Dark Rhapsody

by Helaine Mario

  “THERE WAS A woman,” said Michael Beckett into the shadows. “What happened to the woman?”

  The young charge nurse had just entered his hospital room and now hurried toward him. “There is no woman here, il mio Colonnello, other than myself. And you are not supposed to be out of your bed!”

  Each breath took immense effort. Beckett leaned his forehead against the window, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. The sky was turning purple above the trees. “No, no, not a woman here in the hospital. Well, damn, maybe she is.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and groaned as the pain shot across his temples.

  The muscled nurse stepped closer, laying a cool palm on his forehead. “You keep asking to go home,” she reminded him. “But first you need to be better, si? Your hearing is back, the rest will come. If you stop fighting me.”

  “I’ll go back to bed if you’ll find me some crutches. Deal?”

  She stared at him. “The feeling in your legs is returning?”

  “Yes,” he lied. Well, tingling. That counted, right?

  The nurse frowned at him, reached for the arms of the wheelchair, and steered him back to the bed. Then she grasped him under the arms—none too gently, he thought—and hefted him back onto the low bed, settling his legs and then firmly pressing him back down to the pillows. Smoothing the white sheets with a brisk hand, she murmured, “Prego.”

  Beckett closed his eyes, now so sensitive to light, and tried to shut out the throbbing beep of the machines by the bed. Think. “There was a woman—a grandmother with a child—near the fountain in the Piazza Navona. Just before the bombing. I knocked them to the stones. Christ, I thought they were okay, but there was so much smoke. What if …”

  “A nonna and her bambino?” The nurse cocked her head in thought. “I was on duty, and I do not remember them. But I will check for you.” She handed him two white pills and a cup of water. “If you promise to stay in your bed.”

  He smiled as he swallowed the meds, gave her a feeble salute. “Sure, sure. Va bene.” He grinned, tried to look cocky. Yeah, bring on the old Beckett charm.

  The door closed softly, and he was alone with the endlessly chirping machines and his spinning thoughts. What happened to the woman?

  He reached for Shiloh, needing comfort. His hand swept the air. No dog! He suffered a jolt of panic, then remembered that Shiloh was home. Safe.

  Okay. I’m coming home to you, boy, just as soon as I can. Home to you and Maggie. Maybe tomorrow …

  If the feeling in his legs would just come back.

  He felt himself sinking. The meds were taking effect. Maybe tonight he would sleep, maybe he wouldn’t see Dane’s yellow eyes glittering at him through the slits of a black ski mask. Laughing at him. Threatening Maggie.

  Damn it, man, you let him get away. Again.

  Once more the image of a woman flickered on the edge of his thoughts. Beautiful, young. Not Maggie, but a stranger. And not the baby’s grandmother … What woman?

  He turned his head toward the window, but very slowly this time. Even an old dog could learn a new trick now and then, right? He gazed at the sky, his mind trying to remember the scene in the piazza.

  The sky was turning deep purple beyond the glass. Purple. A woman in a long coat and a purple scarf had been sitting next to Dane at the fountain, just before he set off the bomb. He had been arguing with her, passionately.

  Who was that woman?

  Had to mean something. Call Sugar. He tried to reach for his phone, but the meds were taking him down, down. His phone disappeared as the darkness reached for him.

  Who was Dane’s woman?

  * * *

  The young woman wrapped the purple scarf more tightly around her neck, drew the long coat closer to her body. It was growing cold here in the stable yard, and she was nervous around the horses. Such huge beasts, so close she could smell them, hear their heavy hooves pawing at the earth.

  Why had Dane sent her here?

  Laughter to her right. She drew back into the shadowed alcove and remained still. Two grooms passed without seeing her, deep in conversation, and disappeared through a doorway into the long stable buildings.

  She glanced up at the sky. Soon the sun would set. Lights were coming on around the yard, casting small pools of gold across the grass. Once more she focused on the tall windows of the stable office behind her. Two shadows moved back and forth across the glass. One tall and bone-thin, the other small, delicate. Graceful. She watched them come together and then move apart, as if they were dancing. Then she reached for her cell phone and clicked it on.

  Why was Dane so interested in this woman?

  * * *

  In the quiet stable office, standing in front of Gigi’s portrait, Maggie shook her head in disbelief and turned to look up at the old artist. “I feel there is more that you are not saying, Herr Vogl.”

  Vogl straightened his thin, bony shoulders, his expression resolute, as if coming to a decision. Crossing the room, he bent to an old trunk and spoke over his shoulder as he reached for the hasp. “Debts always have a way of coming due, do they not? Before that happens, I have something I would like to give you.”

  Opening the ancient steamer trunk, he removed an oversized shoebox and held it out to Maggie. Setting the heavy box on the table, Maggie lifted the lid. Very carefully, she unwrapped a gray suede cloth, exposing two beautiful, very old silver candlesticks that glinted in the twilight.

  Maggie caught her breath. “These are the candlesticks from Felix Hoffman’s gallery? The ones you and Gisela found in the Nazi chest?”

  “Ja. If Hannah Hoffman is the granddaughter, then these candlesticks would belong to her. Take them, please. Gigi would want the family to have them.”

  “I will get them to Ms. Hoffman tonight, Herr Vogl.” She glanced over at Gigi’s portrait and thought of Simon Sugarman. “And I will notify the proper authorities about the Picasso.”

  The old blue eyes filled with tears. “If it truly is a Picasso. Then I will begin to remove Gisela’s portrait, so that the painting can be restored to all its glory. I want to put those days behind me, once and for all. I do not have much time left on this earth, Madame O’Shea. I would like to die in peace.”

  “That is what Gigi said.”

  “If that is true, then you must ask her again about that night by the lake.”

  “But—you found her there, and you both ran. Your stories are the same.”

  The old blue eyes blinked at her. “I found her, yes. But Gigi did not tell you the rest. The Nazi captain found her first. When I got to Gisela she was in shock, covered in blood. She’d killed him with an old rusted kitchen knife.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  VIENNA

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24

  DANE PACED BACK and forth across the floorboards of the small fourth-floor hotel room he’d found in the warren of alleys behind St. Stephen’s cathedral, the Stephansdom. The ornate Gothic spires of the church had shadowed his narrow windows in darkness for most of the day, while the toll of the great bells broke into his dreams. But the bed was adequate and no one knew him here. He could lose himself, if he had to, in the centuries-old tangle of crooked, dimly lit lanes.

  Dane poured himself a second glass of Absolut and drank.

  So the colonel had survived. No surprise there. But perhaps it was too soon for him to die. Now, the colonel, too, would suffer.

  Dane winced as he touched the purple bruise on his jaw. The colonel was decades older, but strong. A trained soldier. He looked down at the jagged scar on his hand, remembering their violent fight just months earlier in the South of France. A worthy opponent.

  You will pay, Mon Colonel, he thought. I will take from you what you love the most.

  He reached for a plastic CD case on the table next to his iPad and gazed down at Magdalena O’Shea’s face. She was close, just a few kilometers away. He just needed to be patient—she would lead him to the art. His art. And then …

  He’d
tossed the inventory on the table. Now he lifted it to the light. L’Inventario, folded and unfolded countless times, was gray and worn, the edges frayed, the scribbled words no longer distinct. The list he had stolen from Victor Orsini just before his death. L’Inventario of the Felix Hoffman Galleria in Florence, Italy, in 1943. Dane knew the canvases by heart.

  Degas’ Five Dancing Women.

  Raphael’s Portrait of a Youth.

  Pissarro’s Boulevard Montmartre at Twilight.

  A small Cezanne, lost to him now. Left behind by Orsini, it had been found by Agent Simon Sugarman—and set Sugarman on his relentless search to find the rest of Hoffman’s collection.

  The inventory went on and on. An early Picasso. Monet, Klimt, Canaletto, Renoir, Goya, Bellini. And, according to Orsini and the experts, the most magnificent jewel in the collection’s crown, Matisse’s Dark Rhapsody.

  The Hoffman Collection, of course, had been dispersed the night the family disappeared. Orsini’s father had stolen several major Impressionist and Post-Impressionist pieces, including the Degas and the Cezanne, and hidden them away at his villa for his son, Victor. But the Nazis had looted the rest. Victor Orsini did not have the Picasso, the Bellini, or the Matisse. He had searched for them for years, especially Matisse’s Dark Rhapsody. He had coveted it, obsessed over it. A Matisse, a missing piece from his window series … it had to be worth many, many millions. But it had disappeared along with the others into the Nazi tunnels or trains or warehouses or lakes. Unless …

  Rumors had flooded the Dark Net for years. That the Dark Rhapsody had survived. Was discovered by an Austrian who survived WWII, then sent to a musician somewhere in the US. And now the rumors had surfaced once again. Did Agent Simon Sugarman have a lead on the Rhapsody? He had come to Vienna to search for missing art with Magdalena O’Shea—a US musician—by Christ, was it possible?

  Dane closed his eyes, concentrating, ordering his thoughts. Magdalena O’Shea was a pianist—she had known Victor Orsini for years. His son TJ was her godson. She had blamed Orsini for the drowning death of her husband. That ill-fated connection to Orsini had led to her collision with Dane.

  But the O’Shea woman also shared an intriguing Yale connection with Orsini, although her parents were decades older. Dane took a deep swallow of Absolut. Someone from Yale had helped Orsini hide his art …

  Had she—or her parents—known about Victor’s obsession with the Dark Rhapsody? Had she somehow found it, kept it from him?

  Dane had followed her here, to Vienna, to find out. Let Magdalena O’Shea lead him to the art. And then—he would no longer need her. He smiled.

  “If you poison us, do we not die?” he said into the silence of the room. “And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?”

  Yes. Shylock, in The Merchant of Venice. One of his favorite roles. And so appropriate this night. Soon, he would know what Magdalena had found.

  Dane lifted the iPad, needing release. Kiss? Def Leppard? No. He pressed a key and the raw battle cry of Metallica’s Seek and Destroy filled the room. Turning up the volume, he closed his eyes and thought of Magdalena O’Shea.

  As if he had conjured it, his cell phone buzzed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  VIENNA

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24

  “PLEASE MAKE YOURSELF at home, Agent Sugarman. The wine-glasses should be on the shelf over the bookcase.”

  In the old apartment in Vienna’s Jewish Quarter, Hannah Hoffman gestured toward a row of glassware as she moved without hesitation toward a cabinet in the dining area. Reaching for a bottle of wine, she held it out to him. “The Barolo?”

  He smiled, gazing at the label and then at the rows of wine bottles set in a small rack behind her. “How did you do that?”

  “There are four other senses, remember? And I’ve developed a good memory. Barolo, bottom rack, second from the left.” Reaching for an opener, she began to uncork the wine. “I have some light perception, I can see some shadows. I’m comfortable in my skin. But tonight I’ll let you pour, since I don’t always have a steady hand and I’m guessing you don’t want red wine all over your shirt.” She smiled back at him.

  He took the bottle from her and poured two glasses of wine. “Somehow I doubt that would ever happen. You really know your way around this place.” His gaze took in the deep-blue sofa, polished cherry dining table. The cello, now freed from its casing, sat in a stand by the bookcase. Tall windows along one wall, letting in soft purple twilight, and the small open kitchen. “Really a nice apartment. Comfortable, interesting. And pretty.” Like you.

  “Thank you. I wanted to live in this neighborhood, the inner city, near the Judenplatz. This town square was the center of Jewish life in the Middle Ages. It’s hard to believe that I would have been refused residence here in the thirties and forties. Somehow I have felt more a Jewess, living here in Vienna. Now the rental is almost up, but it has suited us, hasn’t it, Jac?” She turned toward the sleek greyhound, stretched on a long floor pillow beneath the bookcase. “The trick is to know where everything is, and to leave nothing on the floor. I’ve taken my share of spills and crashed into countless doors, I promise you. Learned the hard way. So, time for a toast?” She held out a graceful hand for her wine goblet.

  He stepped closer, carefully set the glass in her hand, and clinked.

  “L’Chaim,” she said in her low musical voice.

  “To you, Ms. Hoffman.”

  “We are enjoying a glass of wine together, Agent. Surely we have moved to first names. My name is Hannah.”

  “And mine is Simon. Although friends call me Sugar.”

  “I like Simon. It’s a strong name.” She moved to the bookcase and slipped a CD into the player. Soft music filled the room.

  “Is that Bach?”

  “Yes.” She cocked her head, surprised that he recognized the piece. “The Brandenburg Concertos. Some of my favorite music.”

  “My mama loved them. She used to play them at night after work, while she cooked dinner in our fourth-floor walk-up. The sixth was her favorite. She said it was full of joy and made her think of forests and lakes on a summer day.”

  “Your mother was a wise woman. Do you know that the Brandenburg manuscripts were nearly lost in World War II? They were being transported for safekeeping to Prussia by train in the care of a librarian when the train came under aerial bombardment. The librarian escaped the train to the nearby forest, with the scores hidden under his coat.”

  “What a loss that would have been for my mother. For all of us.”

  She came to stand in front of him. Close, looking up at his face. “When I touch something, or someone,” she began, “I’m able to draw it in, for all my other senses. I know you are very tall, and that you have a strong grip and a deep bass voice.” She smiled. “And I don’t need sight to know that you are a gentle man.”

  “Gentle?” He laughed. “No one has ever called me gentle, Hannah,” he murmured. “Ever.” He took her hand, held it to his rough-whiskered cheek. “My pals back home describe me as ‘big, black, and bad.’”

  She stepped closer. “I’ve heard worse. And Jac seems to like you. She’s a good judge of character.” She hesitated, then added, “May I?”

  When he remained silent, slender fingers brushed his eyelids and nose, feather soft. She smiled when she felt the diamond in his ear, then moved on to his closely shaved head.

  Her hand fell from his face and she stepped away. Pushing the heavy black hair away from her brow, she said, “You’re wondering how I can play the cello if I cannot see the music.”

  “You are full of surprises, Hannah Hoffman,” he said. “Sure, I’m a big fan of Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, and Ronnie Millsap. But they play jazz and blues for piano and guitar. Classical music seems so much more—” he thought of Maggie O’Shea—“well, complicated. Impossible.”

  “It is true that I tend to be a soloist, as it is extremely difficult for a blind musician to work with the demands of orchestra rehearsals. But I a
lready knew the Tosca score and was able to step in.”

  A tiny “ping” on her watch caught her attention. “Almost sunset. It’s time to light the Shabbat candles,” she told him, moving to the dining room table. “Perhaps there will be another time for this conversation.”

  Two brass candlesticks, highly polished, stood on the dining table next to a silver cup. The only other item was a loaf of bread, Challah, on a cutting board, covered by a soft square of linen. Hannah slipped a white lace veil over her hair and lifted a small book of matches. “I take it you are not Jewish, Simon?”

  He shook his head, then realized she needed to hear his answer. “My mama took me to church every Sunday in Harlem when I was a kid. But in my business, Hannah, you see a lot of bad stuff. Really bad stuff. Takes away your belief in the good after a while. God and I—well, we don’t always see eye to eye when it comes to his choices.”

  “Then we will just concentrate on the ‘good’ tonight. Shabbat has meant a day of rest, of harmony, for over three thousand years. We don’t even pick a flower, we just enjoy the peace.” She glanced at the greyhound, stretched on the carpet by her feet. “Even Jac must rest.”

  “Shabbat begins with the lighting of two candles—the opposites of light and dark, of work and rest. We begin at sundown because the world began in darkness.” The match flared and, using her fingertips to feel the wicks, she lit both candles. “The woman of the home kindles the lights to welcome the Sabbath. I remember seeing the candlelight reflected in my husband’s eyes, just before I lost my sight …”

  She was married?

  The candles flickered to life. Hannah extended her hands over the flames, drawing her palms inward three times in a graceful, circular motion. She covered her eyes and began to recite the blessing. “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu …”

  He was unexpectedly moved by her words, by the beauty of her carved face beneath the veil, her narrow hands as they circled the firelight in the shadows, drawing the light into her eyes. Eyes that could not see. It was one of the most beautiful moments he could remember. He felt as if he had just stepped back in time, into a home in ancient Jerusalem. He glanced at the front door, half expecting Moses to enter the room in long flowing robes.