Thief of Always

by Kim Baldwin

  There was no more beautiful view in the world than the one from her balcony. Every morning, she had her coffee here, usually in time to catch the sunrise. If the weather was good, she settled into a lounge chair with her laptop, pausing often to admire the way the sunlight made diamonds on the canal or to listen to the gondolas passing by, their drivers serenading the tourists or regaling them with the rich history of the ancient city.

  The recent upheaval in her life, with the death of her father, the hopelessness of her mother’s mental health, and her critical financial situation, had left her feeling even more alone than ever. And now she was about to lose the only thing in her life that kept her sane. She vowed to mingle with her guests only as much as required tonight, escaping when she could to enjoy, in solitude, the final hours in her precious villa.

  The dress she wore gave no hint of her disinterest in the coming gala. She’d always lived according to form, and it was expected that a hostess at Carnival be the center of attention, with the most splendid and eye-catching costume of all. So she’d chosen a magnificent gown of deep purple velvet, with a high slit up the side to show off her legs and a bustier of gold lace that displayed her high, round breasts to perfection. Her blond hair was pulled up in a French braid and adorned with purple feathers in the same hue as her dress. Because she found the full-face masks so typical of Carnival too warm and confining, she’d chosen a half-mask of gold, decorated with more purple feathers and fine bead pearls.

  At the sound of her name being called, she looked down at the crowd below. Several guests, unrecognizable in their masks and elaborate period costumes, waved up at her as they approached the front door to the villa. She sighed as she waved back perfunctorily, grateful that the half-mask and the shadows on the balcony hid her true feelings. If only for the moment, no one who saw her could distinguish heartache from happiness.

  *

  Allegro emerged from the costume store and stepped down into the boat their contact had supplied. Nighthawk stood waiting for her. “Not a word out of you,” she warned when his stare turned into a broad smile.

  She’d chosen the traditional eighth-century attire of the bauta maschile. Over a white lace shirt and black-and-white filigreed knickers, she wore a black velvet cloak. A matching tricorner hat, white leggings, black buckle shoes, white gloves, and a white half-mask completed the ensemble. Traditionally worn by a man, the costume would allow her to move quickly, and on her five-foot-eight frame, with her small hips and slim build, it concealed her identity well. Her dark brown hair, which normally hung to her collarbones, had been tucked beneath the hat. Unless someone paid attention to the details—the long eyelashes beneath the mask, the feminine curve of her lush lips, the rise of breasts beneath the shirt—she would pass for a male.

  “I was only going to say you look…dapper.” Nighthawk was barely able to contain his laughter. He looked every bit the typical American tourist, with his Boston Celtics jacket and a camera around his neck. “Are you picking me up?” he asked, testing the earpiece as he paddled ineffectually toward the van der Jagt villa.

  “Loud and clear.” Allegro gazed up at the fifteenth-century villa, an impressive showpiece even in a city abundant with splendid, historic buildings. Each architectural detail had been lovingly maintained or restored: the marble balcony with its Byzantine wrought-iron accents, the Gothic arches above the quatrefoil windows and heavy wood door, the delicate traceries etched into the stone of the façade.

  Leaving Nighthawk stationed in the canal, she cruised into the mansion with a half-dozen other costumed guests, through the grand foyer, with its ornate crystal chandelier and wide marble staircase, and into the salon decorated with Oriental carpets and heavy Italian furniture dating from the late nineteenth century. She received no second glances. The olive skin and caramel eyes of her Persian heritage helped her blend with the preponderance of Italians present. Mingling discreetly, she scanned the crowd for the lady of the house, engaging no one but noticing everything.

  When a booming male voice behind her proclaimed, “Buena sera. Kris,” she turned and saw a woman dressed in purple, with her fair hair done up in a braided crown on her head. The coloring and height matched their description of van der Jagt.

  “I’ve spotted Rocky,” she informed Nighthawk, moving away before she could be noticed. Now that she knew where the countess was, and that she was engaged with her guests, it was time to get down to business.

  “I’ve got you,” Nighthawk relayed, tracking her on the navigator.

  She let him guide her down a hall and through a small sitting room to the courtyard, where a handful of hearty guests braved the chill, sipping wine and preening for each other in their elaborate costumes. The courtyard was a private green space shared by the van der Jagt villa and three neighboring homes. It was inaccessible from the outside. Allegro frowned as she glanced about. According to the layout their contact had provided, she should be at the entrance to the cellar.

  “Don’t see the way in,” she said in a low voice. “I’m here, but the entrance has been sealed. It’s all brick, and fairly new.”

  “Damn. Well, he did say these blueprints were thirty years old. There has to be another way down.”

  “I’ll find it.” Allegro backtracked, cautiously opening the doors in the hallway, always conscious of the occasional guest who happened by. A bathroom. A closet. A small guest bedroom. She ducked inside a den. The room was dark, but she could make out a desk, bookshelves, a stocked bar, and two doors. One led to another bathroom, the second to a narrow staircase leading down. “We’re in,” she reported, closing the door behind her and clicking her penlight on.

  The cellar she entered bespoke the age of the villa more than any other place in the house. The walls were ancient brick and the wooden beams above her, obviously hand hewn, were dark and cracked from centuries of moisture and expansion. Allegro inhaled a damp, earthy smell reminiscent of a cave. Built into one side of the long, narrow space were several six-foot-high wooden racks for bottles of wine and spirits. Half were filled. Numerous wood crates were stacked opposite, some with bottles nestling in packing material.

  She was pleased to discover that, though the blueprint was outdated, at least the information about the vault was accurate. The bill of sale, dated 1996, confirmed that the van der Jagts had invested in a freestanding Phoenix safe, a combination dial model, and that’s precisely what stood against the far wall. A newer safe would’ve required more tools than she could comfortably have sneaked in under her cloak. This one needed only her penlight, stethoscope, a pair of latex gloves, and ten undisturbed minutes.

  She worked quickly. The diamond wasn’t there, only a few pieces of jewelry, nothing too valuable, and a thin sheaf of documents. She relayed the bad news to Nighthawk, adding, “I’m exiting now.”

  She put her hat and mask back on and selected a bottle of wine from the rack to explain her presence should someone happen to catch her coming back up the stairs. When she entered the den, she immediately picked up a scent. Lavender. The room was so dark she didn’t see her at first, standing near the window some twenty feet away. It wasn’t until the woman moved that Allegro picked up her location. Eyes adjusting, she made out the profile with the help of the light coming from the window. It was Kristine van der Jagt. The countess had removed her mask.

  “Buena sera, Kris,” Allegro said, deliberately lowering her voice a notch.

  “Kris as in Kristine? Shit. She’s there?” Nighthawk’s voice sounded scratchy.

  Van der Jagt tilted her head, studying her wayward guest, obviously trying to figure out who, beneath the mask, had just addressed her like an old friend. She responded in Italian, hers not quite as perfect as Allegro’s, asking what she was doing in the cellar.

  Allegro raised the bottle and explained, in perfect Italian, “Looking for more wine.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Let’s see you wing this one, slick,” Nighthawk said in her ear.

  Allegro
made a show of studying her costume, then smiled her most charming smile. “Who do I look like?”

  Kris laughed and commanded, “Take off your mask. I want to see you.”

  When she didn’t immediately comply, the countess reached for a nearby lamp. But as soon as her intent became clear, Allegro quickly closed the distance between them and wrapped her hand over Kris’s just as she reached the pull chain. “No.”

  This close, she could make out van der Jagt’s delicate features in the moonlight streaming in through the window. And more, the cleavage formed by the bustier in the dress, the round swell of breasts, the smooth skin of her shoulders and chest. Her perfume, a mix of lavender and something Allegro couldn’t identify, was intoxicating. It was risky to prolong the conversation any further or reveal any more of what she sounded and looked like, but she needed to distract the woman.

  She skimmed her fingertips up Kris’s arm to her bare shoulder, then slowly, provocatively, down her chest to the valley of cleavage. She smiled at the sudden intake of breath she felt and heard. Next, she traced a path across the top of one breast, over to the other, then up to the warm, soft flesh of Kris’s neck. When Kris leaned her head back and closed her eyes, relaxing into the caress, Allegro kissed her at the hollow of her throat.

  “Sei così bella,” she whispered, between kisses. You are so beautiful.

  *

  When Kris opened her eyes, the woman was gone. Something about her—oh yes, she was dressed as a man, but Kris had sensed instantly that the figure was female—something about her had intrigued her at once. The hint of humor and charm in their brief exchange, the woman’s apparent resolve to keep her identity secret, and most of all, her bold yet teasing caresses. It was not her habit to succumb to a stranger, but Kris had melted into the light touch and sweet kisses as though she’d been starving for them. She’d almost folded against the stranger’s velvet cloak when those soft lips pressed delicately against her neck. She could still hear that husky voice repeating, “Sei così bella,” first against her throat, and then on another sensitive spot, beneath her ear. Another kiss had followed, a tongue dancing lightly above the hollow of her breasts. When the lips withdrew, Kris had moaned at the loss and waited, breathless, for more. She must have stood there alone, composing herself, for several minutes before returning to her party.

  She spent the rest of the evening searching rooms and approaching guests with similar costumes, even long after she realized her efforts were futile. Part of her refused to believe that the stranger who had invited her to forget her sorrows, and who’d made her heart pound with the lightest kiss, had left without a trace.

  Chapter Five

  Berlin, Germany

  Saturday, February 9

  Manfred Wolff had a face like a bulldog and a body to match, his arms and legs disproportionately small in relation to his ample girth. When he sank into his leather chair by the fireplace, he filled it completely and his feet didn’t quite touch the floor. He shared his spacious three-bedroom apartment in the city center with his mother, who was sitting opposite in her wheelchair. She had long ago lost her mind to dementia, and her only pastime these days was either staring out the window on the sunny warm days or at the fireplace during the cold German winters. Manfred was happy that the tedious routine of his profession allowed him to concentrate his attention elsewhere, especially now that he needed to take care of her.

  More than ever, his mind was not on balancing someone’s books today. His meeting with the foreign professor who had telephoned was imminent, and he sat in anticipation, staring at the fire, tapping his fingers on the carved wooden armrest. When his mother coughed, he glanced sideways to see if she needed something. She raised her hand as if to say that she was all right. Even in her eighties, frail and emaciated, she was still a strong authoritative figure, the only parent he had ever known. But as strong and determined as she might have been, he never stopped missing the presence of a father.

  As had become his habit in the past year, he studied her features as if to imprint them in his memory. He knew it wouldn’t be long now before she was gone. Once again, he was lost in the family resemblance. Their bodies couldn’t be more different, but anyone could see they were mother and son. Every facial feature, from the dark blue eyes to the round scoop of jaw and upturned nose, was the same. Even the dark brown hair had aged the same way, to a mixture of salt and pepper. The only thing he’d inherited from his father was his stubby height and penchant for obesity. His mother, in her prime, had been tall and svelte.

  Her deterioration saddened him. He knew how much she hated being dependent upon him. She was a survivor, someone to look up to, and he’d spent his life making sure she could view him with the same respect. The chime of the doorbell ended his reverie and he pushed his bulk from the chair to answer it.

  Their visitor was dark haired and dark skinned, in his forties, and dressed in a navy suit, though of inferior material and badly in need of pressing. He seemed tentative and nervous, though he tried to mask it with a professional tone. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, sir.”

  “I could hardly refuse, Professor Bayat.” Manfred led the man to the living room and introduced him to his mother, then gestured toward the couch. “Quite a tantalizing bait,” he remarked as they took their seats at opposite ends. “A valuable diamond that once belonged to my father.”

  “I know this may be a delicate matter, Mister Wolff,” the professor began. “My understanding is that your father acquired the gem during the war from a Jew who was sent to Auschwitz.”

  Manfred tried not to bristle. He was all too aware of how Nazi officers were perceived after the war, and he viewed such carefully worded references as subtle condemnations. “Who has it now?”

  “A woman who inherited it.”

  “Van der Jagt. Yes?” His mother had remembered the name, from the trial, but they’d never known whether the Dutch colonel had a family. Manfred had been certain the man must have sold the diamond long ago, and that it was gone forever.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose who I am representing, Mr. Wolff,” the professor said. “I’m not here to judge your father’s actions, merely to seek the history of the diamond.”

  Manfred bit back an angry response. “Van der Jagt took everything my father had,” he said calmly. “Then turned him over to be tried and executed. My mother, pregnant with me, was thrust into poverty. And you expect me to help you?”

  Professor Bayat looked down at his feet. “Many horrific things happen during war, sir,” he said in a quiet voice. “I do not wish to offend you, or your family. Or stir up unpleasant memories. I am merely an academic seeking to trace the historic significance of this stone.”

  Which might make it more valuable in the end, Manfred concluded, and perhaps that was reason enough to help. His mind worked quickly as he weighed the possibilities opening before him. Like this professor, he needed to know more. If he had to provide some information in exchange, he was willing. His father had told his mother the name of the Jew who’d owned the diamond. Like van der Jagt, the name was forever burned into Manfred’s brain. “The diamond came from a man named Moszek Levin. He was a watchmaker in Prague.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mister Wolff.” The professor got to his feet. “I’ll not bother you further.”

  After he’d shown the visitor out of the apartment, Manfred paced the living room in agitation for a few minutes, then took a folder from the bottom drawer of his work desk. From this he extracted the yellowed sketches his father had done of the wartime treasures he’d confiscated. The diamond had been detailed with exquisite care.

  All his life, Manfred had dreamed of vengeance and now, finally, his opportunity was at hand. His only regret was that his mother was too far gone to fully appreciate their opportunity for justice. Her bitterness over the Dutch colonel’s betrayal and what it had done to their family had eaten away at her like a cancer, just as his father’s beliefs had found nat
ural root in Manfred. Instead of reading him fairy tales, his mother had tucked him into bed every night with her account of the treachery that had kept him from knowing his father.

  During the days of the Nuremberg trials, when Nazi officers were being hunted down en masse and imprisoned or executed, Manfred’s father had done what he could to avoid detection, letting his beard grow and dressing beneath his status. Geert Wolff had made plans to escape the country on a ship bound for America, and on that fateful day in 1946, to anyone who saw him, he was just another impoverished German citizen, heading home with meager groceries. But he had the misfortune to run into the Dutch colonel on the street. He’d known at once, from the look in the colonel’s eyes, that he’d been recognized. He couldn’t remember where they’d first met, or how, but their wartime encounter had been enough that the RAF officer knew him immediately. Two policemen were standing not ten meters from them, and Geert knew the officer was going to call out to them. All was lost. In desperation, he grabbed at the colonel’s arm and hustled him around the corner.

  “Keep silent,” he urged as the colonel’s aide looked on without a word. “I’ll make you a rich man.”

  The Dutch officer shook him off at first. But Manfred’s father had begged. Begged. “Please. My wife is pregnant with our first child. Come with me, my home is not far. Let me show you.”

  It took some convincing, but the colonel accompanied Geert back to the apartment, and in the end, he’d accepted the paintings and other treasures that had once belonged to rich Jews who had tried to bribe their way to safety. The Dutchman took everything, so much bounty that he and his aide had to bring their car to transport it all away. With the wartime plunder went Geert’s most treasured prize, the diamond that was supposed to buy the Wolffs a new life.