Recounting a bit about his own background – how he’d just lost his job in the City, the story of the discovery – only took James ten minutes. The letters of transit, the remaining gold bars and the details of how Bill Todd had come by his finds were conveniently overlooked.
‘The people at the British Museum warned me that this could become a big news story and I might need professional help. What do you think?’ asked James.
‘I’m interested,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘Got anything to back it up?’
James passed him a copy of the inventory created by the National Gallery’s team detailing the paintings, the artists, the rightful owners before the war (where known) and the estimated current market value of each work. He also gave him a CD containing the digital photos of each work that he’d taken during the inventory and conservation process.
Cuthbertson studied the list carefully and then paused for a moment, deep in thought. ‘And your mates at the Gallery think this might make a good media story?’ To James, Cuthbertson sounded and looked more like a night-club bouncer than reputedly the best publicist in the business.
‘Well, that’s what they seem to think from the number of calls they’re getting,’ he replied, feeling even less sure of himself than he sounded. ‘Given that looted art is back in the news and that every single piece is from either Hitler or Göring’s collection, they said I should chat to you just in case it does become a big story.’
Cuthbertson snorted and swung back on his chair. ‘Big?’ James thought he was about to be laughed out of the office. ‘Big? You taking the piss?’ James shook his head in reply and Cuthbertson smiled. ‘It’ll be bloody huge. Take time to set up of course, but handled properly, you can make a fortune out of this.’
James opened and closed his mouth a couple of times but for a moment no sound came out. ‘Gosh, well, I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t thought about the money aspect.’
‘Why ever not?’ asked an incredulous Cuthbertson, ‘It’s the only bloody reason people come to see me. Marketed correctly and properly ring-fenced, the media will pay a fortune for access to you and your story, especially the TV. Then we can get someone to ghost-write a book for you and – ’
James stopped him. ‘I don’t know how to put it, and I know this may sound odd, coming from a trader – sorry, ex-trader – but I hadn’t even considered that anyone would pay me, I supposed I’d, well – ’ he hesitated, ‘have to pay you or something to keep the media at bay. You must think me terribly naïve?’
Cuthbertson considered James’s last remark while leaning back in his chair and looking studiously up at the ceiling as though scanning for low-flying pigs. ‘Nah. Not terribly naïve,’ he said. ‘More like massively and criminally naïve. But you’ll learn. Good job I’m honest, isn’t it?’
James gave a crestfallen nod and Cuthbertson continued. ‘The way it works is that I handle all the arrangements; who you speak to, where, when and for how long. The clever bit is to get them to bid against one another for the privilege of hearing your story. I also handle the cash – and don’t worry, you’ll get a full break-down – from which I take my commission and pass the rest on to you. What you do with it after that is between you and the thieving bloody taxman.’
‘It’s just that I don’t feel comfortable about profiting personally from any of this. If the paintings had been in the family for centuries, then fine. But with these,’ he paused for thought. ‘With these it’s different. The Nazis invaded these people’s countries, stole their belongings, murdered or enslaved them and as a result, I stand to make a fortune. Doesn’t seem right, does it?’
Cuthbertson’s face became serious. ‘Now you put it like that, I suppose it doesn’t play that well, but we can always spin our way round the more unpleasant aspects of the story if it bothers you. That’s all part of the service.’
James shook his head. ‘That’s a degree of cynicism too far for me I’m afraid. But if there is money to be made from this then I’d like it to go to the hospice that looked after my uncle.’
‘You’re the client, it’s entirely up to you,’ said Cuthbertson, spreading his hands.
‘And so you think it’s worth doing, that there really could be money in this?’
The mood lightened and Cuthbertson put his head back and laughed laughed. ‘Yes, really,’ he said. ‘You’ve come to the right place, old son. Like I told you, what you do with the money is up to you. All I’ll say is that we can get you some extremely valuable exposure over here, but where it’s going to be huge is in the States. Now, this is what you and I are going to do…’
Under Cuthbertson’s guiding hand, the focus shifted from the National Gallery and to the human story behind the discovery of the paintings and James’s efforts to return them to their rightful owners. In the hands of his publicist, he was portrayed as a hero for what he’d merely thought of as a simple act of common decency. He was completely unprepared for what came next.
With a little help from James and using information from Todd’s RAF log-book, Cuthbertson set his team to work on researching his wartime service record. Astute and true to his word, Cuthbertson decided straight away that the young Bill Todd of 1945 had to be seen as an innocent abroad, unaware of the significance of what he’d brought home in his metaphorical knapsack. The next task was to transform his relatively unexciting exploits into a heroic contribution to the war in Europe. Any thoughts of him as a looter and opportunist were airbrushed from the public’s mind before they’d even had chance to take root.
***
Trying not to squint into the studio lights and wilting under their heat, James took a last swig of water in a vain attempt to get rid of the dryness in his mouth. A young woman with a clipboard counted down the seconds and as the red “LIVE” signs lit up, a Botoxed and face-lifted presenter flashed his unnaturally white teeth and began his piece to camera. The first few questions were sitters: Mick Cuthbertson had briefed him well and, fighting the urge to get up and run out of the building, James fielded them without difficulty, deftly turning the focus away from what he called his late uncle’s folie de jeunesse to the sacrifice of that lost generation and ending by praising Bill Todd’s conscience in finally confessing to what he’d done.
The inevitable dig about his former profession and bankers’ bonuses came at about question five, just as predicted. Following Cuthbertson’s advice, he kept his feelings on the crisis to himself and stuck to the populist view that all bankers were villains but then again, as a humble equity trader he was as much a victim as anybody else.
Behind the sound-proof glass that looked down over the studio audience and the TV stage beyond, Cuthbertson watched the row of monitors in front of him with satisfaction. ‘Good lad,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘You’ve prepped him well,’ said the producer, taking off her headset. ‘Easy on the eye, too.’
‘He’s shit-scared but it doesn’t show, does it?’
‘No. Quite a trooper your Mister Atkinson. You’ll do all right out of him.’
Cuthbertson shook his head. ‘Silly sod’s giving all his share to charity.’
‘Doesn’t affect your cut though, does it, Mick?’
‘True.’
‘I reckon you could get him on to Newsnight and Question Time. Do you want me to have a word?’
Cuthbertson gave her a cynical look. ‘How much you asking this time?’
The producer smiled back. ‘Oh, just the usual. And before you start bitching, think how much more the US networks will pay after that. It’ll keep you in Scotch for the year and your man’s home for lost puppies won’t go short of dog food.’
‘It’s a hospice actually. The one that looked after his uncle.’
‘Whatever. How many paintings did you say?’
‘Fifty-two.’
‘And how many from private collections?’
‘About half.’
‘Well then,’ said the producer. ‘That’s at least twenty five paydays each time
he gives one back. But you’d better get moving. That’s a lot to cram in before his fifteen minutes runs out.’
Unaware that his future was being weighed, priced and traded, James was now dealing with a question on the laws of Treasure Trove and trying not to imagine the millions of people behind each of the cameras that were pointed his way.
With James’s media profile suitably enhanced and, just as the TV producer had predicted, in the USA the story caught the public imagination. Under Cuthbertson’s skilful guidance, it morphed into a cross between Brideshead Revisited and an Indiana Jones tale. With all thoughts of finding a new job now on hold, James was booked to fly to the US to appear in a series of interviews and also to be present at the handing over of some of the paintings to the descendants of the original owners.
The media circus first pitched its tent in New York, followed by trips to Boston, Chicago, LA and San Francisco, ending in Washington DC. Before setting off, Cuthbertson’s people provided James with a detailed itinerary and an information pack that went into minute detail about the people he’d be meeting, their political affiliations and a long list of things to say and not to say. Also in the pack was a US cell phone, pre-loaded with all the contact details he would need during his ten-day stay in the country.
However, not everyone was happy. In separate locations across the United States, three individuals watched the story unfold with varying emotions. For two of them, the story had the potential to destroy everything they had worked for and for the third, it meant that his family’s hopes that the truth would soon come to light were still unfulfilled.
***
James was met at Washington’s Dulles Airport by Cuthbertson’s US agent. A chauffeur-driven limo took him to a downtown hotel where he was booked into a suite overlooking the Tidal Basin and the memorials. Waiting for him on the desk was the usual welcome pack and a printed schedule, telling him where he had to be and when.
He flicked through his engagements for the following day: a CNN team from their head office in Atlanta at ten, then it was a couple of follow-up stories with the New York agencies; Fox News and Bloomberg. After lunch he was down for a series of press interviews with The Washington Post, Time and New Horizons, followed by more TV slots and then the handover ceremony and gala dinner later that evening. Not much time for sight-seeing he thought.
He kicked off his shoes, grabbed a cold beer from the minibar and, raising a toast to the memory of Bill Todd, wandered out onto the balcony to enjoy the view.
Chapter Sixteen
Flight to Richmond Air Base. Roads, houses, people. Normal life again, can hardly believe it. Two hours by car to new accommodation in town called Alexandra. Military escort. House small and basic but electric light, running water and inside toilet. Even has mail box with “Pauli” already painted on it. After South Dakota this is heaven. Even A. seems more cheerful.
*
At the offices of New Horizons magazine, Cathy Stenmark had spent most of the afternoon preparing for her interview with James Atkinson scheduled for the following day: her research was complete, she’d read the agency feeds twice over and her list of questions was finalised and ready to go.
Also on her calendar, the day after James, was her first interview with Senator Pauli and although she had only met his chief of staff, Vince Novak, a few times she was fast developing a dislike for him. Every other phone call seemed to be from Pauli’s diary secretary to say that Novak had changed the Senator’s itinerary, Novak had arranged a photo call, Novak had slotted the Senator in for an interview with Japanese TV. Novak this, Novak that. She was sure that Cathy would understand. She did on the first five occasions but now her patience was wearing thin. She locked her PC screen and picked up her bag, ready to head for the door when the damn phone rang again: the temptation to let it go to voicemail almost won but she relented and picked it up.
This time it wasn’t the diary secretary: for once, the voice on the other end was male, older, a name she didn’t recognise and didn’t catch. Not for the first time in the last few weeks the caller asked for Lisa Greenberg.
‘I’m afraid she’s no longer with us, sir, I’m sorry to say that she passed away. My name’s Cathy Stenmark, I was a colleague of Lisa’s. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Did you work closely with her?’ he asked.
Cathy nearly asked him what the hell it had to do with him, but curiosity got the upper hand. ‘Well, I’ve taken over the stories she was running, so I guess that’s a yes, Mr – ? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.’
‘Reiss. Robert Reiss.’ He waited as though expecting Cathy to react. ‘She must have told you, surely?’
‘Er, yes, of course, Mr Reiss. Silly of me to forget.’
‘And I take it she showed you the actual letter my father sent her?’
‘Yes, but I must admit that I don’t have it to hand right now.’ Shit! I’ve got to get myself out of this, she thought. ‘Would you like me to call you back perhaps? During office hours maybe?’
The caller’s tone showed distinct signs of agitation. ‘You’re not telling me that his letter is just lying around loose in a file somewhere for anyone to see?’
Oh Christ, what have I started? thought Cathy. ‘Er, no, of course not, Mr Reiss. It’s under lock and key, that’s why I suggested we ought to perhaps, you know, er, resume this call tomorrow.’
The tone of Reiss’s voice changed, agitation now replaced by anger. ‘I’m surprised and not a little disappointed that you’re taking a story like this so lightly, particularly in the light of what’s just turned up in England. And if it helps make your mind up, I believe that my father’s death wasn’t an accident.’ He paused. ‘Not that the police share my suspicions and if no one at New Horizons is interested in what I have to say, then maybe the story would run better in the Enquirer. I think I’ll ask them. After all, at least they take their job seriously.’
That stung. Cathy sat down and put her car keys back in her bag. ‘Believe me, Mr Reiss, I do take this seriously. In the light of what you’re alleging I think it’s probably better that we meet.’
‘We could, but please remember, I’m not dealing with allegations, this is hard fact. For example, every source on my father states that he was at Farm Hall in 1945. In reality he never set foot in the place. Then he’s supposed to have left Germany in June 1945 and I happen to know it was in early April. There’s been a well-orchestrated conspiracy of deception and I have all the details. That’s the kind of hard fact I’m talking about.’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Cathy, who didn’t see any such thing.
‘Now, I’m going to be in Princeton for the next few weeks sorting out my late father’s affairs, so if you want to come and see me I can give you the address and contact details.’
‘Sure. I can’t come over for the next couple of days because I’m interviewing James Atkinson, the English guy who found all those paintings and the next day it’s Senator Pauli – I’ve been chasing him round DC for the last ten days.’
The line went silent for such a long time that she thought Reiss had hung up. ‘Are you still there, Mr Reiss?’
‘Oh yes, I’m still here all right. I was just pondering the wonderful irony of what you’ve just said.’
Cathy bit her lip and cursed herself. The hole she’d dug with her initial bluff was getting deeper by the second. ‘Yeah, I guess you could say there’s a certain irony in all that.’
‘I think Senator Pauli will say it’s much worse than irony when the news breaks. I’m assuming he doesn’t know, what do you think?’
Cathy played for time. ‘Well, I haven’t asked him outright.’
‘Then I think it’s high time you did. And as for the Englishman, I think it’s only fair he should know exactly what he’s found – that’s assuming he hasn’t worked it out already – and that his life could be in danger. Pauli’s could be too, when you think about it. There’ll be no shortage of people queuing up to harm him when th
e story breaks.’
‘You could be right,’ she said, her mind thrashing vainly in all directions, trying to decipher what she was hearing.
‘You seem remarkably calm about all this, if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Stenmark: seeing that it’s one of the biggest revelations since Watergate, probably far bigger.’
This was too much: her brain shut down and her mouth took over. ‘Oh, believe me, I’m not calm. I’m really all butterflies about it. It’s just that I give good calm on the phone, Mr Reiss.’ She ended with a nervous giggle. The caller made no reply and in the silence the crassness of her last statement made her want to shrivel up with shame.
At least he didn’t hang up on me, she thought, and in the exchanges that followed she managed to claw back some shreds of gravitas. The conversation ended with Cathy agreeing to call Reiss back: all thoughts of packing up and going home vanished instantly. She had research to do: then she’d have to try and create a coherent whole from a few scraps of information held together by names and places that for the most part meant nothing to her. It wasn’t going to be easy. She mentally kicked herself for the tenth time: why on earth did I lie to him?
A quick internet search tracked down the late Georg Reiss. Cathy had scanned over the announcement of his death in the Washington Post but hadn’t made the connection. Now she read it again on-line:
“Atom Scientist Dies. Georg Reiss, 94, and father of the A-bomb has died following a fall at his Princeton NJ home. Austrian-born Professor Reiss who came to the USA in June 1945 was a key member of J Robert Oppenheimer’s Manhattan Project team. Without Reiss’s contribution, the Fat Man bomb dropped on Hiroshima would have taken many more years to produce according to Oppenheimer. While working on the Nazi A-bomb project in the closing days of the War, Reiss was snatched from Berlin by the US Army from under the noses of the Soviets, along with fellow scientist, Max Standfluss. Flown to the UK for interrogation at MI5’s Farm Hall in June 1945, Reiss agreed to work for the allies and was sent to the top-secret uranium refinement plant at Oak Ridge TN where he worked alongside such greats as Enrico Fermi, Ernest Lawrence and Arthur Compton. In 1946 Reiss returned to his native Austria where he remained until 1954, returning to this country to join his former mentor, J Robert Oppenheimer, at Princeton University.”
The Manhattan Deception Page 13
