Besiege (SAI Book 4)

by Lea Hart

  “Less than ten minutes.”

  “Good thing I talk fast.”

  Handing her a fork, he winked. “Eat and enjoy your meal. The real test will come when we walk into the Sistine Chapel.”

  ***

  Stazi walked slowly along the Borgo Santo Spirito, looked out to the Piazza San Pietro, and smiled at the children in line at the gelato truck. “If I wasn’t about to burst, I’d suggest a gelato.”

  Hank gave her a smile and then shook his head. “Honey, ten minutes ago you made me swear that I wouldn’t let you eat anything else until tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah…that’s right.” Shrugging, she gazed at the Basilica di San Pietro. “We’ll be on a plane all day tomorrow, so it shouldn’t be hard.”

  “Back to reality…are you ready?”

  “Not really. I wonder what Ivan the Terrible has been doing with all his free time?”

  “According to Lucky, he stops by your place once a day and looks around. It’s surprising that Sergey or Firtash haven’t made more of an effort to track you down. Not that they would have any success, but still.”

  “I’m surprised they’re not all over you like a cheap suit. I’d think they would’ve figured out who you were and been crawling all over SAI trying to figure out what we’re up to.”

  “Oh, they know my name because all they had to do was run the plates on my SUV. My face is on the company website, along with a short bio. It’s all innocuous information and tells very little about me or anyone else who works for the company.”

  “If I googled your name, what would I find?”

  “The picture from my high school yearbook and my picture from the Naval Academy.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. I don’t believe in social media and my career with the Navy is classified, so all anyone will see is the supergeek that I was when I was eighteen.”

  “I bet you were a hot and sexy supergeek.”

  Letting out a snort, he gave her a get real look. “No, I was just a regular geek.”

  “So, when we go back, it’s going to be more of the same, right?”

  “Sergey Belikov is about to make a play and it somehow involves Firtash. What that will ultimately mean is yet to be seen. As far as Lucky can tell, all Firtash is doing is spending a lot of quality time with his lawyers. Maybe the Feds are getting closer to indicting him or the Spanish government is closing in. Whatever it is, it’s keeping him close to his house.”

  “Are the audio discs still working?”

  “Lucky told me this morning that at least five are still operating. Your name hasn’t come up, so we don’t know what his next move is going to be.”

  “Guess we’re going to find out soon enough when we get home.” The weight returned to her shoulders and she tried not let it overwhelm her. All she could do was live her life and pray that Hank kept the worst of it away while Lucky figured out exactly why a couple of Russian mobsters were interested in her.

  Looking into the fading light, she prayed whatever it was that was out there would resolve itself soon. “Ready to see the Sistine Chapel?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  ***

  Stazi and Hank stood next to a private entrance and waited for the guide to check everyone in. Stazi had arranged for them to be a part of a small VIP tour of the Vatican museums. They had three hours and got to skip the lines completely. They were going to be able to see the hidden corridors and some secret Vatican rooms like the Niccoline Chapel, the Apollo Belvedere statue, and perhaps the Gallery of the Candelabra. They also were going to have a private tour of the Sistine Chapel after the doors were closed to the public. Normally, there was no speaking inside the chapel, but the guide was going to be able to give his commentary.

  “So, what are we seeing?” Hank asked as he looked around.

  “It changes each time, based on the availability of the secret rooms. We’ll probably see the Bramante Staircase and possibly the Sala Degli Ori, which is the gold room. It’s home to some impressive papal jewelry and precious Etruscan jewels. If we get to see the Niccoline Chapel, then you’ll get to see the gold that was brought back from the travels of Christopher Columbus.”

  “How long do we have in the chapel?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “Guess we need to look fast and soak in as much as we can.”

  “Not having a horde of people around is going to allow us to enjoy the sacred space without people shoving their elbows into us.”

  “Honey, I’ve never had an elbow shoved into me. People tend to keep their distance and that’s something you can enjoy as well from here on out.”

  Holding his arm, she looked up into his eyes and smiled. “There are a lot of things to enjoy about you and a lack of pointy elbows is the least of them.” The sexy smile he bestowed on her made a shiver run down her back despite the heat.

  “Are you talking sexy before we walk into church?” he asked.

  “I might be.”

  He ran his hand over her shoulder and under the strap of her sundress and grinned. “Hurry up, then, and get to the good stuff before we walk inside.”

  “I think I’ll just save it until we’re back in the hotel. That way I can show you. I know you prefer actions over words, so it’s best that I just wait.” A low growl was all she heard in response. Patting his arm, she saw their guide motion that it was time to go in. “Ready to get your art on?”

  “Sure, honey. Give me a minute and I’ll scrub my mind of all the dirty ideas that I have for you. No need to walk into the Vatican with the pictures I’ve got rolling around in my head.”

  “Probably a good idea.” Adopting a prim posture, she tried to do the same. Not that God wouldn’t understand. After all, he’d made the beautiful man standing next to her, and probably wanted her to appreciate him.

  And appreciate him, she did.

  ***

  Feeling the last of his release wash into Stazi’s body, Hank let out a groan. “Whatever you did to me, promise you’ll do it again in another twenty minutes.”

  “I’m wiped out,” Stazi responded as her hand slid across his soaked chest. Her head fell against his heart and she went limp.

  “Rome was good to us.”

  “Sure was,” Stazi mumbled. She rolled off and lay on her back with her arms flung wide. “When I looked at ‘The Last Judgment,’ I saw it in a whole new light.”

  “What do you mean, honey?”

  “Of the three hundred figures in the painting, half of them looked like you.”

  “The naked ones or those that were draped in cloth?”

  “The naked ones. When I first saw you at the beach, I thought you looked like the Trojan warriors that adorn Vatican City, but I was wrong. You are pure Michelangelo. You could have been a model for all those muscled men that adorn the masterpiece.”

  He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against her skin. “Are you saying that you spent the precious thirty minutes we were allowed in the Sistine Chapel looking at the naked figures?”

  “Don’t judge me. I know all about the depiction of the second coming of Christ and the final eternal judgment by God and all of humanity. I noted the souls of humans rising and descending to their fates. Trust me, I didn’t miss it. I simply took a moment to appreciate that the drapery painted to satisfy an uptight pope had been removed during the restoration. It was strictly professional interest that made me study the many nude male angels.”

  Letting out a laugh that could be heard on the other side of the garden, Hank had never enjoyed a rationalization more. “And during your professional perusal, you noted that they looked like me?”

  “Yes, I did.” Rolling to her side, she gave him a smile. “But you have a lot more going on”—lifting a finger, she pointed to his groin— “down there. Either you’re really well-endowed or Michelangelo didn’t feel that part of the anatomy needed to be fully represented.”

  “We are now talking about the size of my cock as it compares to the coc
ks of angels in a world-famous painting?”

  “Technically it’s a fresco, which is a technique of mural painting that is executed upon freshly laid plaster. Water is used as the vehicle for the pigment to merge with the plaster. The painting becomes an integral part of the wall.”

  “Well, I’m glad that we have that cleared up.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I thought you looked more like the angels that ascended to the left as opposed to the ones that descended to the right. You were definitely part of the newly saved.”

  “Guess I can’t ask for more than that.”

  “The work was controversial from the moment it was unveiled, both for the amount of nudity and the muscular style of the bodies.”

  “Which is why you were looking at the naked angels and thinking they looked like me?”

  Sitting up, she rested her hand on his chest. “Absolutely.” Climbing back over him, she made sure she was exactly in the right position. “There is a fallen angel in my bed and I think it’s time I took advantage of the situation.”

  Moving his hips, he gave one long thrust so that he was buried tightly in her body. “I thought you said I was one that got to ascend to heaven.”

  Rocking back and forth, she smiled. “Sure, honey.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, flipped them over, and lifted her leg in one motion. “Let me show you what heaven looks like.”

  “Please do.”

  Moving in long, powerful strokes, he allowed them both to have a glimpse of the divine.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Thursday, June 22

  Chicago

  Stazi walked through the back door of the Art Institute and filled her lungs with the familiar scent of the museum. Waiting to go through the security line, she checked the wall clock and prayed jet lag wouldn’t take her under by the afternoon. They’d been home for three days and she hoped the worst of it had passed.

  Today was the first day they were going to begin the process of examining the museum’s Modiglianis. The first painting to be examined was “Madam Pompadour,” which was created in 1915. It was considered an important piece of the collection, but it wasn’t her favorite. It lacked the pathos that was often associated with his work and instead seemed to be dominated by a weird ironic detachment that didn’t make any sense.

  She’d often wondered if the personal relationship the artist and subject shared had something to do with the expression of amusement worn by the sitter. Beatrice Hasting was an English poetess and Modigliani’s mistress when she sat for the painting, and perhaps they were having a laugh over something.

  Stepping up to the security person on duty, she held up her hands and was scanned from head to toe. Once she got the all clear, she grabbed her bag and made her way down the hall toward the workrooms. Her phone buzzed, so she slipped it out of her purse and read the text from Hank. What a romantic he’d turned out to be. He’d told her to have a good day and added a heart emoji.

  Not ten minutes had passed since he dropped her off at the museum and he was already sending her sweet texts. And emojis.

  Several weeks ago, he had no idea what emojis were and now he was a regular user. The fact that she had to install them on his phone and show him how to use them was pretty darn funny and something she liked to give him a hard time about. Sending a quick text in response, she added a couple of kissing emojis and hoped it gave him a chuckle.

  She had done a quick sketch this morning of a fallen angel with Hank’s face and slipped it into his bag. When he discovered it later on, she hoped it made him think of their last night in Rome. Feeling her cheeks heat, she decided that recalling those memories might not be the best idea when she was about to walk into a room filled with her colleagues.

  Clearing her throat, she filled her mind with the face of Amedeo Modigliani and got her professional face together. As she walked into the workroom, she was operational. It was a word that Hank had used often, and she had adopted it, using it whenever she could. Which, according to him, was too often. Apparently, someone couldn’t be operational when smooching, and she wasn’t exactly sure why.

  Whatever.

  She was operational right now and ready to begin examining the Modigliani.

  ***

  Stazi stood with several colleagues waiting for the tech to set up the infrared camera. The Modigliani was on a stand several feet away and they were about to use an imaging technique called infrared reflectography. It was going to allow them to examine the painting using light in the near infrared region of the electromagnetic spectrum, which was just beyond visible.

  Basically, they were going to see what existed underneath the layers of paint and reveal the hidden details, and get a glimpse of the history concealed below. Conservators often used this technique to discern compositional changes made by the artist in the course of painting and also be able to recognize when a canvas had been reused. Observing and documenting these steps in the evolution of a painting enabled scholars to understand the artist’s working methods and objectives.

  The state-of-the-art technique employed a hyperspectral camera capable of breaking near-infrared light into hundreds of narrow spectral bands. The senior imaging scientist at the National Gallery of Art in DC had customized the camera for the high sensitivity requirement of conservation work, and the results were amazing. Hopefully, the improved visualization results that were a mathematical manipulation of the data would allow them to accentuate features from earlier paintings while suppressing those from later on.

  What they were doing today was the first step of hundreds that they would put the painting through before finally cleaning and stabilizing it for its trip to the Tate next year.

  The next step in the process would involve a computerized method that identified the artist by analyzing individual characteristic brush or pen strokes. Adding this step to the process of authenticating a painting was applauded by some and derided by others. A computer couldn’t replace humans, who employed a certain amount of subjectivity in their art assessments, but it was valuable.

  The reason the Art Institute had decided to add the use of computers was that recently a painting long thought to be an imitation of the Dutch painter Jan Vermeer was found, after close scientific analysis of the pigments and technique, to be most probably genuine.

  In the best-case scenario, the field of conservation was a hybrid of old-world techniques and the latest advancements in science and technology. Sometimes it took a computer to tell them about the brush strokes, and sometimes the best way to determine if a painting was authentic was to do a chemical analysis of the pigments in the painting. It wasn’t the preferred method because it required tiny samples to be removed from the painting, but the method did show if the pigments would have been available at the time the work was allegedly painted.

  Right now, they were firmly on the side of technology as everyone watched the images from the camera come up on the large monitor. Stepping forward, everyone held their breath as they waited to discover if anything lay beneath the woman in the silly hat.

  ***

  Stazi sat at one of the large work tables and read the description of the painting in the original catalogue raisonné that Ambrogio Ceroni wrote. For years, auction houses believed that if the painting wasn’t included in Ceroni’s catalog then it wasn’t authentic. Which was problematic because it was originally produced in 1958 and then updated in 1970. It was considered the bible of Modigliani and had almost messianic status in the art world.

  But scholars now accepted that it was incomplete because it didn’t include works Ceroni never saw, including those from the United States. Looking at the stack of books to her left, she realized she had a lot of reading to do and needed to consider the voices of scholars like Christian Parisot, Marc Restellini, and John Tancock. As the newest member of the team, she was expected to do the heavy lifting when it came staying current on research.

  Hearing voices in the hall, she wondered if donors were being give
n a tour of the underbelly of the museum. It wasn’t unusual for the director to bring patrons who had given large donations for a view of what happened behind the scenes.

  She stacked her papers and was about to find someplace else to work when a group of a half-dozen people entered the room. Giving the people her best professional smile, she stood.

  Then felt it immediately slip away when she noticed Dmitry Firtash toward the back of the group. What in the hell was he doing here and why was he giving her that smile? She slipped her phone into her pocket and tried to act normal as the director explained the Modigliani project.

  Did Firtash know she would be here? Was that why he decided today was the day to see the museum?

  Too many questions skittered through her brain, so she did the only thing she could and pretended that everything was fine. The director introduced her to the gathered group and when she had to shake Firtash’s hand, she felt sick to her stomach.

  Whatever the man wanted from her was not going to happen and she wondered what he would do when he accepted that fact. The way his eyes absorbed every detail of her face and the firm way he held her hand let her know that he wanted a piece of her. “Mr. Firtash, what brings you to the Art Institute today?”

  “My darling Stazi, I thought it was time to see how my donations were being spent.” He firmed his grip and took a step closer. “I’ve missed speaking with you. When I tried to contact you at work, they told me you were out of the country. I hope you enjoyed your trip.”

  “It was lovely. Thank you for asking.”

  “Did that brute of a fiancé take you somewhere nice?”

  To say she was startled by his comment would be an understatement. Hank Coleman was the very opposite of a brute. He was smart, educated, courageous, and one of the finest men she’d ever met. Dmitry Firtash with all his billions was just a polished turd with possible sociopathic tendencies. Stepping away, she yanked her hand free and crossed her arms. “Hank and I enjoyed a lovely trip. He’s such a perfect man and hardly ever leaves my side.”