Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4

by Francis Joseph Smith

  Bortnikov called in the Presidential guards from the anteroom. “Take these crates back to the airport and make sure they reach the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg tonight. And be careful.”

  He then approached Sherinko with an out stretched hand. “There is plenty more where these came from. We just have to follow James Dieter and his wife.” The beauty of the plan is they will do all the work and we collect the prize.

  Sherinko shook his hand and smiled. “Handle them any way you want. I don’t care. Either way, they’re dead.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Present day: Collegeville PA

  Phoenix Correctional Institute

  Charles “Chuck” Denny, walking papers in hand, watched as the prisons black iron gate swung majestically open. Dressed in the same clothes he wore the day he started his sentence, a pair of faded dungarees and a worn tee shirt, he walked out never looking back.

  Eian stood waiting for him and waved him over to the stretch limousine he hired for the occasion. He handed Chuck a cold bottle of beer and then hugged him.

  “Don’t hug too hard,” Chuck said in a strong south Philly accent. “I did just get out of prison. Might mean we are engaged,” he said lightheartedly.

  “I can see prison didn’t take away your sense of humor.”

  “I needed something on the inside to keep me going.” Chuck put the cold bottle up to his lips, and in one long swig emptied it of its golden liquid. He then handed the empty bottle back to Eian. “Now Jim wouldn’t go to all of this trouble to get me sprung if it weren’t for something really important. So where is the great James Dieter? I was expecting his ugly ass to pick me up.”

  Eian handed him another cold one. “We can talk in the limo on the way back to Philly.”

  “Hold on a second. Before I get in that limo, you need to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Eian nodded. “Fair enough. Jim potentially has a job for you. One that involves a big payday. Enough so you can retire. He said you could think of it as your very last job.”

  “Okay, you piqued my interest. Who would I be working with?”

  “Summer Larson. She works for …”

  Chuck cut him off. “I know who Summer is. If she is involved I have a feeling this is an art related job. Something high-end.”

  Eian nodded.

  “Theft or forgery?”

  “A little of both.”

  “Summer knows several art forgers. With her connections as University of Pennsylvania Curator, she is familiar with some shady characters. On the forgery side of the house, she knows people who can pop out a copy of a masterpiece in a day.”

  “So, you in?” Eain asks.

  Chuck put the second bottle of beer to his lips and tilted his head back, drinking it all in one swig. He then tossed it onto the grass lot outside the prison. “Hope they can’t throw me back in jail for littering.”

  “I doubt it. They have bigger fish to fry.”

  A sly look appeared on Chuck’s face. “This car go past any strip clubs? Its been a long two years since I‘ve seen a beautiful woman. Hell, for that matter, any woman.”

  Eian knew they had him. “Get in. I’m sure the driver can find a few.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Present Day: Moscow, Russia

  Alexander Bortnikov summoned Sergei Liugo, the head of Russia’s military intelligence service, commonly known by the Russian acronym GRU, to his office.

  Bortnikov rose from his desk to greet Sergei, shaking his hand firmly, then ushering him over to where two plush leather chairs sat in front of a roaring fire. “Sit down my friend,” he said.

  After his discussion with Sherinko, Bortnikov was quick to realize he required just the right specialists for his operation to succeed. In addition, he knew only the GRU were the only organization who could handle such a delicate mission. The GRU, with their main responsibilities laying in suppling intelligence to the Russian president, had just the right mix of highly trained personnel at their disposal. That and they were familiar with performing dirty work when required.

  After pleasantries were exchanged Bortnikov wasted no time. He began to lay out an intelligence operation he envisioned in the West, one that would focus on the Americans, James Dieter and Mike Dolan. Bortnikov even supplied the locations the subjects would visit courtesy of a well-placed source. When he finished he leaned over and picked up a bottle of Vodka from the floor. Beside him, on a side table, were two small crystal glasses. He poured generously into each, handing one to Sergei.

  Bortnikov continued. “There is to be no official sanctioning of the operation. Your people obviously have protection at any of our embassies, but are on their own once they leave the grounds.”

  “That is to be expected. My people know the risks of the job.”

  He raised his glass in toast. “To getting back what Stalin originally planned to steal in 1945.”

  They drained their glasses. Bortnikov refilled them.

  Sergei spoke assuredly. “I will put my two best operatives on the job. I have a husband and wife team that should blend in nicely.”

  “Good, very good, Sergei. I knew I could count on you. Speed is of the essence. I need you to have the operation up and running within the next 24 hours. From what our insider tells us, our foes will be moving very swiftly. We will have to be in place before they arrive.”

  Bortnikov once again raised his glass, looking directly at Sergei. “To, your, health,” he said, emphasizing each word.

  Sergei understood the true meaning of the toast.

  Succeed or you will be dead.

  WITHIN AN HOUR Sergei Liugo had his two best operatives, the husband and wife team of Yuri and Lana Velismo, standing at attention in front of his desk. They had been pulled from an operation tailing a possible spy operating out of the American Embassy.

  In less than ten minutes he explained the operation in full detail to them.

  “You will be in Switzerland by tomorrow,” said Sergei. “You will meet our main GRU contact at our Embassy and he will outfit you with anything you may require. By then we should also have additional information available on the two Americans you will be surveilling.”

  Yuri and Lana simply nodded.

  “If you have to eliminate either one of these people, don’t plan on coming home. We want this to be a clean operation. Do you understand me? Clean! The President will disavow you if otherwise. He has no desire for an incident with the Americans. They will just go and eliminate two of our people in retaliation.”

  “Understood, sir,” they both barked mechanically.

  Sergei knew they would follow his orders to the letter. They were both ex-military. Yuri was a ‎former Special Operations Forces, 3rd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade operator. Equivalent to the British SAS or American SEALs. His wife, Lana, was once a noted physicist with the Rocket Forces. Now she operated as an assassin within GRU’s foreign department with six kills to her credit.

  Nether relished failure.

  “My I ask a question, sir?” inquired Lana, still staring straight ahead.

  Sergei smiled at Lana. He envied Yuri. His wife was both smart and beautiful. “But of course,” he replied. “And please, stand at ease, both of you.”

  “What if they fire upon us?” she inquired. “Can we engage?”

  Sergei shook his head. “You should not provide them cause to fire on you. You are not to be seen nor heard, just observe them until the time comes when you can relieve them of our product.” He stood and walked around to where they both stood. “But if they do show hostile intent, I would use some of that hand-to-hand combat training you both are so well known for.”

  With that, he pointed towards the door. “I wish you both much success. Enjoy Switzerland, I hear it’s wonderful this time of year.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Philadelphia PA

  University of Pennsylvania

  Summer cleared one of the chairs in her office of a stack of paperwork, looking for a free spot before finall
y giving up and placing it on the floor. “I thought computers were supposed to be our salvation and do away with paperwork?”

  Jim looked around at her windowless office, then the papers stacked on the floor around the room. He counted at least six empty styrofoam coffee cups on her cluttered desk and possibly a frameless Picasso. “Your office looks worse like a rats nest,” he chided her.

  She motioned for him to sit. “The maid hasn’t been here in weeks. She might even be buried under some of this clutter.”

  Jim waited until Summer took a seat behind her desk before continuing. “I have a straight out of the gate question for you. As head curator of one of the largest university art endowments in the world, I have to know how you came across the dark side of forgers and art thieves?”

  Summer pondered her response for a few moments. “Those type of people gravitate toward the arts. They tend to frequent the museum to view the art or attend one of our many free lectures given by our graduate students. They can’t stay away. It’s in their blood.”

  “Like a hit for a junkie?”

  “Exactly! I once had a person who volunteered to assist in our restoration area. It is a dirty job and each year our budget restraints always have us in constant need of volunteers. This particular person said he just wanted to be near the history, the artists and the many stories their pieces tell. A real history buff. History we have, money not so much. We performed a complete background check on the guy. Came back squeaky clean. No reason to doubt his intentions. He volunteered with us for almost 10 years. Great work ethic. Always volunteered for the dirty assignments. Come to find out the guy was stealing pigments to make his own paints, and stealing canvases’ to paint on. Not your ordinary pigment or canvas mind you, some of our special ones are from the 1700 and 1800’s. A forger’s dream. A master forger could beat the standard artwork testing due to them having access to original pigments and canvas. All due to our first University President, Ben Franklin, himself a printer and sometime aspiring artist. He was also a notorious spend thrift. He used to buy in bulk to cut costs. We still use original pigments and canvas he procured to help in restoration.”

  Jim was dumbfounded. “I can’t believe you still have original supplies from hundreds of years ago. Don’t they tend to expire?”

  “Great question. I thought the same until I dealt with our paint expert. Actually, he is a Doctor of Color Science Research. And no, I did not make that title up.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No, serious. There is actually a Doctorate decreed in the field of Color Science. I call him Dr. Paint. Anyway, a quick education in paints. Now paint as we know it wasn’t produced commercially until the mid-1800’s. Up to that, artists mixed their own paint by grinding pigment into oil. We still have pigments and oils from the 1700’s. Painters back in the day use to mix it fresh every day since it had a tendency to harden after a few hours. Older paints consist of small grains of pigment suspended in oil. To the naked eye, it appears smooth. On a microscopic level, particles of pigment are suspended in oil. Think of fruit in a Jello mold. Then contact with the air causes oils to oxidize and crosslink. The paint sets and hardens over time with different pigments drying at different rates.” She paused for a few seconds. “You getting all of this?”

  Jim smiled. “So I think what you are telling me is because of your vast stock pile of paints, the university can not only restore the paintings but also we have the means to make forgeries? Forgeries that can fool almost any expert?”

  Summer nodded. “You hungry?” She said. Before he could respond, she was leading him outside the building. Once outside, Summer pointed toward a line of food trucks or as the locals referred to them, Roach Coaches. “I love the Chicken Curry from this one particular truck. Do you mind?”

  “Lead the way. This is your territory.”

  Summer walked up to a battered panel truck covered in large Chinese characters from top to bottom. The area was empty due to the lunch hour rush ending over an hour ago. “Ni hao,” she said to a middle-aged Chinese man who smiled at her from his perch in the trucks window. “Hello.”

  “Jim allow me to introduce you to Mr. Zhang Wei. He makes the best Chinese food in all of Philly.”

  Jim nodded to the man.

  “Ms. Summer set me up in food truck business last year,” Zhang Wei replied in halting English. “We do very well. She very good to my wife and me.”

  Summer placed an order for two chicken curries and pulled Jim aside to a picnic table to await their food.

  “You set this guy up in business? Aren’t you the nice little refugee helper. Didn’t picture you as a big humanitarian.”

  “Cut the crap Jim. It was either that or report him to the police. You see that guy, Mr. Wei, he was my volunteer.”

  “You mean…”

  “Yep, you just met the art forger. This guy has done everything from Michelangelo to Rembrandt. Of course courtesy of my labs products.”

  “I’ll be damned. And you didn’t involve the police?”

  “No. I didn’t think it was right. He didn’t sell any of his paintings, he just wanted them for his own collection. When he first showed me, I was floored. I couldn’t believe the quality of his work. Of course I confiscated his works to use as teaching tools. In return, I provided him with this opportunity.” Summer pointed to the truck. “But he also owes me. He owes me big time. And from what he has shared with me, he has friends who can help.”

  Zhang called out to Summer. “Food ready.”

  Summer and Jim walked up to the truck. “Mr. Wei can we talk privately?”

  Zhang said something to his wife in Chinese and exited the back door of his truck. “You will like my curry,” he said to Jim.

  “I am sure I will.”

  Summer indicated for Zhang Wei to sit at the picnic table. “Mr. Wei, remember last year when I didn’t turn you in to the police for stealing my pigments and canvas?”

  He looked to the ground in shame. “Yes, and you were always so nice to me. It was a bad time. I love to paint. Especially Old Masters. They are so elegant.”

  Summer nodded in agreement. “Well, we need your help. Jim and I have some potentially lucrative work for you. Art work. Forgeries to be exact. Of course you would have full use of my lab.”

  “And you will be paid generously,” Jim interjected.

  He looked at them as if someone had returned his long lost dog. His eyes suddenly teared up. He continued in his broken English, “I will gladly assist you. I owe you so much.” He then pointed to his truck, his wife waving at them. “You name time and place.”

  Jim pushed a piece of paper across to Zhang. It contained a list of 15 of the world’s top missing paintings from World War II, a thumbnail picture beside the name. “Do you recognize these paintings?”

  Zhang studied them for a few minutes. “I recognize all but these three,” he said, pointing to the three. “I studied at the National Art Institute of China. Very prestigious. I have much knowledge on the timeframe of these works of art.”

  “I’m sure you have, Zhang,” said Jim. “Could you do a forgery of each? Given enough time?”

  “Of course I could,” He replied as if insulted. “I could also have three other artists assist with the work. He contemplated the list for several more minutes. “If we have full access to your materials, I would say three days, maybe four, tops.”

  Jim smiled at Zhang’s confidence. “I also have a man that is being released from prison this week. A forger. Really a master forger. I want him to help you with the artists’ signatures and the paintings Provenance on the reverse side. We will require the forgeries to pass any inspection.”

  “I will await your instructions. When you are ready let me know. I will contact the others.”

  Summer touched Zhang’s hand. “I will reach out to you tomorrow to get started.”

  TWO PICNIC TABLES AWAY sat a man in green doctor’s scrubs. He had ordered food from another lunch truck when Summer and
Jim approached the Chinese food truck. He discretely pointed a one-inch listening device in the direction of where Jim, Summer and Zhang sat. A clear wire ran from the device to his ear, enabling him to listen to every word they said. When the discussion with the cook from the white truck was complete, he tossed a full soda can and a half-eaten burger in the wastebasket. He then pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialing a number from memory.

  “They are up and running,” he said in guttural Russian. “Put our people in-place to watch their next move. But don’t harm anyone. At least not yet. Their time will come.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Philadelphia PA

  Airport Embassy Suites Hotel

  Jim strolled into the living room portion of the hotel suite from his adjoining room. An older man, in ill-fitting clothes, with a salt and pepper goatee and a dour face accompanied him. The older man almost fit the mold of your average middle-aged male, minus the paunch.

  “Everyone,” said Jim rather loudly, trying to get them to settle down. He could see they were enjoying the free mini-bar he provided. “I would like to have your attention please.”

  Nora, Summer, and Zhang Wei stopped their discussions midsentence. “Must be important to stop the Happy Hour,” said Nora. “Who’s your friend?”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt your Happy Hour but I would like to introduce a new member to our team, Charles “Chuck” Denny. Chuck is our famous second story burglar and master forger. This gentleman has paintings hanging in top museums and galleries around the world. And the museums don’t even know they are fake.”

  “You better watch out, after that introduction he might want to charge us more than he is slated to make,” said Nora.

  Everyone laughed aloud.

  Chuck decided to take a seat where he could keep his back to the wall but still have a clear view of all in the room. After two years in prison, he still had trust issues.