Unfortunately, for Summer, her primary job was pushing paper and appealing to rich benefactors. For years she tried to treat those areas as minor nuisances. And for years the University President and Summer went back and forth in disagreement. Normally she relented, realizing there was a time and place for gravelling. Gravelling and looking the part went hand-in-hand when you were a museum curator. When required she could also dress for the occasion. At 5’10, 132 pounds soaking wet, with long blond hair, many a wealthy patron had approached her at one of the countless University functions, or beg-a-thons, testing her marriage vows. Of course, she innocently ignored them all. Now, in the process of a nasty divorce due to a philandering former husband, she wished she had accepted a few of the opportunities.
JIM DIETER STRODE into the cluttered room, as least that’s what Summer Larson’s secretary called it, looking for Ms. Larson. He was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of emulsion cleaner and varnish in a room that was the size of a three-car garage. The security guard who escorted him pointed over to the corner of the room where Summer was working. “That would be her, sir,” he said. “I’ll just stand over here by the door in case you need anything.”
Jim nodded in thanks. However, he knew the guard wasn’t just standing there for his sake. He wanted to make sure nothing was touched. He immediately understood why as he walked passed and marveled at a Kazimir Malevich, a Piet Mondrian, and a Picasso, each awaiting touch-up or rework. The three paintings alone had to be worth at least $15 million at auction. He stopped to admire the Mondrian with his use of reds, blues and whites. He stood there transfixed for several minutes not realizing Summer Larson had noticed her visitor and walked over to stand beside him.
She interrupted his train of thought. “I think the original varnish should be respected and should never be altered or removed as the artist themselves placed it there. It’s something we try and ingrain into our students, if the artist themselves placed it there then leave it, respect the artist’s technique. Just one of the many teachings here at the university. We have a reputation to uphold at U or P and we don’t want any of our students to ruin any originals in the name of restoration.”
Jim turned to see a women in her early forties but who could easily pass for someone in her thirties. She had a kind of understated beauty; perhaps it was because she was so disarmingly unaware of her good looks.
She pointed back to the painting he had been admiring. “As time passes, oil paintings tend to darken due to the accumulation of dirt and yellowing of the protective varnish layer. Art restoration has always been tricky, as conservationists try to remove buildup without damaging original material. It can be tough to separate the original layers from the gunk with a scalpel.”
“It is all fascinating,” he said. “I would like nothing more than to discuss removing gunk from paintings with you but I know you are a busy woman.” He held out his hand in greeting. “James Dieter,” he said.
“I see you are still the cocky one.” Summer smiled as she gently pushed his hand aside, laughing aloud. “For two people who have met before I would think a hug would be more appropriate. Don’t you think?” Without another word, she embraced him.
Jim was taken back for a moment. “I’m sorry, I truly don’t mind being hugged by a beautiful woman, but have we met before?”
Summer shook her head. “And I thought I was memorable. You really know how to deflate a girl’s ego, Mr. James Dieter. All right, it’s up to me. Think back to your senior year at a Naval Academy Dance. The girls from U of P were invited down due to something about not enough women at the Academy for partners. I guess they did not want the guys dancing with the guys. That wouldn’t look right to the Admirals.”
Jim quickly noticed when she smiled and laughed, you couldn't help but smile along too, even if it was just on the inside.
After several more seconds of him trying to recollect their meeting, his eyes lit up. For a moment he looked embarrassed. Jim shook his head. “I don’t believe this! It is you!”
“In the flesh. Just like I was all those years ago. And you never called. I waited, but you never called.”
Jim held up his hands. “My uniform went into the wash with your number. Honest. I even tried to find you through the school. I tried for a couple weeks before I graduated and shipped out to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL school at Coronado. But that was before the internet and all of those search tools.”
“All I’m hearing is blah, blah, blah. Excuses, excuses. You really hurt me, James Dieter. We spent seven hours just talking when we met. For me, you stuck out. It took me months to get over you. I started comparing everyone I met to you.” She paused for a moment, dabbing her eyes as an old memory surfaced. “You even called me Miss Seasonal. You know, because my name is Summer.”
Jim felt like he walked through the wrong door and couldn’t go back. “No, no. I remember,” he said truthfully. “You haven’t changed a bit. You are still as beautiful as the day I met you. And I did try to find you.”
“It was night when we met, not day, and I have changed. More weight, hair turning gray, not to mention two teenagers and an future ex-husband who find enjoyment in stressing me out.”
Jim pointed to his own head. “Join the club. Some gray. No paunch yet. I just married last year. No kids yet. But the job is stressful enough.”
He was still as handsome as the night they met. She quickly dashed the thought. She smiled once more. “My secretary said it was important. You required the services of an art expert.” Summer paused before allowing her arms to take a sweep of the room. “This is my kingdom. How can I help an old acquaintance who dumped me?”
“Ouch, you don’t give up,” Jim said holding up his hands in surrender.
“My apologies. Last shot, I promise. Seriously, how can I help?”
Jim looked back at the guard then to Summer. “I don’t know how to say this without coming across sounding as if I’m a thief.”
“You’re a big boy. I’m sure you can push through. My advice is to just say it.”
“And you’re still a smart ass.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“All right, here I go. I periodically work in the recovery of lost items. It is literally something I fell into. I won’t lie, I have made a lot of money doing it. Lately most of my work has been associated with WWII items. Specifically, items stolen by the Nazis.”
“Wait a minute,” said Summer. “Weren’t you one of the people who found that horde of Nazi diamonds and gold? I think they called it the Bormann Treasure.”
Jim simply nodded.
“And you gave it all back?”
Once again he nodded. “I was called a fool by a lot of people after that one. A lot.”
“More like a hero. I hear you reunited a lot of families with valuables they had stolen from them during the war.”
“Well, most of it was delivered to their families, since most, if not all died in the concentration camps.”
“You are a decent human being, James Dieter. Most of the people today live by the adage, ‘finders keepers’. Yet you gave it back.”
“Most of it. We did get a small finder’s fee for our time and effort.”
Summer smiled. “So what can I do to help you or your team? I hope it has something to do with buried treasure. By the way, how did you come across my name? Who suggested I could be of help?”
“I can’t say who recommended you. They just said you were the best at what you do, and that you needed the cash.”
“Divorce sucks. Cash I could use. Only lawyers seem to profit from another’s misfortune.”
“So maybe we can help each other? It seems my team and I have reached a point where we need someone with your expertize and possibly access to tools of the trade. Now my team and I have, shall we say, uncovered some lost Nazi artwork worth in the vicinity of $2 billion. We require somebody who could provide some on-site advice on the works authenticity.”
Summer stood staring at J
im, a look of shock gracing her face. “Did I hear you correctly when you said two billion? With a capital B? And, is it legal? Sounds to me like the art should be in a museum.”
Jim nodded. “It’s overseas and in regards to a museum, well, that’s where we require your assistance. All in all it would only require a few weeks of your time.”
Summers curiosity was piqued. How could it not be? This was the dream of every curator. Recovery of lost artwork.
She did not answer with a no, so Jim continued. “The job pays $200k, along with first class hotels. Three weeks tops. Money might help with your teenager’s future college tuition.”
Summer smiled. “Two-hundred thousand? As in Dollars? Not Pesos? Are you sure it’s not the old dump the ex-girlfriend guilt pay?”
“I thought you said no more shots were coming my way?”
“You threw me a softball so I had to swing.”
“Okay, my bad.”
Summer pointed back to her work. “Can you provide me with week to finish this? I just can’t up and leave.”
“A week I can spare.”
“Then you have yourself a teammate.”
CHAPTER 22
Present Day: Moscow, Russia
A rain induced haze intermittently obscured the Kremlin’s distinctive “onion dome” as the early evening showers moved obligingly from one unsuspecting area to yet another. This simple act of nature allowed the government complex to appear in full view, presenting one with a sheer sense of awe when viewed from afar.
The streets were missing its normal traffic. With the upcoming Army Day celebrations, many officials were settling in for a three-day weekend at one of their dachas outside the city’s limits.
Within the walls of the Kremlin, one building stood out from its peers due to the presence of heavily armed guards milling nearby: the Premier’s offices. Russia’s answer to the White House Oval Office. Occupying the entire seventh floor, the Russian Premier’s office was like stepping onto a Hollywood set that blended both Russia’s past and present. Walls lined with Estonian birch, floors covered with hand woven rugs from Turkmenistan, glass mosaics from Siberia, all leading to a hand-built mahogany conference table from the Urals that could easily seat 25 if tasked. At its top was the Russian President’s desk, also hand-built out of mahogany. Together they effectively formed a T-shape. The President’s desk was positioned as if a presiding judge passing judgement of those who would gather around the tables highly polished top. Behind the President’s desk, mounted to the wall, were four stag’s heads, ranging from an 11 pointer to a 24, each shot by the man who now occupied the chair behind the desk, Alexi Sherinko.
The room stood empty except for Sherinko and his Deputy, Alexander Bortnikov. Earlier, Bortnikov’s had his aides deposit two wooden crates on the conference table. Each crate measured ½ meter by ½ meter. He turned to Sherinko. “I have something for you to see, my friend,” he said, his voice cracking with enthusiasm. He approached the first crate, and removed the top. Inside each crate were ten cardboard tubes, each containing a single painting. He reached in and selected a tube labeled Józef Brandt - A Hunting Trip, carefully withdrawing a painting from its tube and unrolling it in front of Sherinko.
Sherinko was a huge admirer of the arts, preferring the Old Masters to impressionists. He even took several art courses at University, studying artists from the 1700-1800’s. He removed his glasses from his shirt pocket. He considered the painting for several minutes, even running his fingers along the edges. “Is this a Brandt?” he said, looking up to Bortnikov for confirmation.
Bortnikov smiled as he nodded. “I thought I could fool you on that one.”
“Never on a Brandt,” he replied. “Look at the brush strokes. The technique. The man was a true artist. I’d say its worth around $40-50 million on the open market.”
Once again, Bortnikov nodded. “You are correct, Mr. President. That is if we could sell something supposedly destroyed during World War II, the great patriotic war.” He pointed to the painting, then the wooden crates. “If I may, a little back story for all of these paintings before you.”
It was Sherinko’s turn to nod.
“As I already mentioned, the whole world thinks this painting disappeared in WWII, along with many others. Let us regress back to the time of the bastard, Stalin. We know he sent out Treasure Hunting Units towards the end of the war seeking to steal anything of value from Germany, Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. Using Stalin’s authority, the Treasure Hunting Units were able to confiscate thousands of pieces of art. The very painting sitting in front of you was stolen in the last days of the war. This is the reason I requested this meeting.”
Sherinko looked up at his deputy, his eyes narrowed. “This isn’t another one of your schemes to strike back at the Americans in some devious way? Is it?” he said, referring to Bortnikov’s last attempt. He put together a plan to undermine the German and American alliance by selling cheap natural gas to the Germans against America’s wishes.
“In a way it is. But please indulge me for a few minutes. It has the potential to be the most lucrative minutes of both your life and mine.”
Sherinko looked down at the painting in front of him. “You said this was stolen?” he said, knowing it came from the vaults of the Hermitage, never having been displayed to the public.”
“Yes, Mr. President, it was, but please keep it. Think of it as a down payment for a venture I have planned. I will do all of the work, and I was hoping you would just provide the resources.”
Sherinko looked extremely pleased as he picked up the painting, admiring it even more now. “Please continue,” he said, his eyes never leaving the painting.
Bortnikov knew the painting sealed the deal. He continued. “My story begins with one of our Army Majors in 1945, during the last days of the war. This particular major was assigned to one of the many Treasure Hunting Units combing through Eastern Europe searching for anything of value. Just before the German surrender, the little thief struck a deal with an American soldier and a German boy whose father was Hitler’s personnel art dealer. Between the four of them, they managed to steal over a thousand paintings from Hitler’s private collection. But our Major was impatient. He was stupid enough to confiscate an Army truck, load up his share of the paintings, and head back to his village in the Ukraine. Of course, the KGB seized him when he approached the Ukrainian border. The case quickly reached Stalin’s attention due to the paintings being from Hitler’s personal collection and the major’s share was worth, at that time, in excess of $200 million American dollars.”
He moved nearer his friend before continuing. “Stalin was able to deal with the Major but not the American nor the father and son team. They were in the relative safety of the American Occupation Zone. They were also wise enough to remove the remainder of the paintings and transport them to a safer location after our major departed. They did not trust him. They knew he would get caught. We actually think one of the partners may have been the anonymous source who notified the KGB.”
Sherinko smirked as he looked at his friend. “Tell me, how did that ruthless bastard Stalin deal with the major?”
“The KGB shot him before Stalin could. But Stalin imprisoned his whole family.”
“The bastard was even more ruthless than I am,” Sherinko replied.
Bortnikov continued. “These paintings,” he said, pointing at the two crates, “they represent only a small fraction of what was stolen. The rest are in the Hermitage’s basement vaults.”
“So how many paintings are we talking about?”
“In just the basement of the Hermitage, close to 300 were originally confiscated from the major.”
“And what about the rest of the paintings? The 300 is only one-fourth of the original collection stolen. What did the German father and son team and the American do with their share?
“That’s why I am here today, Mr. President. One of our people, in the states, just informed us that an American treasure hunt
er named James Dieter is helping the American soldier’s son, Mike Dolan, in possibly acquiring the rest of the paintings.”
Sherinko’s face turned white. “Let me get this straight. Are we speaking of the same James Dieter who stole all of the Bormann gold that was rightfully ours? The same James Dieter that hurt our Hezbollah Allies in Lebanon?”
Bortnikov nodded. “The same person. Now he has an accomplice, his wife. She’s a Pulitzer Prize winning newspaper reporter.” He shook his head. “A newspaper reporter. This is why we have to acquire the paintings. If just to beat that meddling fool Dieter and his wife.”
Bortnikov removed additional canvases from the crates, laying them in front of his boss. “I propose that we allow James Dieter and his team do all of the dirty work for us. They take all of the risks. When they complete their heist we simply slip in and steal the paintings from him. Once we have the paintings, we put them up for auction in areas we know won’t give a damn about the paintings provenance. This way we are not raising any alarms in the art establishment. Another option is to sell them through our security services to private collectors. Focus on specific collectors that will keep the art locked up for their own private viewing.”
Bortnikov pushed another painting closer to his friend. “Think of it. This one, bold, masterful stroke can potentially enrich us close to a billion dollars.”
Sherinko smiled at his friend. He was no idiot. Of course he recognized the potential. However, he also wanted to strike back at James Dieter. “I want this operation to proceed,” he said. “You will have at your disposal, all the usual people and resources. Use them wisely.”
Bortnikov knew the true meaning of use them wisely. It meant to keep Sherinko’s name out of all correspondence, and all blame resides with Bortnikov. Everything. Any leaks and Bortnikov would be dead. Any blowback and Bortnikov would be dead. Sherinko may be his close friend but he would eliminate his own mother for chance at a billion dollars.
Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4 Page 8
