© 1992 by T. Davis Bunn
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
Ebook corrections 01.22.2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7088-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
All scripture quotations, unless indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version ®. NIV ®. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.© Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society. www.zondervan.com
Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates
Reviewers acclaim T. Davis Bunn’s novel
The Maestro
“The Maestro is a wonderful story of God’s hand bringing spiritual and creative seeds to full fruit. All of us struggle with how to best offer our talents to God. This is a powerful story of that struggle, and will encourage anyone dealing with these questions. It is truly a book with vision.”
MARTY MCCALL
First Call
“In The Maestro, T. Davis Bunn shows a fine gift for story-telling. He weaves together the external events of a person’s life with an inner spiritual journey, and combines a seriousness of theme with a splendid sense of humor.”
REVEREND PAUL S. FIDDES
Principal Director
Regents Park College
(Baptist Seminary)
Oxford University
“If a fiction book can get an ‘A’ rating, this one does.”
PATTY ECKARD
Choice Books
“The story is powerful, carefully researched, and well-developed. Gianni’s personal struggle mirrors those of many young people, and the guidance he receives is guidance for the reader as well. This book would be an excellent choice for persons for whom music is a priority. It is one of the best novels I’ve read in a long time.”
JOAN RAE MILLS
Provident Book Finder
“The Maestro does a very rare and beautiful thing—it lays bare the tenuous relationship between a man’s gift, and the God who placed that gift in him. The world in which these characters move is as real as any that Dickens ever created.”
GILBERT MORRIS
Author of the House of Winslow Series
“You are a very good writer. Your descriptive passages are poetic!”
JAMES G. MARTIN
Governor
State of North Carolina
Selected as one of the twenty “Essential Reading” novels—along with books by Bunyan, Milton, Austin, Dickens, and C. S. Lewis—by Colin Duriez for the European Christian bookstore journal.
This book is dedicated to
my father
Thomas D. Bunn
with love
and thanks for the divine grace
that has made us friends.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Endorsements
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books by Author
“My son, if you accept my words and store up my
commands within you,
Turning your ear to wisdom and applying your
heart to understanding,
And if you call out for insight and cry aloud
for understanding,
And if you look for it as for silver and search
for it as for hidden treasure,
Then you will understand the fear of the Lord
and find the knowledge of God.”
PROVERBS 2:1–5
“Until a man has found God and been found by God,
he begins at no beginning, he works to no end.
He may have his friendships, his partial loyalties,
his scraps of honor. But all these things fall
into place, and life falls into place, only with
God.”
H. G. WELLS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As with Florian’s Gate, antiques described in these pages, including the medieval chalice, do indeed exist. Prices quoted here reflect either recent purchases or estimates.
Information on reliquaries was garnered from a number of sources, and fashioned to suit this story.
As to the Amber Room, all information given in these pages leading up to the end of World War II—including its label as the Eighth Wonder of the World—is true.
The search continues . . .
CHAPTER 1
Jeffrey Allen Sinclair worked hard at maintaining his calm. This bank vault was the closest he had ever come to being entombed.
“You oughtta give me some room for maneuvering, kid.” The buyer was a silver-maned gentleman whom Betty had introduced only as Marv. His accent was New Jersey, his manner brash. “One point one mil plus change is kinda steep.”
The Swiss bank’s central underground vault was tucked discreetly behind the safety-deposit chambers, and reminded Jeffrey of a fur-lined cave. Plush maroon carpet, toned to match the thousands and thousands of burnished metal boxes, covered every available surface—floors, walls, ceilings, private inspection booths, even the wheeled tables used for carting security boxes back and forth. This padding sucked sound from the air, leaving a brooding oppressiveness, a sensation that human passage here was barely tolerated.
The Rubens portrait of Isabel of Bourbon was a splash of life in the deadened chamber. Recessed lighting fell with vivid clarity on the painting, leaving the viewers and the rest of the room in shadows. That and the painting’s obvious mastery of execution lent the portrait a singular power.
“That was the agreement,” Jeffrey said, feeling as though the walls were eating his words. “We’ve done our part. We’ve had an expert authenticate a
nd appraise the painting, and we’ve sought no competing bids. In return, as we told Betty, we expect no negotiation on the established price.”
The painting had been entrusted to him by Dr. Pavel Rokovski in Cracow, to be smuggled out of Poland. Jeffrey was instructed to sell it as quietly as possible to someone who would respect the Polish government’s need to keep the sale very private.
“Buy it, Marv,” Betty said. An antiques dealer who had done business with Jeffrey on a number of occasions, she projected a polished self-assurance unaffected by their surroundings. “If you don’t, I will.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Marv sighed, reached into his coat pocket, and drew out a single-page banker’s draft. “Can’t shoot a guy for trying.”
Jeffrey accepted the draft, counted the zeros, read the words, resisted the urge to kiss the document. “Maybe you two could decide on the transport arrangements.”
Betty inspected the tall young man with evident approval. Since Jeffrey had begun working at Alexander Kantor’s antique shop in London eighteen months before, she had taken great pleasure watching him grow in the trade. She replied, “That’s already taken care of.”
“Yeah, the lady said you were for real; she did all the detail work before we got here.” Marv shifted in his leather-lined seat. “Got something I wanna ask you, kid.”
“Jeffrey,” Betty corrected. “The young man’s name is Jeffrey. He’s just done you a great favor, Marv. The least you could do is try to remember his name.”
“Taking over a mil offa me is a favor?”
“Giving you the right to buy a Rubens at any price is a favor, and you know it.”
“Okay, Jeffrey, then.”
Betty rose to her feet. “Well, Jeffrey, I owe you one.”
“Seems to me it’s mutual.”
She shook her head. “You took me at my word.”
“I trust you, Betty.”
“I’m sure someone else has paid me such a nice compliment, but I can’t remember when. Can I buy you lunch?”
He glanced at his watch. “I don’t think there’s time. I’ve got a plane back to London at two. Alexander’s expecting me.”
“I’ll walk you out, then, if that’s okay.”
“It’d be great.”
“You’ve already taken care of the export documents?”
He nodded. “They’re with the bank manager. He’ll get a confirmation on this check and hand them over.”
“That’s it, then.” She turned toward the automatic door, asked, “You ready, Marv?”
“We’re right behind you,” Marv replied. He waited for the door to sigh shut behind her, then said, “You’re okay, kid.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No muss, no fuss, just like the lady said. I like that.” He was a well-groomed man in his fifties, with the look of a silver-maned wolf. Not a fox—a fox was too sleek an image, too polished. But a winter wolf, yes. Jeffrey could easily picture Marv emerging from snow-covered woods to howl at the moon. “The lady tells me secrecy’s top on your list with this one, am I right?”
“It would help us a lot if the painting effectively disappeared, yes.”
“Say no more, kid. And don’t you worry. Where this painting’s gonna go, it might as well stay buried down here in this vault.” He gave the portrait another long look, nodded once. “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s get outta here. This place is giving me the heebie-jeebies. Tomb of Crazy Eddie the Carpet King.”
On their way past the long rows of gleaming metal drawers, Marv asked, “You got anything else like this hanging around?”
“This is the first painting of world-class standing I’ve ever handled,” Jeffrey confessed.
“Who said anything about paintings?” He stopped their forward progress by jabbing two fingers into Jeffrey’s chest. “Look, you’re a good kid. You’re smart, you got class, you keep your ear to the ground, am I right?”
“I try.”
“Sure you do. Okay, here’s the thing. My wife, she likes paintings. Personally, I don’t have all that many that keep me interested. This one, yeah, maybe I’m gonna put it in my study—don’t worry, kid, that’s one place nobody but nobody ever goes. But like I said, my wife’s the one who’s nuts over paintings.”
Marv touched the knot of his tie with a manicured hand. “What I’m after, personally speaking, is unique. You with me? One of a kind. Stuff a museum’d take one look at and start picking their jawbones up off the floor. Something like the Wright brothers’ first airplane.”
“I think that one’s in the Smithsonian.”
“Yeah, I wrote ’em a while back. Offered to do my patriotic duty, help bail the government out, take the sucker off their hands. Didn’t even get a reply. They got some nerve.”
“You’re looking for the kind of item that nobody else has,” Jeffrey interpreted.
“See, I said you were a bright kid. Not just anything, though. No miniature Disney castle made outta silver-plated tongue depressors, you with me? It’s gotta be unique, and it’s gotta be class.”
“How about historic?”
“Yeah, sure, history’s okay. But mystery is better. Like the long lost treasures of the great Queen Smelda. The solid gold throne of the ancient fire-worshiping king of Kazookistan. Stuff like that.”
“Last I heard, solid gold thrones don’t come cheap.”
“Listen, kid. You bring me unique and class and mystery all tied up in one little bundle, the sky ain’t high enough for how far I’d go.”
* * *
The Union Bank of Switzerland straddled the Paradeplatz, Zurich’s central square, and was connected to the main train station by the mile-long Bahnhofstrasse. This central pedestrian boulevard was lined with the most expensive shops in all Switzerland. Jeffrey took great draughts of the biting winter air as he walked beside Betty and enjoyed playing the wide-eyed tourist. Fresh snowfall muffled sounds and gave the ancient facades a fairy-tale air. Streetcars clanged and rumbled, roasting chestnuts perfumed the air, passersby conversed in guttural Swiss German. It was a good time to be alive.
As they walked, Jeffrey told Betty of his conversation with Marv. She was not surprised. “Marv was born about six hundred years too late. He imagines himself sitting in his mountain fastness, surrounded by suits of shining armor and all the treasures from his crusading days.”
“More like a prince of thieves,” Jeffrey offered.
“As it is, Marv has had to make do with thirty dry-cleaning businesses and half the garbage-collection companies in New Jersey. He sees himself buying respectability with his art.” She shook her head. “On second thought, he’s probably better off living now. He can twist the secret knob and walk down the stairs that nobody but a builder, fifty or sixty stonemasons, and half of Princeton know about. Then he can sit in front of his latest acquisition and dream about a time when he’d have ridden off into the sunset in pursuit of stolen treasures and damsels in distress, and forget the fact that he’d probably have gotten himself killed. Romantics tend not to survive in romantic times.”
“I didn’t know you were a cynic.”
“Cynic? Me?” Betty laughed. “I just don’t like losing clients with more money than sense. They’re too rare to sacrifice to the call of the wild.”
“Personally, I think the times we’re living in are about as romantic as they can get.”
Betty arched an eyebrow. “You don’t mean to tell me you’re in love.”
“Afraid so.”
“How utterly charming. Who is she?”
“You’ll meet her the next time you’re in London.”
“Not the beauty you’ve hired as your assistant.”
He swung around. “How did you hear about that?”
“My dear Jeffrey, the price of success is that everything you do becomes the stuff of rumors. Is she as beautiful as they say?”
“I think so.”
“Marvelous. Tell me her name.”
“Katya.” Speaking the word was enough to br
ing a flush of pleasure to his cheeks.
“How positively delicious. A hint of mystery even in her name. You must tell me all about her very soon.”
“When are you coming back to London?”
“That depends on you. Do you have anything to show me?”
“We just got in a new shipment last month. No Jacobean pieces, but some excellent early Chippendale. I was going to give it over to another dealer. You know we don’t often keep the English stuff. I could hold it for you, though.”
“Don’t ever let an English dealer hear you call Chippendale ‘stuff.’ They’ll hand you your head. But I must say you are tempting me.”
“There is one other item. I have a friend, well, a dealer in London who comes as close as any dealer I know to being a friend—except you, that is.”
“How very kind you are, sir.”
“Andrew has a piece I really think you’d like. It looks like an early Jacobean sideboard. American.”
That stopped her. “You’re certain?”
“Reasonably. I think it was originally done as a church altar.”
“Then hold it for me.” She resumed her stroll. “If you’re right, Jeffrey, you may have yet another excellent find to your credit.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then there is no harm done, none whatsoever. Jacobean from either side of the ocean is still a highly sought-after commodity.”
“How high should I go?”
She shook her head. “I believe this is an admirable opportunity to raise our level of trust another notch or two.”
“You want me to bid on it for you?”
“I want you to secure it for me,” she replied firmly. “All I ask is that you use your best judgment.”
Jeffrey was visibly rocked. “Thanks, Betty. A lot.”
“You are most welcome, my dear. I believe we are marking the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship. I do not count many as true friends. I’m pleased to include you among them.”
They walked on in companionable silence until Jeffrey asked, “Was there any special reason why Marv hit on me about the big-ticket items?”
Betty smiled at him. “You’ll be pleased to know that Alexander’s mystique is now being attached to your name.”
The Amber Room Page 1
