” Dolan stared at Nora for several seconds and said, “I didn’t think so.”
Jim looked to his friend, Eian, then to Dolan. “Eian’s part of our team. We will require his services to even have a decent chance of recovering the art.”
“I expected as much,” said Dolan. “You can have him. I know where he lives. For that matter, I know where you and your lovely wife live. Even what dock your boat is tied up to.”
“We don’t like to work under the guise of veiled threats, Mr. Dolan,” said Jim, the anger in him rising.
Dolan held up his hands. “No threats. Just stating a simple fact. My point is don’t try and run from me. Now down to the simple stuff. I am fronting you $500k in walking money to get things moving. You can hire whomever you want but only share the pertinent details with them. I also expect an update daily on your progress and more importantly, your whereabouts. Is that understood?”
Jim looked to Nora and Eian, each nodding in return. “Agreed, but only in part,” replied Jim. “We will need you to acquire some equipment for us.”
Dolan turned his hands over, revealing his palms. “What can I do for the great, James Dieter?”
“First of all we will require an assortment of small arms with accompanying ammunition. Smoke grenades, Stun grenades, and most importantly the use of a private jet that Eian will pilot.”
Dolan nodded in agreement to the requests. “Is that all?” he said sarcastically.
“No. If we are to do this for you, we also need you to secure the release of someone from prison.”
“Federal, State or local?” he responded as though it were an everyday request.
“State,” Jim replied.
“Charges?” asked Dolan.
“Robbery, no weapon used. He is a second story man. Never hurt a fly. He is also a forger. Best in the business. And he has a lot of good connections.”
Dolan nodded. “Done, and done. I will have to call in a few favors. Grease the palms. Give me his name and I’ll have him out within the week.”
As Jim wrote down the name, he was already planning his own double-cross.
CHAPTER 20
Collegeville PA
State Correctional Institution – Phoenix, a medium-security prison located 32 miles northwest of Philadelphia, had the responsibility for confining inmates from the Philadelphia Metropolitan area.
Within its walls were convicts whose crimes ranged from burglary, assault, armed robbery, up to mass murders.
Not exactly the kind of people you would want to bring home to meet Mom.
It also had the distinction of holding one Charles “Chuck” Denny. One of the country’s best second story burglars and an equally impressive master forger. His work was well known to all who operated in the trade. Rumor on the street said that some of his best work hung in two of Philadelphia’s most prestigious museums: The Philadelphia Art Museum, and The Barnes Museum. Of course, this was unbeknownst to its caretakers. He was that good. He could study a painting, whether in a museum’s gallery or of a photo, and produce a copy within a day. A master copy in two. He could nail the painting down to the direction of the brush strokes. A real savant.
But he also enjoyed committing burglary. He had a passion for it.
At an early age, he realized that 90% of all homeowners never locked their second story windows. Made the work very easy for him. He would never carry tools with him. Didn’t have too. All he had to do was find a home with a ladder laying around, usually by a garden shed. Prop it up on the back of the house and enter through an unlocked window. He would be in and out in less than five minutes. Sometimes even while the family ate dinner downstairs. Unfortunately for him, one day an officer on a routine patrol caught him red-handed.
Now he was two years into a six-year stretch.
Chuck sat in his solitary six by nine cell, tugging at his 3-day salt and pepper goatee with one hand as he applied cyan blue to a portrait of a little girl. A portrait to cull a favor with one of the guards. The guard had promised Chuck a carton of smokes, a bottle of Scotch, and fresh fruit. He desired something better than prison food. He was desperate, having already adding 20 pounds to a frame that was 6’1, 150 pounds soaking wet during his 2nd story days. Now he looked in the mirror and saw a plump old man of fifty-five. In his prime, his friends used to call him Stretch but with this diet, in four years, they will be calling him Chunks.
The guard came by to check on his portrait. Chuck was just adding his finishing touches to it. “There you go my friend,” he said as he handed the portrait to the guard. “It is still wet so be careful.”
The guard looked at the portrait, then the picture, comparing the two. “I can’t believe you did this,” he said, his voice rising in gratitude. “It looks exactly like my daughter! I mean, exactly! I would have paid three grand if I had to pay someone on the outside to do this.” The guard gratefully handed Chuck his payment: a brown paper bag containing a carton of smokes, a bottle of Scotch, and some fresh fruit. “You are truly very talented.”
“Thanks. Tell your friends.”
“Oh,” the guard said absently, still staring at the portrait. “The warden sent me to bring you to his office.”
The last time Chuck had the pleasure of visiting the warden was his indoctrination to prison life. “You don’t happen to know why, do you?” he inquired softly. He knew nothing good came from a visit to the warden’s office. “I’ve been minding my own business, not bothering a soul.”
The guard smiled at him. “Don’t worry about it. I think it might be good news. At least that is what I have heard through the guard rumor mill. Something about the governor approving you for an early parole. Knocked four years off your sentence. So if I were you, I’d get a head start on packing up your stuff.”
Chuck eyed the guard, then the interior of his dismal cell. “You’re not pulling my chain are you?”
“No. Pretty sure it’s all on the up and up. If the rumor is to be believed, somebody named James Dieter managed to pull a few strings in the governor’s office. Or somebody he knew owed somebody something.”
Chuck sat back in his chair for a few moments, pondering what the guard had just said. He knew no one would mention James Dieter’s name unless it was all true. They couldn’t. No one knew he had connections to James Dieter. Therefore, the rumor had to be true.
That could only mean one thing.
He had a very special job for him.
CHAPTER 21
Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania
Mention the name Benjamin Franklin and people think of the many titles associated with the man: inventor, printer, scientist, and most notably, politician.
But not many people realize he was also an educator.
In 1749, the esteemed Mr. Franklin organized 24 trustees from the surrounding Philadelphia area to form an institution of higher education. He dreamed of a school operating at a level such as Harvard, Saint Johns, and Yale, three of the United States’ earliest operating colleges. By 1751, his dream gained traction, opening its doors to children of the gentry and working class alike as the Academy and Charitable School in the Province of Pennsylvania, or the future University of Pennsylvania. Of course, it was unanimous that Franklin should serve as its first president, doing so until 1755, and continuing to serve as a very active trustee until his death in 1790.
In the years after its founding, many former students felt a sort of gratitude to the University that had been the source of their prestigious education. They wanted to give something back. Franklin, never one to miss an opportunity, asked many to bestow something of significance back to the University when they felt comfortable in their situation. He even took it a step further by specifying the types of donations the University would welcome: artwork or money.
Donate they did.
From Franklin’s Presidency to the present, many alumnae have elected to donate monies, paintings, and sculptures to their beloved U of P. Through these donations, the University quickly expanded to 302-acres—boasting more than 200 buildings, most of sturdy, ivy clad brick. Of course, the new buildings would require only the best artwork to adorn its prestigious walls, nothing less was acceptable. This led to the birth of the University of Pennsylvania Art Collection, one of the largest, not only for a University, but in the world. In 266 years, the collection has grown to include over 8,000 artworks most of it donated from wealthy benefactors, who were, at one time, former students. All of it prized, some more than others. The collection of paintings, sculptures, photography, and decorative arts are spread across 100 University locations.
As everyone is familiar, where you have valuable art you also have someone wanting to remove it for his or her own personal collection. Hence the need for the fourth largest police force in the state of Pennsylvania. In addition, with the kind of money the University had hanging on its walls, they also employed the latest in high tech gear such as vibration detectors, displays to detect even the slightest of pressure changes, and saturation infrared and microwave motion detectors. Instead of just focusing on entrances and exits, it operated a fully-saturated system that left no blind spots – making it nearly impossible to physically enter, externally hack, or disable the system.
Its security measures are one of the main reasons why they have never experienced a major theft.
That and they always hired ever-vigilant curators. The latest in a long line of observant stewards including one that will occasi
onally sleep on the main museum floor in a sleeping bag just to be one with her charges.
Like many enterprises, the University did not recognize the talent they had on their staff, nor did they compensate Summer Larson fairly.
Then if you add in two children attending a prestigious high school, and her in the initial stages of what looked to be a very nasty divorce, money was tight. This left Summer Larson vulnerable.
Extremely vulnerable.
That is why Mike Dolan Jr. steered Jim Dieter in her direction.
PROFESSOR SUMMER LARSON WAS hunched over an 1854 oil on canvas painting of “George Washington Rallying the Troops at Monmouth," that lay horizontal on two wooden horses. With a skill gained over her 22 years, she carefully removed years of accumulated grit from its aged canvas. As curator of the University of Pennsylvania Art Collection, she had no reason to be on the floor performing the ‘dirty’ work in art speak. She had over 20 employees who specialized in everything from forgery to art restoration. It would have been easy enough for her to assign one of them to finish the tedious task. However, she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, and it also had the secondary benefit of taking her mind off her personal problems.
Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4 Page 7
