Thief of Always

by Kim Baldwin

  The very next day, as they were packing to flee, the colonel returned with the police. It was that image Manfred’s mother had burned into his brain. The colonel, at the door, pointing. The words, “That’s him.”

  Less than two months later, Geert Wolff was convicted and put to death. Manfred’s mother had done her best to provide for him, but he’d suffered a wretched childhood. Raised in poverty, and ostracized by neighbors and schoolmates who wanted to distance themselves from their own Nazi pasts, he’d grown into a man obsessed with righting a horrible wrong. And though it’d taken more than six decades, perhaps there was a reason. For he now had the power and money to rectify this injustice, and the right kind of friends to call upon.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the leader of Arische Bruderschaft. the Aryan Brotherhood, Berlin’s most powerful under-ground neo-Nazi group.

  *

  Amsterdam

  “I’m freezing my ass off,” Nighthawk complained. He was waiting outside in the dark blue Volkswagen Passat they’d rented at Schiphol Airport.

  “This shouldn’t take long. All the files are very organized,” Allegro said. She’d succeeded in getting into Hans Hofman’s office with little effort.

  Nighthawk yawned loudly in her ear. “Jesus, this has been a hell of a long night. I’d like to get some sleep eventually.”

  “Eventually being the key word.” She skimmed through the attorney’s files. “I’m hoping we get lucky later.”

  “I’d say you got your share of luck last night.”

  “I’ll admit, that one is hot.”

  The memory of that soft neck against her lips made it difficult for Allegro to concentrate. In those brief moments, so close to Kris van der Jagt, she’d almost forgotten herself and she still wasn’t sure why. Something in the countess’s eyes had lingered with her, a sadness that piqued her interest. She’d found herself wondering why, on such a festive occasion, Kris seemed so uninterested in her own party. Her father’s death, obviously. But then why not cancel? Why surround herself with people so absorbed in their own lives they didn’t care enough about their hostess to wonder why she’d slipped away to be alone?

  Kris van der Jagt had the loneliest eyes Allegro had ever seen.

  “Got anything?” Nighthawk prompted and she forced herself back to the business at hand.

  “Blueprints to the house in Haarlem.” She took out her small digital camera. “According to this, it dates back to the sixteen hundreds. The place is huge. We’d better get going if we want to search the place before she arrives from Italy.”

  She returned the file to its folder in the lawyer’s cabinet and extracted a leather-bound journal. Untidy handwriting covered the first page. Amsterdam 12 April, 1939. Ik vrees dat ik morgen weg moet. De Duitsers komen eraan… Allegro continued to leaf through, reading lines here and there. Berljn 16 December, 1946. Hij wist dat ik hem had herkend…toen ik de diamant zag…

  “It’s her father’s war diary, and there’s mention of the diamond in here,” she relayed, photographing each page. Pressed for time, she only snapped the first pages that referred to the diamond. Much of the early part of the journal dealt with Jan van der Jagt going off to war. In later pages the gem was mentioned over and over. The references made no sense to her when skimmed out of context. Someone had been recognized, Jan had seen the diamond, and later he referenced that it was in his possession. There was no hint about what he’d done with the gem.

  “If tonight doesn’t pan out, I’m going to have to come back here and photograph the rest of this,” she said, packing up.

  “Let’s hope we just find the stone. I hate reruns.”

  *

  During their half-hour drive to the van der Jagt estate outside Haarlem, Allegro studied the blueprints she’d photographed. “These are dated 1975. That’s when they did some renovations to the tower.”

  “Tower?” Nighthawk stole a quick look at her. “What is this place, a castle or something?”

  “Twenty-three rooms, your rectangular square two-story, with a cellar. The tower is a four-story square, added later to the front corner of the house.”

  “Is there a safe?”

  “Maybe. According to this, it’s in the cellar. Built in. Pretty traditional with these old homes.”

  The estate was in the countryside, out of sight of the nearest neighbor but close to the road. They parked the car a short distance away behind some brush and approached on foot. The house was whitewashed brick with light gray brick accents around the rectangular windows, and a charcoal slate roof. The tower had a dome top the same color, with a tall wind vane in the shape of a V, currently pointed east. Low hedges along the front had been planted in an elaborate pattern of rectangles, but their once-perfect symmetry had suffered from long neglect, as had other topiary around the place. There were no vehicles parked outside.

  Adjacent to the house and tower was a long, narrow building of dark brown brick. It was clear from the wide, arched wooden doors spaced along one side that the structure was designed to house livestock, probably horses. There were no signs of current occupants. Several motion detection lights were positioned at the front of the house and a security camera was aimed at the front door. A glance over the six-foot wooden fence around the back confirmed a similar setup at the rear of the house.

  “That looks like the best access point, if we don’t want to have to cut power.” Allegro pointed to a second-floor window of the tower, reachable from the roof of the barn. With daybreak fast approaching, they didn’t want to alert the countess or any staff that someone had broken in, just in case they needed to return.

  With a boost from Nighthawk, Allegro climbed up and peered through the window to see if there were any cameras. When she found nothing, she studied the glass and frame with her penlight. It didn’t seem to be wired, and to her relief no alarms sounded when she jimmied it open. The window gave her access to what appeared to be a small sewing room, furnished with an older machine, dressmaker forms, baskets of yarn, and other relevant sundries. The place had a musty smell, as though it hadn’t been used in some time. She proceeded through the room with caution, careful to surveil for security devices. She spotted a camera at the end of the hall she then entered, but it wasn’t turning, nor was the light on alert.

  “I can see cameras and sensors, but they’ve been deactivated,” she told Nighthawk.

  “Sun’s coming up soon,” he reminded her unnecessarily.

  “Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the kitchen.” She saw another camera, also not working. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would they disable the security if they had something this valuable in here? Either because the diamond’s not here, or…” She paused to consider. “Well, the family’s up to its eyeballs in debt. Maybe they eliminated their security monitoring to cut down on expenses.”

  Allegro used the blueprint to make her way to the front of the house, where the door to the cellar was located. Every room she passed was accounted for on the schematic. She stayed close to the walls, ticking off the doorways against the picture on the back of the camera, until all of a sudden it didn’t make sense.

  “This is strange. I’m supposed to be standing in front of a room that’s not here.”

  “It’s an old map and a four-hundred-year-old house. How accurate can it be?”

  “Yeah. You could be right.” Continuing to the end of another hallway, she found the door to what the blueprint indicated was the cellar. It was locked. Once again, she took out her pick and opened it with little effort. “I’m about to enter the cellar.”

  The underground level was very dark, so she turned on a small headlamp. The cellar was huge, extending under most of the many rooms above. But despite the room’s immense square footage, the family had managed to jam it full of a variety of treasures and trash. There were old paintings and hunting decoys, broken pieces of furniture, bicycles and Lord knew what else in endless boxes and barrels. Alle
gro glanced into the nearest container. It was filled with tubes of acrylics, spray cans of paint, and well-used camel hair brushes. One of the van der Jagts was obviously an amateur artist. She wondered if it was Kris.

  “Whole lot of junk down here. Don’t these people ever throw anything away?” She studied the camera blueprint again and turned toward the wall behind her. “Okay, good news is, I found it.” The built-in metal vault was not just old, but ancient, with a locking mechanism she’d never come across before, though she’d seen something similar in a book during her EOO training. The safe was covered in cobwebs and its door was ajar. “Bad news is, it’s bare.”

  “Someone beat us to it?”

  “No, it’s not even locked. From the looks of it, it hasn’t been used in years.”

  “Then you’d better start with the rest of the house,” Nighthawk said. “Dawn is an hour away.”

  “You know, you have to quit with the human sundial thing. I’m capable of telling time.” Allegro made her way back to the first floor, pausing to examine the wall she’d passed on her way to the cellar. She knocked experimentally. The dull thud of her fist sounded like concrete. She continued to knock along the wall until she came to a spot that sounded hollow. From the small pack she was carrying, she withdrew a portable radar scope. About the size of a telephone handset, it could see through twelve inches of concrete. When she held it in front of the wall, solid objects showed up as green shapes against the black screen. She could clearly make out a small room not much bigger than a walk-in closet, maybe six by four feet. Inside was a rectangular object about the size of a safe. “Son of a bitch. I knew it.”

  “What do you have?”

  “I’ve found the safe, but I can’t get to it.”

  “She’ll be here soon.”

  “Keep your shorts on.”

  When she’d eliminated the three interior adjacent walls as possible access points, she made her way back to the cellar. Negotiating her way through the junk to a point directly beneath the walled-in room, she directed her headlight up to study the ceiling. It was low enough to reach by standing on a chair. The concrete above her was new and in stark contrast to the surrounding ancient brickwork. This had obviously once been the way to get in and out of the hidden room, but the entry had been sealed up in recent years, just like the one in Venice. There had to be an alternative entrance. But where?

  “Check something for me,” she told Nighthawk. “Go to the southwest corner of the house and make sure there’s no possible hidden entry there from the outside.”

  “Roger that.”

  While he searched, she headed to the den and skimmed through the documents in the desk, looking for any reference to the diamond or the safe.

  “Nada,” Nighthawk reported back. “And the clock is ticking.”

  “I’m gonna punch your clock if you don’t keep quiet and let me work.” She picked up a handwritten note on the lawyer’s letterhead, about repairs to the mansion. Reading it, she began to formulate an idea. “Coming out,” she informed Nighthawk.

  As she headed back toward the tower, she glanced at her watch. It was seven thirty a.m. in Amsterdam. Eleven thirty p.m. in Colorado. She grinned. With luck, Monty Pierce might already be asleep.

  She got him on the phone as soon as they were back in the car and safely away from the estate. “I’ve located the safe, Monty, I just need to find a way to get to it.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you, of all people,” the EOO Chief replied. His voice was groggy. “Good work. You can tell Nighthawk I want him here in forty-eight hours. I need to him to get ready for another job. I’m sure you can handle this alone.”

  “In other words, I’m to remain here solo, without eyes and ears on the outside. An open target of sorts.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  *

  Hans Hofman wanted to arrive at the van der Jagt estate before the handyman he’d hired, so he could get a good look around the place and prioritize what needed to be done. As he approached the gravel drive he was surprised to see a woman walking alone in the same direction. American, he guessed from her faded jeans, hooded sweatshirt, and baseball cap. As he drove past, he glanced at her face. She was older than the typical vacationing student seen on the streets of Amsterdam. Probably in her early thirties. He parked in front of the house and got out, but remained where he was, staring at what was once a grand example of seventeenth-century Dutch architecture, now a worn and faded vestige of its former self. He couldn’t believe that Jan had let it come to this. There were no other cars, so Kris had evidently not yet arrived from Venice.

  The woman from the road stopped in front of him and offered a cheerful greeting. “They told me in town that I could rent a horse out here, real cheap,” she said after he’d mumbled a hello. “Is this the place?”

  “The family used to own horses, but they were never for rent.” Hans was pleased his assessment had been correct. Her accent was distinctly American.

  “So this is not your house?”

  “No. It belongs to a dear friend.”

  “Maybe I should ask him.”

  Allegro took a couple of steps toward the house. She knew the elderly man had to be Hans Hofman. In the note left inside the mansion, he’d indicated that he’d be by the estate today, and his appearance confirmed everything she knew of him. He’d served in World War II, which would put him in his eighties, and he wore the type of conservative business suit common to those in the legal profession. His large nose and lack of any discernable jawline evidenced his Dutch heritage.

  “That won’t be possible. My friend passed away a month ago.” Hofman’s attention was back on the house. “The house now belongs to his daughter. She’s due to arrive today.”

  Allegro stood beside him and they both stared up at the house. It was obvious he’d once been very close to the owner. Pain and sadness were evident in his expression and slumped shoulders. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “It’s a beautiful house.”

  “It used to be. It’s falling apart now. She simply can’t afford it, but so much needs to be done before she can sell it.” He said the last more to himself than to her.

  “It’s on the market?”

  “More or less, but she can barely manage to pay for the repairs to get a decent price on it.”

  “You know, in the States you can have cheap handymen come in and do wonders. Maybe she could try that,” Allegro suggested.

  “It’s not as simple in the Netherlands. Officially, hiring someone who isn’t licensed is not legal.”

  “Unofficially?”

  Hofman smiled at her eager tone. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were looking for work, young lady.”

  “The wisdom of your years would make that assessment correct.” Allegro produced her most charming smile. “I came here a month ago. Started out in Amsterdam and thought I’d spread out, know what I mean? Anyway, I want to stay here for at least another month and I’d rather spend my cash on something more interesting than hotels.”

  “I see.”

  “So…I figure if you need help and I can provide that help…well, in my book that’s serendipity.” She stuck out her hand. “The name’s Angelica Whitman. Call me Angie.”

  “Hans Hofman. Well, Angie, you look strong and healthy enough. Are you handy?”

  “Carpentry, painting, plumbing, roofing, some landscaping, and electrical work. You name it, I can do it.”

  His smile got broader. “You don’t say.”

  “I don’t even require much in the way of payment. I’m good with a room and a meal now and then. So, do we have a deal?” she pressed eagerly. “I mean, you can cut me loose if it doesn’t work out.”

  “I think we have a deal. And if you need transportation, you’re welcome to use Jan’s bicycle. It’s in the barn.” Hofman reached into his pocket for a set of keys. “Why don’t we have a look inside? You can tell me what you thin
k.”

  Before they could move, a van with a logo painted on the side pulled up and parked next to them. The driver, a blond, sturdily built man in his thirties, got out and greeted the lawyer.

  “Angie, this is Jeroen,” Hofman said, shaking the man’s hand. “You’ll be working with him.”

  Chapter Six

  Kris was absolutely and thoroughly exhausted to the bone, physically and mentally. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she could see that she looked it as well, with dark circles under her puffy eyes. She’d had to shoo the last Carnival guests away so the movers could get started, and the cleanup from the festivities had taken all the energy she could muster.

  Returning to the Haarlem estate was not something she was looking forward to. Memories of the last time she was there, after her father’s funeral, were still too fresh and she dreaded the idea of all that had to be done to fix up her childhood home before it could be sold. But her current fatigue exceeded her misgivings. All she could think about was how wonderful it was going to feel to finally lie down and sleep.

  She was driving her father’s Renault Clio, a far cry from the luxury cars he’d favored in more prosperous times. Her mind flashed to the many times she’d ridden this stretch of highway in the backseat of his Jaguar, her eyes stinging from the smoke of his cigar. Almost unconsciously, she cracked the window. There was never any conversation during their outings as a family. Her father brooked no distractions when he was enjoying himself behind the wheel of one of his sports cars. But although he was able to tell by the slightest noise if anything was amiss mechanically, he never had an ear for anything she or her mother had to say.

  Kris pulled into the drive and parked. As soon as she did, her body, as if awaiting its first opportunity to really relax, went leaden. She had two large suitcases with her; the rest of her things were being shipped from Venice. Gathering the last ounce of her strength, she hauled the bags through the front door and across the foyer toward the salon. The bedrooms required climbing stairs. The salon had a nice, inviting couch. When she turned the corner into the front room, however, she was so tired it took her a few seconds to realize the furniture had been moved to one side. The floor was covered with white dust and chunks of some kind of material. She was still trying to figure out what the debris was when she was blindly tackled from the side and sent flying. Her bags left her hands and she crashed against the wood plank flooring so hard it knocked the wind out of her and sent a flash of pain shooting up her elbow to her shoulder.