Loot
Page 33
"Boss, I can't think of a blessed thing."
* * *
"Then it's set?" Alex asked. "You've definitely landed a job with CIAT?"
"Yes, I have. It's your fault, you know. It was a couple of things you said to me."
"Me, what did I say?"
"You said you believed in people digging in their heels and getting on with their lives, and just pulling themselves up by their bootstraps."
"Are you sure I said all that?"
"That's what I heard. And you also said that when I was chasing down those paintings I was a man with a purpose, and that it did me good. Well, you were right on both counts, so if Christie's willing to give me a chance to do more of the same, I figure I'd better take it."
Alex nodded, watching the swan boats, nearing the end of their season, glide across the lagoon. As the Alps had been a few weeks earlier, Boston was enjoying the last of the good weather; the afternoon was crisp and sunny, with just an edge of autumn bite to the air. For lunch we'd gone grazing at the Faneuil Hall stands—clams on the half-shell, oyster stew, egg rolls, and a shared quiche—and then walked to the Public Garden, where we'd found a bench near the statue of George Washington on a horse.
"It sounds wonderful," she said. "I'm glad."
"You don't sound glad. Don't you want me to do it?"
"You're fishing."
"Well, maybe, but I want to hear you say it."
"All right, I will. You know what's wrong. We've just gotten started knowing each other—I mean really getting to know each other; Europe was different—and now, bang, you're going to be gone for two months. What are you grinning at?"
"I didn't mean to. I'm happy, that's all. You couldn't have said anything nicer. Look, it'll be the easiest thing in the world to get back up here on weekends. Or you could come down to New York. Maybe we could alternate."
"Alternate? You mean see each other every weekend?"
"Well . . . yes, why not? Why not holidays, for that matter? Middle of the week too, conditions permitting—hey, now you're grinning."
"Sorry, I'm happy too." She dropped her eyes to the strutting pigeons near our feet and then said very softly: "I like the sound of this, Ben. I'm starting to think maybe my life is taking a real turn for the better."
"Your life. . . !" I jumped up and held out my hand. "Come on, let's walk some more; I feel too good to sit still."
We rounded the lagoon, smiled at the Make-Way-for-Ducklings bronzes, and found another bench before we spoke again.
"Ben, this show you're putting on. Do you really have any chance of finding the people they belong to? After all these years?"
"It won't be easy; most of the original owners are dead, but don't forget about those stamped initials on the backs of some of them. CIAT's already located the one surviving daughter of Raoul Sussman. She's in her fifties, working as a packer at a discount clothing chain in Rennes. Years ago she'd fought with the French government about getting some of her father's property back and lost on every count—now, thanks to Christie, she's going to get four fabulous paintings. Isn't that great? She'll be able to buy the whole chain if she wants.
"But how many of the pictures have those initials?"
"Twenty-eight. It was a system that apparently was used only in Paris, and not consistently. We're lucky that any of them have them."
"So what about the ones without them? What will happen if people don't come forward to claim them?"
"We're not just going to wait for claims to come in, Alex, we're going to be actively hunting for people—which is very different from the way this kind of thing has been handled so far. We're damn well-funded too, and I'm hoping for good results."
"And if any of them are still unclaimed at the end?"
"Then they'll be auctioned, with the proceeds going to Holocaust organizations."
"That's great, absolutely great. What a job," she said, reaching for my hand. "You must really be pleased."
The sun was lower now, slanting down and picking out shining, honey-colored strands in her hair that I'd never noticed before. Lit by that golden glow she was magnificent with her smooth skin, and wide smile, and strange gray-green eyes.
"I am pleased," I said.
Pleased and grateful. And luckier than I deserved to be. I'd come frighteningly close to never meeting her; I'd told Simeon a lie to avoid it. It had taken his death to make it happen. Strange when you thought about it; in the end, he really had brought us together.
"I have a good idea," I said, "what do you say to a big dinner at that Russian restaurant in Brighton?"
"The Kalinka, you mean, the one we were originally going to meet at?"
I nodded, thinking that inasmuch as I wasn't the same person, I didn't have an obligation to own up to the fact that that previous person had gone out of his way to get out of it. "Right. You can invite your relatives and show me off to the family. Friends too, if you want. Don't forget Mrs. Kapinsky."
"Mrs. Kapinsky? You'll have to invite her, I don't think I know her."
"I'll do that, if I can find her. We'll all stuff ourselves and we'll lift a glass or two to Simeon's memory."
She squeezed my hand. "A sort of Russian wake for Uncle Simeon. I think he'd like that."
"Da," I said happily and then, unable to stay in one place, started us walking again. "Ve itt lawts piroshkis, ve trinkh lawts vwawdka!"
The End
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999 by Aaron Elkins
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN: 978-1-4976-1009-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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AARON ELKINS
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