Because in the end, hope is what matters. I will always love you, my dearest child. Always remember the courage of your grandparents, who gave their lives for ours.
Your loving Mother
* * *
In the dimness of the old town apartment, Hannah turned toward Maggie, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. “I think I chose the cello because of my mother’s story about that painting,” she said softly.
Maggie blinked back hot tears of her own. “You are Felix Hoffman’s granddaughter,” she murmured, rising to fold Hannah in her arms. Then she stood, retrieved the shoebox from the hall table where she had left it, and gave it to Hannah. “This afternoon I met an elderly man who was a boy during the war. He found these items in a chest in the Austrian Tyrol, when the Nazis were hiding their looted treasures in Alpine lakes. The candlesticks were in a chest containing items stolen from your grandfather’s gallery in Florence. Now they belong to you.”
She heard Sugarman’s sharp intake of breath as he stepped closer.
As if caught in a dream, Hannah held out her hands with disbelief. Very slowly, she opened the box, unwrapped the suede from the heavy silver candlesticks, and ran her fingers over every inch of the tall tapers. The blue eyes widened with shocked understanding. “My grandparents’ Shabbat candlesticks?” she murmured. “Dear God, their candlesticks!” Tears ran like rain down her face. “How can I ever thank you?”
Maggie exchanged a look with Sugarman. “We have an even better gift for you, Hannah,” said Maggie. “We believe we’ve found your grandfather’s Dark Rhapsody.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
VIENNA
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24
“HOT DAMN. QUITE a night for both of us, hey, Doc?”
Sugarman maneuvered the rented black Fiat though the narrow, ancient street that twisted its way toward their hotel. Maggie had just finished telling him about her conversation with Johann Vogl.
“I’ll meet with him first thing tomorrow to examine the Gigi portrait and to discuss the best way to authenticate the painting underneath. No way we’ll let him touch it. Christ, he really thinks it might be a Picasso?” His breath came out in a shocked whistle. “You can bet your grand piano I’ll be asking him about those black market contacts as well. Vogl may know or remember something important. Some one. Maybe luck will be on our side.”
“I should have asked him,” said Maggie.
“Not your job, Doc. Mine.” He smiled in the shadows as he eased into the brightly lit square. “You did good.”
She returned his smile. “The look on Hannah’s face when she touched those candlesticks …”
“Yeah, that was a moment. The whole night for me was … well …”
“I was there, Simon. I saw the look in your eyes.” She flashed an amused grin. “I suspect you may be going to the opera tomorrow afternoon. I think Hannah wants to see you again.”
“You smokin’ something? Hannah Hoffman is the last complication I need in my life right now. Hell, Maggie, she’s—” He slowed as they came to a roundabout.
“Blind? I can’t imagine that would scare you away, Simon.”
He choked with laughter. “Scare me? Have you met me, Doc? It would take more than a blind cellist to scare me off! But she has that hound always by her side.”
“You’re calling Jac a hound? Seriously?”
“I have nothing in common with Hannah Hoffman,” Sugarman protested. “Okay, so she plays the cello like a dream, but …” They swung by the Vienna State Opera, shining with golden lights, and approached their hotel on Führichgasse.
Maggie said, “But you don’t need any more complications in your life. Understood. Will you call me as soon as you’ve seen Johann Vogl? He mentioned selling musical scores as well—ask him about those. Good Lord, he remembered a Tchaikovsky and a Felix Mendelssohn.”
“Music to your ears.”
“Yes. But, Simon, one thing is still troubling me.”
“Only one?”
She ignored him. “Felix Hoffman’s art and music collection disappeared in 1943, when he and his family were sent to Poland. You believe Victor Orsini’s father stole pieces from that collection. And those paintings were hidden in a villa in Florence, right? But Gigi and Johann Vogl found Hoffman’s pieces in a chest the Nazis were hiding in an Austrian lake. In 1945.”
Sugarman pulled to a stop in the courtyard in front of their hotel. “Here’s what I think happened. Hoffman’s collection was broken up, like so many others during the war. Orsini’s father stole several pieces from Hoffman, just before the SS arrived at the gallery that night. The rest of Hoffman’s collection was looted, sent on to Germany for the Führer. Then the Americans and Russians showed up, and there was a mad dash to hide the treasures. Alpine lakes, underground vaults and mines, Swiss banks, private chateaus, and Bavarian castles. Some documented, others not. Some of the art fell into the hands of Allied troops, some went to art dealers, many were destroyed in the bombings or on purpose. Countless treasures will never be found, Doc. But I’m gonna keep looking.”
“Because we have to save what is beautiful,” she said softly, quoting Johann Vogl.
“Yeah. So. Up for a nightcap?” He handed the keys to the valet as they stepped from the car into the cold lamp-lit night.
“I wish. But there is a grand piano with my name on it in one of the small public rooms, courtesy of the concierge. I have hours to go before I sleep.” She thought of Gigi’s impossible rehearsal demands. “Many hours. And I’m meeting Hannah for early coffee.”
“You two really hit it off.”
“I feel such a strong connection to her. I don’t know if it’s music, or loss, or just something inexplicable. But I feel as if I’ve known her forever.”
“I know the feeling. Okay, then. I’ll call you in the morning, as soon as I leave Vogl.”
She reached out to touch his arm. “Wait. Have you heard from Michael?”
A heartbeat of silence. “Geez, Doc, I’m not on his speed dial.”
“I saw a report about last night’s bombing in Rome. Innocent people were hurt, Simon!” He looked away and her breath choked in her throat. “Just tell me he wasn’t there, tell me he’s okay—”
“He’ll call you, Maggie. Trust me. Trust him.” Simon set a hand on her shoulder. “When do you leave for the airport?”
Maggie looked up into Sugarman’s eyes. “Actually, I’m not going home. I’m driving to Salzburg.”
“Salzburg? What the heck is in Salzburg?”
“Not what. Who. I’m going to find my father.”
* * *
“What’s happening, pal?”
Beckett scowled as he held the cell phone to his ear. “I’m in a hospital and it’s after midnight, Sugar. Every time I cough I see stars. What the devil do you think is happening?”
Sugarman chuckled. “Sorry, lost track of time. They ready to release you yet?”
“I’ll find out in the morning.”
“Going home should make you happy.”
Beckett gazed toward the crutches propped against the wall, then down at his unmoving legs. “I’m still way short of happy,” he muttered. “You sure no one died, Sugar?”
“No bodies. I’m sure. Your warning saved lives, Mike.”
“Thank Christ. Okay, I’ve remembered something. Dane was with a woman in the square, just before the bombing. Narrow coat, thick purple scarf, long dark hair. Looked young, had a pretty profile. They were having quite an argument.”
“You have my attention. Height?”
“They were sitting on the edge of the fountain. But she got up and ran into the crowd just before—” He squinted, trying to picture the moment he saw the woman turn and disappear into the crowd. “Right, she was five three, maybe five four.”
“You think they knew each other?”
“Oh yeah.”
“The woman fits, Mike, good work. Because when my agents got to that Tuscan village, they found the body of the town priest. And
there was no sign of the plastic surgeon’s daughter you told me about.”
“Beatrice … Don’t tell me. Young, pretty. Maybe five foot four, with long dark hair.”
“Bingo.”
Beckett smiled grimly. “Any word on Dane?”
“Hasn’t surfaced. But you and I both know he will.”
“If I hadn’t run toward that grandmother …”
“Then you wouldn’t be the man you are. Don’t beat yourself up over this one, pal. Just get your butt back to DC. And in the meantime, I’ll see if I can find out anything about your mystery woman.”
“Speaking of mystery women, how did it go with Hannah Hoffman? Is she the granddaughter?”
“That, and a whole lot more. She’s like no woman I’ve ever met.”
Beckett chuckled. “I’m thinking that’s a good thing, Sugar.”
“Well, it isn’t. Okay, so it’s hard to ignore a beautiful, ethereal five-foot woman lugging a cello around. I need to put a continent between us, pronto. But her opera is closing later today, so she could be returning to the States for her Matisse.”
Beckett grinned. “Beautiful? Ethereal?”
Sugarman ignored him. “And speaking of missing art, I may have a solid lead on Felix Hoffman’s collection, thanks to La Maggie. I’m following up in the morning, then heading back to DC.”
“How is Maggie?”
A breath. Then, “Fine, fine.”
Why the hesitation? “Sugar …”
“She’s okay, Mike, really. More than okay. But she heard about the bombing in Rome, who hasn’t? She’s no fool, she knows you’re neck deep into something bad. You’ve got to call her, pal, let her know you’re okay.”
“I will. Is she on her way home?”
“Not exactly. What do you know about her father?”
Beckett felt his stomach fall. “She never talks about him. Or her mother, for that matter. Her father died some months before I met her. Why, what’s going on?”
“She told me in New York that dear old pops is Finn Stewart.”
“Finn … Sounds like that actor in Star Wars.”
Sugarman made a losing-buzzer sound. “This Finn is a Maestro, a well-known orchestral conductor. Make that was—I got the feeling that he’s been off the grid for a long time. There was some big mystery about his disappearance, way back when. He was one of those flamboyant, over-the-top brilliant musicians, like Bernstein. But the doc closed that door on me pretty fast, pal, I think his leaving must have hurt her. Badly.”
Beckett closed his eyes. Why hadn’t she told him? “I’m guessing she was just a kid. So why her interest in her father all of a sudden?”
“Maybe because I asked her about him when I was with her, after she told me that her parents and godfather all went to Yale.”
“Yale. So you still think there’s a connection between Hoffman’s missing art and someone who went to Yale years ago?”
“I know there is. Orsini called two people from his secret society when he needed help hiding that art collection. And those Skull and Bones connections of his went way back. All for one and one for all. The first guy he called went to Yale in the fifties. So …”
“Okay, the Yale connection can go way back. You think Maggie’s parents knew something?”
“Maybe they did. My gut says it’s all inextricably linked somehow. They were at Yale in the sixties. Musical legends, even I heard about them, years later. Something just feels off, you know? Maggie’s father knew about Dark Rhapsody; he has been missing for decades. Why?”
“Is that why you’re asking me about Finn Stewart?”
“I’m asking because now, suddenly, Maggie thinks he’s alive, in Salzburg. After all this time. And she’s determined to find him.”
“Damned woman thinks she can steer the river,” muttered Beckett. He reached for the crutches by the bed. Not gonna end well, he thought.
* * *
Aggravated, Maggie listened to the busy message on her cell phone. Who was Michael talking to at this hour? He hadn’t answered her text, either.
Dropping the phone to the bed, she lay back, pulled the quilt over her head, closed her eyes. Tomorrow could be a big day. She might find out if her father was really alive. But deep in her heart, she had to ask herself—did she want to see him again?
The darkness took her.
The French doors open slowly.
The girl steps into the deep blue shadows. Giant leaves the color of ink close around her.
Where is she?
She emerges suddenly from the shadows into startling blue light. Half blinded, all she can see is a hunched stone creature with an evil smile, standing guard over a hidden garden.
She slips uneasily past the creature into the garden. The sunken pool before her is very long and narrow, fringed by a tangled wall of huge red roses. The water is the color of a deep ocean, shimmering like a mirror.
A woman swims alone in the pool. Her narrow arms reach and pull, strong long legs kick rhythmically as bubbles flashing with blue light swirl up and over her naked body. Her hair is long and spins out behind her in fluid ebony ropes.
Somewhere music is playing, the melody haunting and dark with sorrow. The woman swims in time to the tempo, graceful as a dancer through the blue water.
The music grows louder as black clouds spin across the sun. The huge roses begin to twist in the wind, their crimson petals blowing like drops of blood into the water.
A sound. Breathing.
The girl looks toward the tangle of giant leaves.
The blurred outline of a man’s face appears, distorted with anger, half hidden behind the roses.
Turning in the pool, the woman flings out her hand, reaching toward the girl. Then she spirals away, down into the deep blueness.
The music reaches a crescendo. The girl watches in horror as the water slowly turns to a terrifying cobalt blue, watches until only a gossamer shadow drifts far beneath the depths …
Someone was screaming. With a frightened cry, Maggie sat bolt upright in the bed. The woman was drowning! Panicked, she flung out a hand, sure she would feel the pool’s cold water against her skin.
No. Sheets, smooth and silken-soft beneath her fingertips. Where am I?
Vienna. Her hotel room in Vienna. In the early morning shadows, Maggie hugged her knees to her chest, breathing in deep gulps of air, trying to calm her pounding heart. The nightmare had changed. This time the girl had left safety behind, ventured out through the doors into the terrifying garden. Watched the woman swim through the blue, spin down into the depths … What else?
The chords of haunting music spun in her head.
The man’s face.
She had seen a man’s angry blurred face peering out from huge dark leaves.
Dear God. Was it the face of her father?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SALZBURG, AUSTRIA
SATURDAY MORNING
SOMEHOW MAGGIE MANEUVERED the rented Citroën into a too-small parking space in the crowded square, barely missing the flower cart perched on the cobblestones just inches from her bumper.
It’s been too long, she thought, turning off the engine and gazing at the bright colors of the vibrant, busy Saturday morning market. Melons, garlands of onions, fragrant basil, peonies the color of rubies. Too long since I’ve been in this beautiful city.
She’d risen early. Trying not to think about the nightmare, she had focused on her music, become lost in the Rachmaninoff for several hours. Then, after awakening Gigi with a very-early-in-New-York call, she’d had coffee with Hannah, invited her to New York, settled her bill, and headed west. And now here she was, once again back in Mozart’s extraordinary birthplace.
Just ahead of her stretched the Baroque Mirabell Gardens, shining emerald in the soft sunlight. Somewhere, a band was playing. Mozart, of course. She smiled, remembering, suddenly, the dancing scene from The Sound of Music. She turned in a circle, breathing deeply. The air was cool and crisp, with just a hint of apple
s. And there, just across the River Salzach, was the Hohensalzburg, the fairy-tale fort-like castle on the hill. She had performed there during the Salzburg Festival several summers ago, playing Mozart’s gorgeous Sonata in C minor in the palace’s Golden Chamber.
Since Mozart’s favorite instrument was the piano, that summer she had played several of his Concerti—the No. 20, highlighted in the film Amadeus, and the No. 21, with its gorgeous Elvira Madigan theme—in the impressive and beautifully lit Festspielhaus, Salzburg’s main concert hall.
But the best moment had been her performance of her favorite Mozart work, his Concerto No. 23, in the intimate, open courtyard of the Residenhof. Losing herself in his sheer musical genius, the bright tumbling joy of the notes. Until the totally unexpected heavy rain had pelted down … She shook her head, remembering the chaos—for the audience and musicians as well. All those suddenly unfolding umbrellas and people scattering for cover. She’d continued to play until the rain made it impossible. Now they had a roof for inclement weather. But she had loved playing beneath the stars.
Okay. The memories were lovely, but it was time to focus. Because across the River Salzach, in the shadow of the fort, was the Altstadt—the old town of Salzburg. Mozart’s birthplace. And hiding somewhere in that warren of medieval spires, narrow alleys, cupolas, and small squares was her father.
She hoped. Maggie slipped the postcard from her pocket, addressed in her father’s old-fashioned spidery script, with the two-word message only she would have understood. Ghost Light. The photograph showed an ancient twisting passageway with dozens of medieval wrought-iron guild signs hanging above the shops. At the end of the alley, framed against the bright postcard-blue sky, was the clock tower of the old city hall.
Is that the street where you’ve been hiding, Finn?
Maggie opened her map of the old town, slipped the postcard in her pocket, and headed toward the bridge.
* * *
A high whinny broke the air as Simon Sugarman crossed the stallburg toward the small office where Johann Vogl worked. Too bad he didn’t have time to check out the Lipizzaners. They were gorgeous.
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