“Chase! This man is our client!” Ethan exclaimed.
“Thank you, Mr. Clark,” said Tibor, breathing heavily. “I’m glad someone in this room has kept their emotions under control and is displaying some common sense!”
“Bullshit! When does this charade and lying end, Tibor?” said Quinn.
“That’s a matter of perspective, young man,” said Tibor. “Most of it has been dreamt up in your head! I had nothing to do with Marika Kraus’ death!” Tibor yelled out.
“If not you, then who the hell did? From the way you talked about her last, it seems like you had the perfect motive to kill her. You thought she shot at you and was trying to kill you!”
“That may be true, but I had nothing to do with her shooting! We’ve managed to coexist as rivals in the art world for years. We have kept one another informed in trying situations without even meaning to…and in a strange way we’ve balanced each other out. I wouldn’t do this to her now. I have nothing to gain,” Tibor said. “What’s more, I have no idea who did, but it had to be someone involved with this art scam going on here.”
“What the hell are you really doing here, anyway?” yelled Quinn.
Ethan interceded. “Laszlo, I apologize for the behavior of my partner. He’s very upset about this woman’s murder. Had I known he would behave like this —”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Clark,” replied Tibor. “At least he’s passionate about something! He hasn’t shown any enthusiasm about working on my case…I’m curious as well about what happened to the Nazi harlot.”
With that, Quinn took a step forward, swung a roundhouse hook, and hit Laszlo Tibor hard across the jaw.
“Aagh!” Laszlo exclaimed as he fell to the ground.
Ethan yelled out, “Quinn! No…No!”
“I should kill you, you bastard! If you ever say anything like that again…!” Quinn screamed.
Laszlo didn’t move for a few seconds and then grabbed his jaw with his right hand. “Aagh,” he groaned. He was slow to get up. “You broke my jaw,” he said with slurred speech.
“Laszlo, there’s ice at the bar…let me get a towel and let’s get some ice on that jaw quickly—it’ll control the swelling,” said Ethan.
“Quinn, get the hell out of here now before you get arrested or I shoot you!” Ethan yelled and motioned to Quinn.
“I’m so sorry.…We’re sorry, Laszlo,” said Ethan. “Forgive us, please…”
“I understand his feelings about Marika Kraus,” Laszlo mumbled and slurred his words. “I will decide whether to terminate our professional relationship,” he slurred again as he continued to hold his jaw.
The two private investigators left Tibor to deal with his pain on the third floor of the La Fonda Hotel, and got inside the rickety old elevator to ride down to the lobby.
“You goddamned idiot! What the hell were you doing? What’s gotten into you, Quinn?” Ethan yelled as they walked out of the La Fonda on that Monday afternoon.
“Don’t you see what’s happening?” said Quinn. “Anyone and everyone connected with this Degenerate Art smuggling ring here is getting knocked off, or damn close to it. Including me! The question is, who’s next? Not only that,” said Quinn, “if there are stacks of this world-class precious artwork here in Santa Fe, then where the hell is it? ”
“I know some strange shit has happened recently, and again I’m sorry about your friend,” said Ethan.
“She was more than a friend, Ethan. She was also a trusted source of information. She was a goddamned spy, but believe me when I say, she was one of the few honest people I’ve met in this town,” said Quinn. “And what’s goin’ on around here involves a lot more than just stolen artwork!”
“Listen, I know that, but Laszlo Tibor is our client. We’ve been paid to help this man, and right now we’re failing in our job! We’re going in the opposite direction. You just about put him in the hospital!”
“Ethan, the man’s a goddamned Russian spy!” yelled Quinn.
“Don’t go around saying that!” said Ethan. “We’ve both seen his documentation; his passport. I have no reason to doubt who he says he is…”
Quinn hung his head, acknowledging Ethan’s measured and rational approach.
“And added to that, the man pays us very well and we have a duty to our clients! We both could end up losing our licenses over this—and I’ve got my life savings invested in this business. I’m sure it would make Huff’s day if we both got our licenses yanked!” Ethan retorted.
Chapter Lii
He could get as upset as he wanted, but Marika was gone…and there was nothing Quinn could do about it. His country was at war with Germany, yet he had a special connection to Marika. She was a spy…but also a lover and a friend. What was just as important to Quinn was that she had been honest with him while nobody else in this city had been. Quinn wasn’t even sure now if he could trust his own business partner. The uncertainty and doubt that was consuming his life was becoming unbearable. He had to confide in someone. Marika had told him his own government and fellow members of the police department had set him up—maybe even tried to kill him. Finally, in Quinn’s mind, he had to confront the possibility that this was true. He went to see Katrina. They took a walk and sat in one of the local parks.
“How long have you and your uncle been in America?” he asked.
“About ten years,” she answered.
“And you’ve applied for your citizenship?” he asked again.
“Yes…but due to the war, all immigration decisions have been placed on hold. My uncle and I are still officially foreign refugees. It’s extremely difficult for us here…not knowing what’s happening with them. The stories we hear about life back there for my relatives makes me feel sick,” she said.
“I wish there was something I could personally do,” Quinn said.
“Just having someone who will listen at times helps a lot,” she said. Quinn stared through the trees up into the sky.
They went to eat. During dinner, they just chatted. Small talk. Finally, Quinn said, “A good friend of mine died recently. She was killed Katrina. ”
Katrina said, “I’m sorry to hear that…did they live here?”
“Yes, she did…you never knew Marika Kraus, did you?” he said.
“No, but the last name of Kraus is German, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Quinn. “She was a very unusual woman. I wouldn’t befriend just anyone,” he said. “You get an odd feeling when a friend dies long before their time. It makes you kind of numb, and nothing seems like it was.…Nothing makes much sense anymore.…I just am very confused right now.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said to her. “At least I know you’re sincere.”
She laid her hand on top of his.
“Have you heard of any place locally referred to as The Hill?” he asked her.
“No, I haven’t heard of anything like that around here,” she said…blatantly lying to him.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it, but not long after I met you in Albuquerque when I was still a cop there several years ago, I was given the mission of guarding a scientist for a few days. His eventual destination, I think, was The Hill. It’s some military research facility up in the Jemez Mountains that’s top secret. Rumor has it they’re making electric missile engines up there,” Quinn said.
“I did hear something from my uncle some time ago,” she said. “He said that there’s some experimentation going on near here with laser beams and rays…and they melt whatever they hit. That would be a sure way to win the war…the Nazis don’t have anything like that,” Katrina said.
Quinn looked deep into her eyes, which shone a bright blue behind a surge of suppressed tears.
“But this war will probably end with both sides destroying one another,” she said. “That would be so sad, because there is such natural beauty surrounding us,” she said. “Look at these mountains, for instance.”
After they
finished their dinner, Quinn walked her back about a half mile to the gallery. He gave her a long hug and said goodnight. Although they smiled and kissed, Quinn had never felt so distant from her.
Before he walked off, Katrina said, “Come inside for a minute and see the new watercolors my uncle’s painted. They’re beautiful!” So Quinn went inside and began to inspect the 20 or so new watercolors Joel had displayed on easels throughout the front part of the gallery. They were mostly town scenes of Santa Fe; The Plaza, various hillside adobe homes and neighborhoods. He even painted the Cathedral of St. Francis. They were Modern works. He mixed form and shapes in a collage of colors. These were not Realist or Classical in style. The earthtones mixed in with the shades of orange, red, and yellow made the paintings stunning. Quinn became absorbed as he studied them. For a moment he became lost in the pictures before him.
“They are beautiful, Katrina…I’ve never seen anything like these before,” he said.
“Which one do you like the best? You can take it. I’m gonna’ convince my uncle to give it to you. You need something to cheer you up!” she said.
Chapter LIii
The days passed by quickly, almost merging one into another. Marika’s death was published in the newspaper, but her body was transported out of town, paid for by some large mortgage company from back East. It was all hush-hush, and Quinn couldn’t find out any further details from the police. Marika was simply gone—here yesterday and gone without a trace today. Quinn went to her small casita where she lived on the south end of Guadalupe Street, but within 24 hours the entire place had been emptied out. Quinn knew a part of him would always be empty. But as circumstances dictate, things were happening so fast in Santa Fe that Quinn didn’t have time to focus on her passing for very long.
It was the middle of May, 1944. Due to increased criminal activity in Santa Fe, Quinn and Ethan were deputized by the county sheriff. Quinn found himself with less and less free time. Every day when he wasn’t working, Quinn was in some sort of class at the police station or participating on a raid. He swore to himself his law enforcement days were over, but circumstances pulled him back in again. He even got his old crewcut that he had worn while he was on the force in Albuquerque. He still had the keys Marika had given him, but hadn’t used them yet.
He reported to the police station at about 4:00 p.m.
“Here, take this vest,” Lt. Huff stated as he handed Quinn a fairly heavy vest to put on. “These are bullet proof and will stop most bullets,” he said. “If you are shot tonight,” Huff said, “well, don’t sue the department!”
There were now about 12 officers assembled in the basement of the Santa Fe Police Department. Lt. Huff addressed the group:
“Tonight’s raid is important, based on what we suspect is being hidden in this warehouse,” Huff said. “We believe, based on our informant, that a large amount of this Degenerate Art is still in Santa Fe. For those who don’t know and never heard the term before, this is stolen artwork the Nazis have taken from museums and people in the countries they’ve occupied,” Huff said. “We received a tip earlier in the day from our reliable source.”
Quinn’s ears perked up.
“We’ll approach the warehouse from the street, and the various side entrances. You’ll be briefed on this tonight. We expect the warehouse to be guarded if the artwork is in fact there. At the very least we expect guard dogs. But there may be guards as well, so you may have to use lethal force on this one,” Lt. Huff said.
“We’ll depart from here. The FBI is taking part in this, so you’ll see some additional officers here tonight. Report back at 2100 hours. You’ll be broken down into teams at that time. Once at the warehouse location, I will attempt to contact anyone inside, advise them of the warrant, and demand that they not interfere and allow us entrance. If we have no response at the warehouse, we will breach the front door and go in,” he said.
“No one…and I mean no one, is authorized to draw their weapon unless given the alert signal. I will have an airhorn, and unless you hear the sound of this horn or come under direct contact where the use of your firearm is necessary for your personal safety or to enforce the law,” Huff blew the loud horn to demonstrate, “you do not have authorization to use your weapons.”
Everything Huff said was fairly standard. Quinn thought back to similar speeches for similar raids at the Albuquerque Police Department.
“You are dismissed, but roll call and final briefing is at 2100 tonight. Be on time!” Huff exclaimed.
Chapter LIv
At 9 p.m. that night the police team assembled at the police department. Quinn was there. Ethan was not there, even though he had been deputized also. There were several FBI agents, including the little agent and the tall agent who had talked with Quinn before—Sauer and Ridnell. They both introduced themselves to Quinn as if they had never laid eyes on or spoken to him before. The briefing pretty much followed what Lt. Huff had said earlier. The 16 or so people in attendance were broken down into four groups of three, four, or five officers. A large truck was going to be used as an entry-ramming vehicle if the entrances were blocked or barricaded. Huff did say this was supposed to be a surprise raid, but Santa Fe was a town of gossip and information leaks. If the bad guys inside the warehouse had been tipped off…it wouldn’t have been a surprise to Quinn.
The warehouse was an old lumber and scrap metal depository that was supposed to be abandoned. It was located in the Railyard District. This was the area immediately adjacent to the Santa Fe Train Station. The group left the police station, about two miles away, and started moving towards the warehouse. Quinn rode in a standard police car with Lt. Huff and two of Huff’s assistants. Huff reminded everyone in the vehicle about the restriction on using their firearms, glaring at Quinn as he issued the warning.
They reached the block just before the warehouse at about 9:45 that evening. The area was dark. This was the train track area around the station where most of the buildings were either abandoned or were businesses that supported the rail lines. There were no houses in this section of town, and no reason for anyone to be in this area at this time of day. Huff got out and used a flashlight to motion the rammer to move closer—about 75 yards from the front entrance of the warehouse. The four teams then split up and moved forward in groups. The plan was to surround the building, and then Huff would approach the front entrance, announcing his search warrant and demanding entry by megaphone. Then there would be a series of airhorn blasts that would signal the various teams what to do. The plan was, if they had to break the front entrance down, they would use the rammer, and the other teams would go in through the side and rear entrances, arresting anyone trying to flee the building.
As it turned out, they did end up using the rammer to smash through the large warehouse entrance doors, but the building was empty…at least empty of people inside. A guard dog tried to attack the first agent that came through the back door. They used a large spun net to subdue the dog and eventually tied the animal up in the net instead of killing it. They searched the entire warehouse but didn’t find anything pertaining to the warrant. Then one of the officers discovered a trap door on the east side.
“Lt. Huff…you better get over here and check this out!” the officer yelled.
Huff, along with the two FBI agents, walked over.
“Somebody spent a lot of time trying to conceal this,” Huff said. The door was a trap door built into the floor with two D-rings used for pulling, lifting, and opening it. A combination lock was set into the wood in the middle. “Get Haskins over here with the crowbar and other tools,” said Huff. “We’ve gotta’ break the lock here…we’re goin’ in,” he said.
They used two sledgehammers, three crowbars, and a chain, which they fastened to one of the rings to finally open and lift the large door. They stared down a descending wooden staircase that disappeared into a dark basement below. Three of them had flashlights that shined down into the dark compartment below.
“Well, Lieute
nant…we’re here to search, so we might as well see what’s down here,” said Agent Sauer, the smaller FBI agent. “Wait,” Lt. Huff answered. “The basement might be boobytrapped.”
Quinn volunteered to check it out. He grabbed a flashlight and started to descend the staircase. The small FBI agent yelled out, “Don’t go down there! It could be your life!”
“I’ll take that risk,” said Quinn. “I’m as curious as you all are…” Lt. Huff remained silent. So Quinn proceeded down the staircase about 10 feet. It led into two cellar rooms below the warehouse floor. In the first room there was a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a switch built into the wall, and he flipped it, and the light turned on. Built against the wall was a wooden counter with three fairly large electrical-looking devices. Large black cables extended from these devices into wall sockets below. Two of the devices had dials and what looked like gauges with scales and needles. One of the devices appeared to be a short-wave radio, although Quinn hadn’t seen anything like it before. There was writing on the devices, and it wasn’t English. The writing was Russian. “Lieutenant Huff, you better get down here!” Quinn yelled out.
What they had discovered was a satellite Russian Intelligence station with a short-wave radio and encoder set up in typical configuration by Russian Intelligence Services. There were file cabinets with many files inside. Eventually, all of the files would be scanned by Russian translators of the OSS. But what caught Quinn’s attention was a portrait photograph lying on the counter next to the radio. He recognized the face immediately, although the picture was clearly taken years earlier, as Laszlo Tibor had jet-black hair and a much leaner face in the photo. Nevertheless, it was undoubtedly him. Quinn grabbed it and turned it over to the backside. There was Russian writing on the back, but Quinn focused on the sentence that read, “Vitali Chetkin, 1934, Sebastopol.”
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