“This,” Müller whispered, “is what you must see.”
He beckoned and two of the soldiers leaned their rifles against the wall and came forward. At a further nod, each bent to a corner of the easel and slowly, carefully, pulled the cloth up and over.
She’d been studying Ferency’s forgeries. Looking now, she realized how good they were, even the one he said he used for practice. Yet in that first glance she also realized now how completely false they were. There was something about the real art—and she was sure it was not because she knew one was true and the others fake—an air it gave off, as if the artist’s breath, Bruegel’s actual breath, was caught and held in the paint and varnish. In the anguish on Daedalus’s face. In the wind that bellied the sail of the ship. In the ox’s swishing tail. She hadn’t noticed it at the Air Ministry—she was too scared they were going to get caught. She saw it here.
Her gasp was also not fake. The moment took her breath. Only partly, she realized, for the art. Mainly because she realized something else.
There’d been a small voice inside her arguing that even if she’d done some questionable things, she’d never been a thief and that the heist was wrong. That voice was gone. Taken by the real painting and the knowledge that it was about to be displayed for Göring’s glory and Hitler’s pleasure—the men responsible for all the Frau Bochners in Germany. Responsible for what had happened in that cellar in Madrid and the man who’d died there. She heard the snarl in the camp guard’s voice as he cursed the tailor and his race and gloated over his cruelty. Felt the whisper of the drug in her veins.
This wasn’t theft. This was liberation. And the only crime would be if they didn’t succeed.
She realized that Müller had been talking to her for a while. She looked at him, shook her head and began to act. “I am sorry, Herr Direktor, but…what am I looking at?”
“Frau Winter, you are looking at Bruegel’s Fall of Icarus.”
“That is not possible. Because I was looking at his Fall of Icarus only last month. In Brussels.”
“Ah, but that is not the original painting. This is. The long lost one, painted on wood. This—”
He began his lecture, which she only half listened to. She knew the facts already, though she kept herself looking as interested as the guards, standing to attention on either side of the easel, looked bored. The only time she listened harder was when the story differed or left out elements of the truth. Ernst Schlaben was hailed as a great art detective, working for his supremely cultured master, Hermann Göring. He had discovered the painting in Madrid and rescued it from under the noses of the godless Communists, who would doubtless have used it for kindling. The provenance had been proved with painstaking chemical analysis and scrupulous paper research, which he, Herr Direktor Müller, for long hours, deep into many nights, had selflessly undertaken. She only listened harder when the story came onto the subject of tomorrow’s great reveal.
“Ah, what a moment that shall be!” Müller’s eyes glistened and he flapped his hand at the hall. “Here will be standing all the great men of the fatherland and the age. Of any country, any age. Watched by the great leaders who forged our nation.” He gestured to the walls, on which hung many portraits of grim-faced men in uniform. “And the greatest of them all, Frau Winter, will be standing exactly where you are standing now. A sublime artist himself, he is perhaps the only one who will fully appreciate this glorious piece of art.” His voice rose and he cried, “Heil Hitler!”
Four pairs of heels crashed together, as the four guards echoed him. “Heil Hitler!”
“Yes, kind lady,” Müller continued, his voice softening. He withdrew a handkerchief to dab at overflowing eyes. “That will be a moment when all my dreams will be fulfilled.”
Oh, you’ll be dreaming all right, she thought.
He nodded at the guards, who bent straightaway, seized the cloth and drew it once again over the painting. “Well,” he said, after a moment, “perhaps not all of them. Shall we?”
It was swift, the change. One moment, nothing but patriotism and hero-worship. The next, all venality and lust. “Let’s,” she answered, and let him take her hand. As she glanced back, she saw the guards return to their positions in the corners of the room and snatch up their rifles. Four rifles in the room. Jocco hadn’t mentioned them. Had they been added because of what she’d let slip to Glück? It was possible.
Müller led her out the back door of the gallery, and to a door set flush within the next room’s back wall. It gave onto one musty corridor ending in stairs, which he led her down to another. He turned along it—but there was a door at the bottom of the first stairs. She stopped before it. “Herr Direktor, where does this go?”
“To a terrace over the river,” he replied. “The guards go there to smoke. This is forbidden in the building.”
“Wise.” She crinkled her eyes. “Look, Herr Müller, I do smoke. Would you mind?”
He frowned, then shrugged. “Of course.” Then he reached into the shadows by the door, withdrew a key from some hook she’d never have seen. Phew, she thought, but said, “Thank you,” as he let her out.
While she smoked, he chatted about art, the prices it could fetch these days. She knew what he was doing—talking up his product. She let him, gave him hope, while she studied the river, noted the newer area in the surrounding wall where the gate had been blocked. She lit up a second, to his mild protests, just as the police boat crossed from the far bank and then disappeared around the island’s upper tip. She was just stubbing that cigarette out, when the boat reappeared at the lower end. The way she smoked, that made the trip pretty much two minutes even.
Müller ushered her in, locked the door, replaced the key, then gestured her along the narrow corridor. He held a last door open, then let her squeeze past him.
His office was cramped, a desk cluttered with papers occupying most of it, though she noticed a small cot bed under the window at the back. He noticed her noticing and smiled. “Yes, gnädige Frau. Sometimes my work forces me to sleep here. And it is good also for…naps, yes?” He grinned. “Naps…und Schnapps!” he declared, pulling a bottle and two glasses from a desk drawer. “To beauty,” he toasted, raising the glass to her.
What the hell, she thought. I could use a steadier. But when he tried to refill her glass, she put her fingers over it. “Maybe later, Herr Müller,” she said. “To toast other beauty, perhaps?”
“Ah, you are, as you say, ‘getting down to business,’ yes? I like dealing with Americans! Always so direct.” He poured himself another tot, only sipped it, studying her quite shamelessly over the rim. “I was pleased when your—how do we say—quite forceful colleague was unable to come, and sent you in his place. Very pleased.” He took a second sip of his drink, then put the glass down and swivelled to a cabinet behind him, pulled out a key, inserted and turned it. “But beauty? Well, it depends upon your taste.” He sniffed. “I agree with der Führer. So much modern art is degenerate. Do you not think so?”
“Mostly I do. Happily, my clients are not as picky as I am.”
From the cabinet, he removed an object wrapped in oilcloth, and laid it on the table. “Then,” he said, folding back the covering, “I am sure your clients will like this.”
She peered down at the painting. Braque had been one of her dad’s favourite artists. Ferency had filled in a few gaps in her memory about the style and the art, though Jocco had said having such knowledge wouldn’t matter much—she just needed to keep the guy occupied till everyone else, guards aside, had left the building. Her lateness had probably taken care of most of them. And the bed indicated that Müller was probably known for putting in late shifts. Or doing some late entertaining. Either way, it was unlikely he’d be missed.
“Can I get some more light, please?”
He flicked on a desk lamp.
“Hmm,” she said, bending, scanning. “A later work, huh? A coastline. Normandy, right?” She got a grunt in return. “Even a human in it, not a blob. H
e’s gotten back into people lately, hasn’t Monsieur Braque?” Another grunt and she shrugged. “Though I was hoping it was going to be one from his cubist phase. That’s the stuff that’s really selling stateside these days.”
“I told your colleague it was not a masterpiece,” Müller replied, a touch huffily. “But as the beginning of our relationship? Besides, trust me, there will be more like this. Cubist. More degeneracy. Better…degeneracy.”
“This is, what, ten years old?”
“From 1924.”
“Oh yeah. There’s the date, and his signature. If it’s genuine.”
He looked deeply offended. “Frau Winter, I am curator of the Alte Nationalgalerie of Berlin. I do not deal in fakes.”
You’ll be singing a different song tomorrow, buddy, she thought, as he continued, “Besides, if you buy this and it is proven fake, you will not return and that—” he smiled “—would break my heart.”
“And mine, Herr Müller. And mine.” She picked the painting up, held it at arm’s length. “Still, it’s pretty. I’ll take it. Now, as to price…”
They haggled for a while. She had the feeling that she paid more than she should have. Which was fine, considering she wasn’t going to pay anything at all.
They shook on it. She discovered that his palm was damp when he held hers too long. She extracted her hand, opened her purse, pulled out her cigarette case.
“I am sorry, dear lady, but—”
“Oh, right, no smoking.” She dropped the case onto the desk. “How about that second drink then? Though put this away,” she added, pointing to the Braque. “Wouldn’t want to spill on it.”
Herr Müller wrapped the painting back up in its cloth. As he turned to place it back in the cabinet, she opened the vial, which she’d palmed when she took out her cigarettes, flipped its lid, tipped the colourless liquid into his half-full glass, then dropped the bottle and cap back into her purse. When he turned back, she waved her empty glass at him, and delightedly he filled it, before topping up his own. “To Transatlantic trade,” she declared, and shot.
“Prost,” he said, and joined her. Smacking his lips, he continued, “And now, kind lady, can I interest you in anything else?”
It was easy enough to flirt with him for the five minutes Jocco said the drug would take. And her man was pretty much on the money. One moment the Herr Direktor was reaching across the desk to take her hand, claiming he had the gift of reading palms; the next a slightly startled look came into his eyes; and the one after, he laid his head down with a faint moan. “Herr Müller?” she called. “Herr Müller?”
She snapped her fingers. His only reply was a faint snore. She considered the sleeping man and decided to move him. She got behind him, bent, and raised him from the chair; laid his torso on the cot and afterwards lifted his legs. He muttered something she didn’t catch.
She sat back down, looked at the clock. Ten p.m. Four hours till showtime. Müller would be out for close to twelve. As would a horse, according to Jocco’s veterinarian friend.
Gotta stay awake, she thought. So she pulled out a cigarette. Against the rules, of course. My, but what a brazen criminal I have become, she thought as she lit up.
FOURTEEN
SEDUCTION
IT WAS THE BELL THAT WOKE HER, ITS DEEP TOLL SOUNDING two from the nearby cathedral. She jerked her head up from the desk, uncertain where she was and what she was meant to be doing. Müller’s soft snores calmed her a little. She checked him, pulling back an eyelid. Gone. He was drooling heavily but otherwise well.
She reached for the schnapps, then thought better of it and poured a glass of water from a carafe on the desk instead. The liquor had made her drowsy and she needed to be wide awake.
She opened the office door, listened to silence. No doubt the soldiers, or their replacements, were in position around the painting. After closing the door behind her, she went along the corridor, found the key and opened the back door to warm night air and the muted sounds of a sleeping city. A car moved over the bridge ahead. Somewhere on the opposite bank, a woman gave a little cry, pain or pleasure she couldn’t tell.
The opposite bank. Jocco had said that he would make his move anytime from 2:15 on. There was a clock she could just see, on a building beyond the bridge. She watched its minute hand creep along. At ten past she reached into her purse and cursed. She’d left her cigarettes on Müller’s desk! She thought of going back for them, but the time was too tight. Instead she chewed one nail down to a stub.
At exactly 2:15, the police boat set out for its quarter-hourly run. She pressed herself back into the shadows of the museum wall and watched it pass. As soon as it passed the tip of the island, she ran to the filled-in section of wall, struck her lighter and raised the flame in the air. Immediately, another engine started up and a boat cut straight across. It wasn’t much smaller than the police vessel; it had an open cabin forward and was covered in behind. But it was fast and was there in thirty seconds, a tire fender bumping into stone.
She peered down. You couldn’t tell it was a woman driving, what with the seamen’s pea coat and the flat cap. Only when she glanced up did Roxy see her for a flash, and then there was only an impression of curls around a wide face. Betsy Fromer.
She dropped the engine to an idling purr. Jocco stepped over the bow onto the hidden stairs, the water coming up to his shins. Ferency was behind, and with an audible grunt, he lifted a cloth-shrouded object and passed it over. Jocco took it, stepped fully off the boat, and Ferency followed.
“Roxy?” Jocco whispered up. “Is all good?”
“Better than good,” she replied. “Müller’s—”
“Was machen Sie hier?”
The new voice was sudden, loud and made her cry out. Below, Betsy cut the engine, and Roxy heard Ferency gasp as she turned.
A soldier was standing there, a silhouette in the doorway. Backlit, she couldn’t see his face.
“Was machen Sie hier?” he said again, stepping forward.
Her German deserted her entirely. “I…I came out here to…”
“Engländerin?”
“Uh, no. American. Amerikaner.”
“Ah.” He came forward and Roxy managed to move her feet so she met him a few feet from the wall. Enough light spilled from the open doorway and he was able to see her. Turning a little, he came into the light, and she could see him too—young, maybe twenty. His peaked cap was tipped back, so that a few strands of blond hair poked out.
“Ah,” he said again. “I speak Amerikanisch.”
“You do? That’s great. Ever been?”
“No. But I have—how you say Vettern?” He shrugged. “Aunt sons?”
“Cousins?”
“So. Cousins in Milwaukee.”
“Oh great!”
For some reason she gave a little laugh, and he frowned.
“What make you here?” he said.
She turned and looked at the clock. The minute hand was on twenty-two. She looked back. “I am a guest of the director.”
“A guest of Herr Müller?”
She could see he knew exactly what that meant in the little smirk that came.
“So where is he?”
“Office. Resting. He, uh—” she looked around “—he doesn’t smoke.”
“Ah!” Smirk changed to smile. “So you are—”
“Yes. But, stupid me, I forgot my cigarettes. I’ll…I’ll go get them.”
“I have cigarettes.” He dug into his jacket pocket. “Amerikanisch cigarettes,” he added proudly, pulling out a packet of Lucky Strike.
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Or do, when he offered her one. Except take it. “Danke,” she said.
“Bitte,” he replied, lighting her, then himself.
Out on the water, an engine coughed into life. Not close to the wall, not far off. He frowned, took a step. “Hey,” she called, catching his sleeve, holding it. “What are these fantastic patches on your uniform?”
It wa
s the right question, and when Roxy suggested he explain them where she could see them, he happily accompanied her over to the lit doorway and talked her through the double SS on his collar and the eagle-and-swastika combo on his sleeve. She learned that young Klaus belonged to the Leibstandarte—Hitler’s bodyguard. It was a sign of how important the beloved leader considered tomorrow’s opening, she was informed, that he’d assigned his own elite troops. As she’d suspected, they’d only been deployed yesterday. Improved security after some vague threat.
Roxy glanced to the water. The patrol boat reappeared and returned to its dock on the opposite bank—without shining a light along the wall and spotting two men holding up a heavy wooden panel. Betsy must have made herself scarce. The clock’s hand tipped to twenty-five past two when the soldier stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray inside the back door.
“Duty,” he said. “My break is over. May I escort you back to Herr Müller?”
She noticed that he didn’t smirk when he said it this time, that there was almost a sadness. “I’m in no hurry to get back to him,” she said. “Can I steal another Lucky Strike?” She took one. “Join me?”
She hoped he’d answer as he did: “I cannot. But I get another break in two hours. Maybe then?”
“I think I’ll be gone. Don’t your, uh, fellow guards smoke?”
“No. The Führer doesn’t like it. I try to stop but—” He lit her, then clicked his heels together. “Gute nacht, Fräulein.”
She waited for the door in the corridor to close before she dropped the cigarette and ran back to the wall. The two men were still there, ankle deep in water, their faces strained.
Chasing the Wind Page 15
