The Manhattan Deception

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  ‘Not normally, I admit, but I need you to trust me.’ The gaze of her blue-grey eyes met his.

  ‘I’d like to,’ he said, and then nodded towards Cuthbertson who was making ever more agitated gestures to hurry up. ‘But the grown-ups have told me to be careful about talking to strangers.’

  ‘Do the names Pauli or Reiss mean anything to you?’ The colour drained from James’s face and he looked at her with his mouth agape. ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Cathy. ‘Look, I’m busy tomorrow and then I’ve got to go to New Jersey for the day. What are you doing on Thursday?’

  ‘I’ll have to check but I think I’m back here.’

  ‘Keep the evening free. There’s stuff I need to tell you. We’ll have dinner, how’s that sound?’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll call you.’ Cathy had just finished writing down the number of his new mobile when Mick Cuthbertson burst into the room.

  ‘James, you’re on live in twenty seven minutes. If we don’t leave now – ’

  ‘OK, Mick, I’m coming.’

  To James, who’d only seen such things on TV, his arrival that evening at the ceremony to hand over the paintings felt like something from a Hollywood première. A blinding volley of camera flashes greeted him as he stepped from the limo, the door of which was held open by a man in the hotel’s livery. He was met by a skeletally thin young woman in a spangly dress who led him along an alleyway formed by two sets of velvet ropes, behind which was a four-deep crowd. He remembered to look left and right and to smile and wave, but all the while feeling terrified that someone would spot him as the imposter he was.

  She steered him into the hotel reception area and brought him to a halt on a gaffer-tape cross in the centre of a vast Persian rug. A TV camera was pointed at him and a boom mike swung down from above. Had he not been warned that this was going to happen, the temptation to turn and run would have been overwhelming.

  Having answered a string of questions and stated time and again how glad he was to be able to have played a small part in returning the paintings to the heirs of the Goldschmidt family (true); that he was looking forward to the gala dinner (untrue – up there with pins in the eyes) and that he was enjoying his stay in Washington DC (partially true – all he’d seen of the place so far was an airport, various limos, an hotel, journalists and lots of cameras pointed his way); as quickly as it had appeared, the TV apparatus was whisked out of sight and the shiny, underfed woman led the way into another brightly lit room. Set upon a low stage were a row of easels upon which sat four paintings that he recognised at once: reframed and magnificent, looking none the worse for their stay in his uncle’s workshop.

  The fussy, round man from the National Gallery was present too, bustling about and sweating for England. He nodded to James as one might to a servant who has inadvertently strayed too far the wrong side of the green baize door. Silently, James’s wraith-like minder reappeared at his elbow and guided him to a seat in the front row where he waited as the room began to fill up. Last to arrive was the press corps and he was surprised to see Cathy Stenmark among them. She gave him a friendly wave and then disappeared to the back of the room with the rest of the media pack.

  The evening’s entertainment kicked off with a speech from the head curator of Washington’s National Gallery of Art. Then came the turn of the little man from the London National Gallery and during his allotted fifteen minutes he succeeded in almost completely anaesthetising his audience, so that by the time James stood up heads were snapping forwards as their owners jerked awake, hoping that no one had spotted that they’d been dozing.

  To everyone’s relief he kept it brief: stressed how lucky and privileged he felt to have been put in this situation by nothing more than blind fate; praised the efforts and sacrifices of his uncle’s generation during the Second World War and added a few comments on the evils of genocide and totalitarianism. He finished off by thanking the National Gallery in London for their skill in conserving the paintings and for their work with their American counterparts in tracking down the owners of the paintings.

  At a nod from the smiling ghost in the shiny dress, an elegant, middle-aged woman, introduced as Esther Goldschmidt, stood up from the front row, mounted the short flight of steps onto the stage and shook James by the hand. The press photographers moved forward and they stood shaking hands for what felt like forever, gazing awkwardly at one another, each with a forced rictus grin that began to hurt after a couple of minutes.

  At last they were allowed to release their grip and Ms Goldschmidt made a short speech, thanking everybody for their kindness and praising James for his honesty and decency.

  After the ceremony there was a five-minute press and media call – more handshakes with Esther Goldschmidt, smiles for the camera and more plugs for St Catherine’s hospice – before they were allowed through to the adjoining room for pre-dinner drinks. James was whisked from group to group by his new minder and despite doing his best, by the third round of introductions, had completely forgotten the names of everyone he’d met. He briefly caught sight of Cathy who was in conversation with a small man in a well-cut suit. His efforts to work his way across the crowd to join their group were thwarted by his sparkly escort and so he never got a chance to speak to her.

  Everyone else in the room was on their third glass of champagne and when he was ushered through to the dining room he was left still clutching the same glass of water.

  James was seated at the top table and watched as the paintings were brought into the dining room, delicately handled by a team from the NGA, and placed in a row behind the guests of honour on a raised dais. Knowing that he had to make another speech, James stuck to water, but he could tell from the commotion coming from the far left hand table that Cuthbertson and his new chums were under no such limitations. There was no sign of Cathy and he felt a pang of disappointment.

  The second round of speeches was over mercifully quickly and the meal ended at about eleven o’clock. James couldn’t remember the last time he’d attended an official dinner and still been capable of speech this late in the evening, and it was while he was making his way through to the main conference room in search of Cuthbertson that he was aware of a small, sharp-featured man, a few years older than himself who had appeared at his side.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, my name is Vince Novak, very pleased to meet you.’ They shook hands. ‘Can you spare me a moment?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly.’ James recognised him as the man to whom Cathy had been talking during the pre-dinner drinks.

  Novak led the way to a furnished alcove off the main corridor. They sat and exchanged the usual pleasantries, James remembering to say how much he was enjoying his stay in Washington.

  This gave Novak the entrée he was looking for. ‘Are you a follower of American politics, Mr Atkinson?’ he asked.

  ‘I try and keep up, but I must confess that I find all this caucus, primary, delegate and superdelegate business a bit confusing.’

  ‘Well, I think most Americans do too,’ said Novak with a smile. ‘And as I’m sure you’re aware, this is a Presidential election year. What you may not know is that I’m chief of staff and campaign manager for Eric Pauli. It’s my job to ensure he becomes the Democratic Party’s candidate and, of course, our nation’s next President.’

  ‘Yes, he seems to be doing rather well.’ James’s face remained emotionless as he heard Pauli’s name for the second time that day.

  ‘We’re cautiously optimistic, Mr Atkinson. Mathematically, it’s still possible for him to lose the nomination if he picks up next to no delegates in the remaining primaries in April through June, but I don’t see that happening. There are just under seven hundred delegates undeclared and he only needs one hundred and fifty more pledges. The superdelegates are flooding his way too.’

  James was exhausted after a long day of smiling at people and trying not to let his guard down. If this is what celebrity is like, you can keep it, he thought. But No
vak seemed friendly enough and the thought of getting dragged into an all-night drinking session with Mick Cuthbertson didn’t appeal. He was happy to stay and talk to his new acquaintance. ‘So what can I do for you, Mr Novak?’

  ‘Call me Vince, please. It’s very simple really; I’d like to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Ask away, and by the way, my first name’s James.’

  ‘Thanks, James. If it doesn’t interfere with your schedule, Senator Pauli would like to know more about how you came by the paintings. You see he’s from a European background – his parents were among the lucky few who survived the concentration camps – so this is something that’s personally very important to him.’

  James took a sip from his glass of water. On reflection, it was definitely time for something stronger. ‘Sure, I’d be delighted. The only problem is that I don’t have my schedule on me and I know my PR chap, Mick Cuthbertson, has organised things very tightly, so with no offence to Senator Pauli, I may already be fully booked. I do hope he’ll understand.’

  ‘Not a problem, Eric’s a regular guy. He’ll understand one hundred percent. Now I know you’ll have to consult your schedule, but if you’re free, he’d like to invite you for dinner on Thursday.’

  James smiled. ‘Isn’t that always the way? That’s the one evening I know I’m fully booked. On Thursday I’m having dinner with a journalist from New Horizons magazine.’

  Novak raised his eyebrows. ‘New Horizons, eh? You’re obviously a popular guy,’ he said. ‘If it’s not intruding, might I ask who you’re seeing? I know almost all the people who work there – it’s my job to.’

  ‘No, not intruding at all, her name’s Cathy Stenmark. Do you know her?’

  ‘Sure. I know Cathy real well, and hey, do give her all my best. Say, here’s my business card. Eric would really love to meet you and if you can spare him the time, even if it’s only a few minutes, just give me a call.’

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ said James. ‘I’ve never met a member of the Senate before.’

  Novak stood up. ‘The pleasure will be ours.’

  James watched him depart towards the main conference room and sat back down. Then he hailed a passing waiter to order himself a scotch. For almost the first time since he’d got up that morning, he had five blissful minutes to himself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At last, a postcard has been forwarded from CH, addressed to us c/o the White House no less! “Dear Anton and Emma, Herman sends best wishes from Bern. Bad news: Aunt Hilda has not yet arrived. Worried something may have happened to her.” A. inconsolable. Americans asked us over and again what it means. I’ve told them that I have a cousin Herman and an aunt Hilda but they suspect it’s code. They can go on suspecting for all the good it will do them. Imbeciles.

  *

  Cathy was on her way out of the office to meet Pauli when her mobile phone rang. She sat in the driver’s seat of her car with the door open and answered the call.

  ‘It’s Robert Reiss, Miss Stenmark.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘I just wanted to confirm that you have all the details on how to find me tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure, I just sent you an e-mail. I’m getting an early flight from Washington National to Newark and I should be with you sometime round eleven.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. There’s just one thing that’s been bothering me: I need an answer to a question.’

  ‘Sure thing, go ahead.’

  ‘The letter my father sent to Miss Greenberg.’

  Cathy’s blood ran cold. ‘Yes, what about it?’

  Reiss paused to give his words more impact. ‘You haven’t read it, have you?’

  ‘Not exactly, no,’ she said.

  ‘I thought as much from what you said the other day. Why not?’

  The right answer was just out of reach as Cathy scrabbled for it. She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Because Lisa only mentioned what your father had written in the vaguest of terms – ’

  ‘And now it’s gone missing.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. She probably took it home and so it’ll be somewhere with her personal effects. I’d feel bad bugging her parents about it – ’

  ‘Please don’t do that on my behalf. I’m assuming your pretence was an attempt to check my bona fides, Miss Stenmark.’

  His words were well aimed. ‘Well, that’s very kind of you to offer me a get-out like that,’ she said. ‘But no, I plain and simple screwed up by trying to be too clever. Is it still ok for me to come and see you tomorrow?’

  Reiss gave a gentle laugh. ‘Of course it is and thank you for your candour… this time.’

  Cathy felt herself blushing. ‘In this business, when somebody plays straight with us we immediately suspect they’re up to something. I guess the cynicism gets kind of ingrained over the years.’

  ‘Ah, the thin line between realism and cynicism. A favourite topic of mine. Now, before I leave you, I take it you’ve researched what I said about my father and Farm Hall?’

  ‘I have, but I still don’t understand what it’s got to do with those paintings, or Senator Pauli.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. But for now, just remember that the paintings, my late father, another scientist called Max Standfluss and Senator Pauli’s parents all left Berlin at the same time: in the first week of April 1945 and not at the end of the month as the history books will tell you. Now, I mustn’t hold you up any longer, I’m sure you’re a very busy woman –’

  ‘No, please. Don’t hang up, I need to know more.’

  Reiss chuckled. ‘I dare say you do,’ he said. ‘Well firstly, walls have ears and secondly, I’ve decided you’ll just have to wait. It’s your penance for not telling the truth the other day. Good-bye, Miss Stenmark, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘No, wait…’ But it was too late: the line went dead.

  She started the car and headed out into the DC traffic, a thousand questions cascading through her mind, foremost of which was how hard should she press Pauli on the topic of his parents?

  Pauli’s staff had reserved Cathy a parking slot at the Russell Senate Office Building and she arrived at the reception area a few minutes early. Deep in concentration, she was rehearsing for the last time the questions she already knew by heart when a voice jolted her back to reality.

  ‘Hi, Cathy. I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me.’

  She looked up and then gave a sigh of relief. It was Vince Novak. She’d seen quite a lot of him since she’d picked up the Pauli assignment. ‘Do you know, I was so far away that I didn’t even hear you come in.’

  Novak smiled. ‘I had thought of bursting a paper bag behind your head, but that would’ve been juvenile.’

  ‘When did that ever stop you?’

  ‘True, and when did I ever say that juvenile was a bad thing? Oh, by the way, I got talking to a buddy of yours last night.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh yeah, who’s that?’

  ‘The English guy who found those paintings, James Atkinson. I understand you’re having dinner with him on Thursday.’

  ‘My, my, grandmother, what big ears you have. Who told you that?’

  ‘He did. He turned down a dinner date with Eric because he was seeing you.’

  ‘I’ve got better legs.’

  ‘I’ve only got your word for that, I need a closer look.’

  ‘Behave. You’re a married man, Vince.’

  ‘Yeah, so my wife keeps telling me. Anyway, why d’you need another angle on him? He found a bunch of paintings his uncle had been sitting on since 1945, he does the decent thing, he gets his fifteen minutes and then he goes home. Big deal.’

  ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’ She looked at him with her head cocked to one side. ‘Not jealous are you, Vince?’

  Novak smiled. ‘Hey, wasn’t even my dinner date. You’ll have to ask Eric that one.’

  ‘Ask Eric what one?’ Both heads turned to the sound of the voice. Neithe
r of them had heard Senator Eric Pauli come into the room and he stood with his hands on his hips, watching them.

  Cathy jumped to her feet and introduced herself. ‘I’m sorry, Senator. Vince was just giving me a hard time for stealing your dinner guest on Thursday.’

  Pauli smiled. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be politically correct to say that I’m out of my league against the competition, but I guess I just said it. No offence meant.’

  Cathy laughed. ‘None taken, Senator.’

  Pauli showed her through to his office. As she followed him in, the first thing she noticed was that he dyed his hair. Someone ought to tell him that it’s obvious, she thought, or to make a better job of it like Reagan did.

  The office was furnished in late Federal opulent and Pauli showed Cathy to an armchair. Next to it was a table on which stood a photo of his wife and children.

  ‘Before we start,’ he said. ‘I’d like to say how genuinely sorry I was to hear about your friend, Ms Greenberg. We’d developed a pretty good mutual understanding – that’s rare with a journalist if you don’t mind my saying so – and we miss her.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cathy. ‘We all do. And even though I’ve got all her notes and recordings of the interviews she did with you, I hope you won’t mind if I cover some of the same areas, just so I’m 100% sure of my facts.’

  ‘Not a problem. You just take your time,’ replied Pauli.

  She opened up on safe ground with questions about his presidential campaign and what looked like a guaranteed win in the race for the Democratic Party’s nomination. Then she switched to the early days of his business career and he told her about the law firm, Pauli Associates.

  ‘And then you switched into banking?’ she asked.

  ‘Not exactly banking. At first, it was just mutual funds. The other stuff came later. Pinewood County Investments was a perfect turnaround opportunity and I just happened to come along at the right time.’

  Cathy watched him carefully. Although she lacked Lisa Greenberg’s years in the industry, she was well attuned to politicians’ habits, particularly when they wanted to sing their own praises while at the same time making it sound like down home self-deprecation. But for once, this looked like the real thing. She was impressed.