by Dayna Rubin
“What was this contact’s name?” Warren asked.
“Ahh, I shouldn’t say…but seeing how you have developed this unfounded mistrust…”
“Philippe…out with it!”
“LaGrand. His name was LaGrand. He said he would send somebody for the painting.”
“What was his connection to Muehlmann?” Warren asked.
“He said he wasn’t directly connected, it was his father who worked for a Muehlmann. I believe it was Kajetan’s half-brother Josef.”
“LaGrand was affiliated with Muehlmann, the dealer responsible for a substantial amount of organized looting?” Warren asked.
“Yes…it was made clear to me that there was an exchange for work, a promise that was never realized. Payment was to be made in paintings to avoid notice, or any government involvement, taxes and the like, but before they could be paid, the paintings began to be hidden away by the Third Reich, the Linz Museum was no longer viable, and the dealers who had been promised great riches for their involvement were pushed aside, left penniless.”
“I see. Are they going to try to recoup payment now? Well after the war? Why? I don’t understand why they would think they could.” Incredulous to this new development, Warren frowned as he contemplated the actual reasons behind the exchange for the Vermeer.
“How did LaGrand say that his father had come by the album?” Warren asked.
“LaGrand had come to Josef Muehlmann, the half-brother, and demanded payment. They were in Poland where LaGrand was the agent and accomplice to Kajetan Muehlmann; he was also the dealer representing the areas of Paris and Brussels. Josef said that he had a falling out with his brother, both of them were going to be put on trial, each of them not wanting to go to jail, briefly turned on one another. Josef had discovered his brother had an album of photographs, an album he kept hidden from everyone, including him, locked away in the safe. Josef believed since it was important enough to be kept in the safe, it must be very valuable, so he gave it to LaGrand for payment, swearing him to secrecy. Soon after, the war ended and Josef and Kajetan were brought to trial, each serving minimal sentences and released, the album was never brought to light. Until now…” Philippe’s words trailed off.
“If he hadn’t given it to LaGrand, it may have ended up being destroyed,” Warren mused.
“In all actuality, it may have been discovered by the Allied troops, and the deception would have been discovered at that time,” Pascal offered a differing view.
“So that just leaves Roman Abramovich as the unanswered piece to this puzzle,” Philippe said.
“Whether we can trust him with the paintings?” Warren asked.
“No, I think it goes way beyond that. I know people, and I know that something is not right with this situation,” Philippe said.
“So you’ve said.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Linear Perspective
“The pilot informed me we have landed farther away due to the moat surrounding the Mespelbrunn Castle,” Warren informed Philippe and Pascal.
“Right, a moat…” Philippe said.
“It’s a medieval castle hundreds of years old, what did you expect?” Warren asked.
“Well, I didn’t expect we would be travelling the countryside of Bavaria in a billionaire’s helicopter searching for hidden artwork….and… in keeping with that thought, I didn’t think it would have been too much to ask to have been delivered to the door step.”
Warren shook his head and sighed, “What we need to start thinking about is how we’re going to get into the castle.” As the helicopter gently touched down, Warren unbuckled his seat belt.
“I’m told by the pilot, that the castle’s occupants, the Counts of Ingelheim, who only occupy the Southern wing of the castle, are currently on Holiday,” Warren added as he reached for the nylon bag of tools.
Philippe had changed his clothes during the flight and flicked off an imaginary speck of dust off the wrinkle free khakis packed by Pascal.
Warren glanced at Philippe as he hoisted the nylon bag over his shoulder. “Whatever it is we’re going to do, we’re doing it now, so let’s get started.”
“Do we know if pilot man here is going to wait? How are we going to transport the paintings, if any, back to the helicopter? What kind of time are we looking at? What’s our accessibility?”
Philippe continued firing questions staccato fashion until Warren turned to him and said, “Enough!” Toning his response down, he continued, “Those are unknowns we’ll have to address as we acquire more information.”
Philippe shrugged and walked ahead, “I am a man who usually works within a well orchestrated plan.”
“His plan did work very well in reference to the switched Vermeer, when you consider the variables involved,” Pascal said as he walked beside Warren.
Pascal’s slightly shoulder length wavy brown hair flounced as he walked, his contemporary styling consisted of Dockers and polo shirts, generic but steady. As Warren matched his stride, he measured himself next to the man; both having lost their jobs, both intent and focused on their career path, neither having anything further to lose, but much to gain if they accomplished this mission in its entirety.
Somehow, trusting Pascal seemed so much less complicated than trusting Philippe, who was so multi-faceted that each time he faced him head on, it seemed he was only looking at another angle, some other direction not seen before.
The two Russians walked behind them, conversing from time to time. From what Warren could determine, they were taking in the scenery, the terrain and the people they thought lived at one time in this area.
Philippe slowed, becoming level with Pascal and Warren as they walked. “I’m proposing we implement this strategy. I go to the door with my supposed bodyguards stating the helicopter broke down due to a malfunction, they let me in, and we tour the castle, noting any possible hiding place, then go back later and…”
“And what, knock them out, or tie them up while we search their property. Seriously? That’s your plan?” Warren asked.
“I’d like to see you come up with something better.” Philippe challenged.
“I have camera to film paintings we find. I say we’re from Publisher’s Clearing House,” suggested one of the Russians from behind them.
“Bruno and me, Ted, we make it look good for you.”
Warren, Philippe and Pascal looked at one another and laughed. “You know about our sweepstakes for magazine subscriptions?”
“Ya, we enter those too. It’s fun! Ya, we say dat. It work, you will see.”
“Let’s see what we encounter first,” Philippe said doubtfully.
The path they walked upon was littered with stones that crunched beneath their feet at each step.
“How do we enter a castle, by the way. Is there a front door? Not something I ever thought I would need to be informed of…castle etiquette.” Philippe paused as they viewed the splendor of the castle, the image reflected in the still water surrounding it.
“I think we should have called first…” Philippe added as they trudged along the gravel road.
Ted, the first Russian man who had suggested the Publisher’s Clearing House scenario, brushed past them, stepping onto the foot bridge first, followed by Bruno, then Pascal and Philippe and finally Warren who realized they had no other options.
The bridge to the castle was massive, upon closer inspection, the grey stone exterior was weathered and partially covered with ivy. The long narrow windows adorning the front of the castle still held their individual leaded glass panes.
There were several doors, choosing a larger entryway door adorned with a doorknocker, Warren lifted the wrought iron crest and let it fall heavily upon the door, then waited as the sound reverberated through the arched entry.
Ted stood back from the door with the camera perched in front of his eye, Pascal pulled out a pad of paper and a pen from his pocket, which left Philippe, Warren and Bruno standing without anything occupying them.
A teenage boy wearing gardening gloves, touting pruning sheers appeared through the foliage, then vanished again. He appeared to stop to strum something, then resumed his activities with the bush he was attending.
Bruno yelled out to him, but the boy appeared not to have heard him. Meandering their way to reach him, the maze apparent only after they entered, they looked back to find they were deep inside it.
“I see him!” Philippe caught a glimpse of the kid who was in mid-strum on what appeared to be an iphone attached to his belt, ear buds firmly in place, the boy yelled, “Hey” along with something else undecipherable.
“You won a contest!” Bruno exclaimed in halting, limited English.
“I won? I really won?” The teenager removed his ear buds.
“They accepted my entry to the contest?”
“Yes. Big contest. You go. We sign papers inside,” Bruno said.
Philippe nudged Bruno and whispered, “We don’t have papers…”
The teenager leaped into the air and touched down lightly, spinning into a type of happy dance.
He said excitedly, “It’s only the best time of my life. The air guitar is my answer. I order this,” he indicated the iphone, “I get App, ‘Guitar Move’. I say I going to win big, and I win big. I go to Finland. This is good.” The teenager began to thread his way through the maze of tall dense bushes, prompting them to scurry after him lest they lose their way.
“I go to Finland, Ya, I won!” The teenager said to the first person he called, then again to the second, and as they followed him, he continued to place calls until they found themselves in what could possibly be the servants’ quarters. A large expanse of white marble countertops with floor to ceiling white washed wood cabinets, and a deeply recessed porcelain sink that a person could take a bath in constituted the servants’ kitchen.
Warren attempted to speak to the boy between calls, but was unable to squeeze in a word.
Philippe grasped Warren’s shoulder, directing him toward the door of the servant’s kitchen. They found themselves in a vast dining hall, the ceilings towering above them, continuing through the castle, they entered room after room, searching for the tiniest clue.
The door flew open behind them, the faint sound of music drifted toward them from the ear buds left hanging around the teenager’s neck. He stood behind Warren in his low-slung carpenter pants and T-Shirt. A heavy metal band adorned the front of his shirt, one that was probably part of the song line up he had been listening to when they encountered him outside.
“Cool tat, man. Never saw that except on the floor inside one of the turrets. I keep some kind of lamp burning when I’m not in school,” the teenager said with pointed sprays of hair jutting forward, nearly obscuring his eyes.
“Show me the place where my, uh, tattoo is,” Warren told the teen. His shirt had conformed to his back, transferring the dye from his skin to his shirt in the process, revealing the marking from the cave.
“Yeah, I show where it is, not too far from here. Can’t really see it unless the staff rubs in the linseed oil, but I know where it is. The Count and Countess live in South side, they not come here, just me and Inez.”
“What about the lamp you mentioned? There is some kind of special solution, some type of oil you add to the base of it?” Warren asked.
“No, it’s electric now…I just have to check it to make sure the bulb is not burned out, then I replace it. It’s right here.” The young man wasn’t more than eighteen to twenty-one years old, his youthful face showed he was excited at the prospect of going to Finland to compete in the finals of the Air Guitar contest. He seemed eager to pay them back in some way for his success.
“Ahhh, I left the dog outside, and he’s trying to get to the chickens! I go get him.”
“Go, you go, we’ll take a look at the lamp.”
The lamp was indeed lit within the turret, and could be viewed through each window, casting its light across the expansive valley below. The lamp had red glass surrounding it, was much like a large lantern.
“This epitomized the presence of God and with it continually lit, it equates the power of God with the power of light, a symbol for both synagogues and Roman Catholic churches. This is the Lamp of the Eternal Flame,” Pascal said.
“Yes, it is a sacred symbol, one that has been tended to, apparently, which leads me to believe there must be something else here,” Warren said. “A sacred symbol for a sacred space.”
“Didn’t he say that this was also where the image similar to Warren’s tattoo was found?” Philippe said as he pressed upon the walls with his hands, looking for a release lever to a hidden compartment.
“I’ll go to the servant’s kitchen and look for the linseed oil,” Pascal volunteered.
“There’s no time, he’ll be back any moment,” Warren said.
“As we wound our way up the stone stairs to this room, there was a…” Pascal had begun to surmise when they heard the panting of a dog, then the muffled, tinny sound of music.
“You look and see? Great view. The tattoo? It is here, on floor. It starts here,” he stood over the floor board of one area, “and it ends here,” he paced off the unseen marking to note where the marking ended.
The Mastiff had raised onto its hind legs to look out the window, seeing a chicken in the yard, he began barking furiously, then pushed himself away from the window, bounding down the stairs while barking, causing the teenager to follow in quick pursuit, cursing along the way.
Bruno and Warren bent to examine the floor. “Board carved here. Fits like puzzle. Here, like so. We find how to take apart.”
They looked around the room, not finding anything that would help them open the door in the floor.
Philippe looked at the bulb, which presented as a flickering flame. “This looks just like a real flame, it’s amazing how technology adapts.”
Tapestry fabric encased a cord hung from the ceiling, which facilitated the raising and lowering of the lamp.
Warren looked from the lamp to the floor and commanded, “Lower the lamp.”
Philippe unwound the tapestry cord and the lamp dropped a few inches, level now with his head.
“More, drop it down a little more,” Warren called out, excited by the prospect that this could be the way in to a secret compartment, if there was one.
Pascal released the cord and the lamp slid to his waist, parting the floor boards, which opened like a giant puzzle piece, part of the floor board dropping down below, thudding as it hit upon something soft to break its fall..
Bruno put his head down into the cavern, then lowered his upper torso, holding onto the lip of the opening and flipped his lower body to gently land on the floor below.
“Not much room down hear for any more of us,” Warren called out upon joining Bruno.
It was filled with paintings, some rolled into cylinders, and those with frames were stacked together with muslin-covered bricks covering them.
“There’s about the same amount here as there was at Ragnit,” Warren remarked.
“How we get them out of here without alerting the kid?” Bruno said.
“I go. I take care of the kid,” declared Ted.
“Hey, does that camera have a light?” Warren asked. The dim light only allowed them to make out the shape of paintings.
“Ya, tis here,” replied Ted as he switched it on, then handed it to Philippe.
“There’s more here than paintings,” Philippe said as he looked through the opening in the floor, now that it was made visible.
“Yes. Yes, there is,” declared Warren as he switched on the camera and slowly panned the camera light around the confined area.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Abstract Expressionism
“I didn’t think you were going to stop!” Natanya slid into the back seat next to Gage, seeing that Dauphine already occupied the passenger seat.
She had no sooner closed the door than Tsun Jae punched the accelerator, swerving away from the pa
rked car in front of them, to navigate carefully through the city streets, then floored it to shoot out into the fast lane, merging onto the freeway. The small car shimmied and shook as it gained speed. Tsun Jae’s wide spread dark eyes focused on the road, serious beyond measure as she negotiated the car as if she was in a race until they finally reached the exit ramp. All passengers held onto some part of the car, not daring to let go until they came to a full stop at the light.
Dauphine exhaled loudly, pulled her hair back from her face with one hand and reached out with the other to tap Tsun Jae’s shoulder, “Aren’t you bringing us to the National Gallery?
“No, we go to Grandfather’s house first,” Tsun Jae stated.
“No, we need to get to the Gallery Tsun Jae!” Dauphine exclaimed as the car lurched forward, and she once again found the armrest on the door to hold on to.
The house expanded from the narrow entrance, where manicured miniature trees had wound around a slate sidewalk. A wooden shade partially covered a picture window like one eye partially closed, surreptitiously viewing them as they approached. They had been deposited in front of a solid cherry wood door, a silver serpentine handle glistened, as it seemed to pause momentarily in its travels, to resume once they had departed.
Each of them removed their shoes, placing them inside a tray just inside the front door. They remained silent as Tsun Jae beckoned them forward, following her through a myriad of arched doorways, which revealed rooms that were stark and barren except for a randomly placed small rug, cabinet, or straight-backed chair. These furnishings were turned away from them, as if they were the occupants of the house, initially unwilling to greet them, but not resolute in their denial.
They shuffled along behind Tsun Jae, gazing at the glass-enclosed courtyard, the Koi pond centered within, a sand moat surrounded it, the lines of a rake delineated the surface, a carved teak stool was positioned just within, a bonsai tree peacefully grew beside it, and colorful Koi fish shimmered just under the surface of the water.
