Sweet Hostage
Page 22
A small smile flashed and was gone. He was older than Trevor had first assumed, with a fair sprinkling of gray in his dark hair. An inch or two below Trevor’s own six-foot-one, he had a slim build, but he was hardened. Honed. This man had seen his share of combat.
“They do when the target is a Jewish facility being visited by a member of the Israeli government. I need to determine if she was the target.”
Trevor stopped walking, turning to look at the other man. “Unlikely. Wrong place at the wrong time. The Philosophy of Bedlam is mutilating works of art in London in support of their nihilist philosophy. I haven’t figured out why yet.”
The Mossad agent stopped as well. There was no one around them.
“Who do you work for?” he asked bluntly.
“The task force is a joint MI-5 and SAS venture. I’m Major Trevor Carswell, 22nd SAS. At your service.”
The man nodded. “Simon Rosenfeld.”
Neither man offered a hand.
“What did you find in the Heritage Museum?” Trevor asked. “Anything that stood out? A clue? Were there Shamblet paintings? At the last museum, they mutilated two Edward Shamblet paintings.”
Simon pulled a notebook from his back pocket and consulted it. “No paintings. A ceramic sculpture was smashed, but the sculptor’s name is Louise Kaplan. African Grace. Also, an illuminated manuscript is missing. It has religious significance to both Jews and Christians. It might have burned. Or it might have been stolen.”
Trevor shook his head, frustrated. “I thought their focus was this particular artist. If it’s not, I have no clues where they’ll strike next.”
They resumed walking, this time back toward Shelby and Lark.
“There’s a connection here. I just haven’t been able to find it. Shelby knows a bit about art. Maybe she can piece together a link between these artists or their work.”
Simon glanced toward the women, who were now seated under the tree. “Is that the boxer or the biter?”
Trevor grinned. “The boxer. Thank you for breaking off your attack.”
The man inclined his head. “For now, I’ll classify this as unrelated to Israeli interests. Neither an assassination attempt nor a hate crime.” He pulled a card from his wallet and scribbled something on the back. “There’s an art historian living here who happens to be the world’s foremost expert on Nazi art theft. While that might not help you at all, she might have resources that will. Meanwhile, if you find these sons of bitches, give me a call. The Israeli government would be interested in prosecuting them.”
Trevor took the proffered card and read the back. “Dr. Berkowicz. This is the second time she’s been recommended to us.”
“She’s proven useful many times to Nazi hunters. If anyone can help with art research of any sort, it’ll be her. We’ve worked together a number of times. Tell her I sent you. She’ll be forthcoming.”
“What’s the second name?”
“A discreet doctor. Since you can’t go to a hospital, he’ll be able to take care of that leg.”
They stopped by the tree, and the women got up.
“Shelby, Lark, meet Simon.”
Both women shook his hand, though Shelby didn’t smile.
“So you’re neither a hostage nor a Bedlamite,” Simon observed.
Shelby shook her head. “I just got swept up in the chaos.”
“Pleased to hear it. I’ll let my superiors know. They shouldn’t bother you.”
“Thank you for your help,” Trevor said.
Simon nodded and walked away.
“What did he tell you?” Lark asked. “After we subdued him, I mean.”
Trevor just shook his head. “You were very brave back there. Foolish, but courageous. Thank you for coming to my defense.”
“What’s our next move, Hunky Guy? I’m thinking I need to train for cage fighting.”
As the adrenaline faded from his body, he became acutely aware of the throbbing in his leg. “Now we go see a doctor.”
He let Shelby drive. He knew he was suffering blood loss, and he doubted Shelby would survive another drive with Lark. He settled into the back seat with a sigh that sounded too much like a groan. Shelby gave him a sharp look from the driver’s seat.
“I’ll get us there as fast as I can,” she said.
“You want to get there fast, let me drive.”
“I want to get there alive,” Shelby told Lark, who sat back with a huff.
The doctor was nearby, which was a mercy. Bullet wounds just plain hurt. This time, he didn’t bother to suggest Shelby and Lark stay in the car. Besides, he wanted them close by. If the police happened to realize the car was stolen, the women would be arrested.
The clinic sat inside an older building. Brick, but grayed from the weather. A single story with a small sign tacked above the doorway. As Simon instructed, they went around to the service entrance and rang the bell. The woman who answered looked to be about fifty, comfortably overweight with kind eyes. She took one look at Trevor and motioned them inside. She took them down a short hallway and put them in a typical exam room.
“I’ll get him for you,” she said. “Get up on the table.”
Dr. Lowenstein came in within ten minutes, followed by the woman pushing a mobile table full of instruments.
“What happened here?” he asked.
“I got hit by some flying glass,” Trevor said. The world started graying around the edges. His cover story was stupid, but the doctor merely nodded. The woman took a pair of scissors and cut his trousers up past his knee.
“This is my wife, Davina. She’s a registered nurse.” He set some instruments in the order he wanted. “That piece of glass is going to have to come out. I can give you morphine for the pain.”
“No,” Trevor said. “No drugs.”
“Gee, I’ve never heard that before,” the doctor said sourly. “I see a fair number of cases of flying glass. At least let me do a local to numb the area. It’ll have to be stitched after.”
“No.” He wanted nothing that would impair him. “I need full range of motion.”
The doctor just shook his head. “Gird yourself, then. This is going to hurt.”
Trevor put himself elsewhere while the doctor probed the wound. In his fantasy world, he and Shelby lounged on a white beach in Waikiki, sipping fruity drinks with little umbrellas. Laughing. Making love. He kept himself in that happy place while the doctor removed the bullet, cleaned, and stitched up the wound. By the end, sweat dripped down his temples and back.
“Done,” the doctor announced. “I’ll write you a prescription for painkillers, though I doubt you’ll make use of it.”
Trevor eased himself off the table. Shelby looked green around the gills. Lark looked like she might throw up.
“What,” he said, trying for levity. “You’ve never seen a glass shard before?”
Shelby shook her head and turned away. Lark looked around at the mess of bloody gauze and the bullet in a stainless steel tray on the portable table.
“It must hurt like hell,” she said soberly. “Why didn’t you take the morphine?”
Trevor shrugged. “I’ve had worse. And I can’t protect you if I’m not one hundred percent.”
“You’re not a hundred percent now,” Shelby said, a bite in her tone. “You were shot protecting us. We need to find a safe place to rest for a while. Give you a chance to recover from your glass shard.” She didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in her voice.
“Doctor, what do I owe you?”
“A donation to the charity of your choice,” the doctor said. “I’m happy to help any friend of Simon’s. And if you need a place to rest, I have a small room in the back. You’re welcome to it.”
As much as Trevor wanted to go right back out and talk to the art historian, he recognized that his body needed the rest. He nodded and t
hanked the Lowensteins. Davina showed them to a makeshift bedroom. A small bed, an IV stand, and monitoring equipment.
“I’ll bring you some food in a bit,” she said cheerfully. “There are extra blankets in the closet.”
Shelby took his arm and pulled him to the bed. “You’re pale and sweating. I don’t want to hear any bullshit about you taking the floor. Lie down.”
She was beautiful when she was fierce. He couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
He eased himself down on the bed, mentally told himself he was safe, and passed out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
TREVOR STIRRED, MOANING a little in his sleep.
“He’s starting to wake up. Run and get the doctor,” Shelby said. Lark left the room.
His eyes opened, fogged with sleep. His gaze unerringly found her. Something in his eyes relaxed. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty. You slept for thirteen straight hours.”
“Bloody hell.” He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Shelby watched for any telltale signs he was still in pain. Other than a slight hesitation before he put his weight on his leg, there was nothing.
Lark returned, Davina in tow. The nurse checked his bandages, took his temperature and pulse, and declared herself satisfied. “You can leave whenever you’re ready—that’s not a hint—but come back if you develop a fever or the wound starts to fester.”
“I will,” he said. “I know this is a terrible imposition, but do you have a car we might borrow? Someone might be looking for ours.”
Dr. Lowenstein came in on the tail end of his question. “You’re welcome to use my car, but only for today. I have a class I teach on Thursdays.”
“Thank you,” Trevor said, meaning it. “I owe you a huge debt.”
“Pay it forward,” the doctor said cheerfully.
The three of them were starting to look a bit ragged around the edges. They’d all slept in their clothes again, and, even using the clinic’s shower, were starting to ripen.
The car was an older model Mercedes. It had been well cared for, though, and the engine purred steadily as they drove out to Kingston upon Thames. The drive took about forty minutes.
Kingston University was beautiful in the way only an old English campus could be. They parked in front of a modern nine-story structure with a glass-enclosed staircase.
“I called ahead this morning,” Lark announced. “She’s in class until noon, but will see us over her lunch hour.”
They waited on a white stone bench under a grouping of trees. Students streamed in and out of the buildings, laughing and joking or grim and silent. Shelby sighed, allowing the peace of the place to seep into her bones. It felt like the first time in days she’d relaxed.
Trevor didn’t say much, but Lark was a fount of information. “I borrowed Dr. Lowenstein’s computer last night while you were out cold,” she told Trevor cheerily. “I might have happened upon a back door into Max’s computer.”
Trevor looked at her. “Why didn’t you mention this on the drive out?” he asked.
“I was sleeping.”
Shelby chuckled. When Lark slept, only an earthquake would rouse her. “What did you find?”
Lark hummed happily. “Tons of emails and browser searches for smuggled Nazi art and gold hidden in Switzerland between 1943 and 1946. He’s accessed databases and specialized search engines. He’s sent emails and arranged visits to people all over the world. Whatever he’s looking for, he’d dead serious about finding it.”
“World War Two again,” Shelby said. “We dismissed it earlier because it was ancient history. But put Max’s financial troubles alongside all the information we’ve heard about art theft during World War II—and I think there has to be a connection. Eric specifically targeted Shamblet works. Why? There are a million better ways to make money than to steal or destroy art.”
“Unfortunately, the book and the sculpture lost at the Jewish Heritage Museum weren’t done by Shamblet. And the PoB took credit for the bombing.”
“I have an idea,” Lark piped up. “But I need a computer. I want to see if I can find that ship manifest Nandi talked about. Her art collection that was stolen. What if Max is trying to track those down?”
Trevor thought it over. “And he’s mutilating them? Why, for heaven’s sake? If he’s the original owner, he can petition to have them returned to him. That would solve his financial problems. Sell them legally.”
“But it’s a process that can take years,” Shelby pointed out. “That might be too late.”
“Then we need to find his next target before he strikes again,” Trevor said. “We’re not going to run any more. This needs to end.”
It was a brave speech, but Shelby had her doubts. “He’s been searching for years. What makes you think we can find what he hasn’t been able to?”
“We don’t need to find it,” Lark mused. “We just need to make him think we have.”
“That’s incredibly dangerous,” Trevor said. “He’s proven he’ll kill for this, whatever it is.”
A church bell rang somewhere off in the distance, heralding a rush of students pouring down the glass-enclosed stairwell and out the front doors. Classes had ended.
“Let’s go talk to Dr. Berkowicz,” Shelby said, getting up to lead the way.
Dr. Berkowicz’s office was the stereotypical disaster. Piles of books, parchments, and stacks of papers littered every conceivable surface. More books rested on the carpeting. Three filing cabinets stood along one wall. Maps, charts, and photos were clipped to the walls, overlapping in a way that made her dizzy. She finally located Dr. Berkowicz, a tiny woman perched behind a large desk.
“Hello,” she said, her voice light and musical. She sounded decades younger than her probable eighty-plus years. “You’re the student who wants to know about stolen Nazi artwork?”
“Yes, I am.” Lark stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Hadley Larkspur.”
“Oh, my.” The woman hopped off her chair. She barely came up to Shelby’s shoulder. “You are a colorful one, aren’t you? Are you doing a thesis?”
“Yes,” Lark lied smoothly. “These are my friends, Shelby and Trevor. Simon Rosenfeld suggested you could help us.”
Shelby watched her for any sign she recognized them from the news, but nothing registered as she greeted them.
“Please, sit.”
Shelby sat in one of the visitor’s chairs, and Lark took the other. Trevor leaned against one of the filing cabinets. How was he feeling? He’d slept for a long time, but his bullet wound still had to hurt, right?
“So what is your focus, young lady?” Dr. Berkowicz asked, reseating herself.
Lark pulled a notebook from her back pocket and opened it to a fresh page, clicking her pen. “I’m doing my thesis on stolen Nazi treasure, but I’m taking a different tack than other people have. I know a lot of Englishmen who smuggled their own art, and sometimes money, into other countries—South Africa, for example—to safeguard it against the Nazis. I’m interested in those people.”
“That’s still a broad topic,” Dr. Berkowicz said. “A great many wealthy families did that. Are you researching anyone in particular?”
She couldn’t have offered a better opening.
“Yes,” Shelby said. “A family called Whitcomb.”
Dr. Berkowicz sat back abruptly and crossed her arms across her chest. “There are far worthier subjects. People who also smuggled Jewish children to safety, for instance. May I ask why that family in particular?”
“I’m approaching things from the other end,” Lark said. “I want to focus on the not-so-stellar families. You know the Whitcombs?”
The woman dropped her hands into her lap. “Humph. Then you chose a good one. Max hounded me for years about informat
ion on his grandfather. I must say he did not make it easy to help him.”
Shelby mentally groaned. “Of course he’s been in touch with you,” she said. “I should have realized.”
The woman sent Shelby a sharp glance. “Are you writing a thesis, too?”
Shelby’s gut told her to go with the truth. “No, ma’am. You’ve heard about the museum bombings, I assume? The Philosophy of Bedlam? I have reason to believe Max is funding them. I’m trying to figure out why he is searching for particular pieces of art, and then mutilating them.”
“Well, I can tell you that.”
Shelby’s heart leapt. Finally! Someone who could shed some light on things. “Please go on.”
“I collect documents from all over the world,” the historian said. “Strange things you wouldn’t think would be connected. Journals, receipts, personal accounts. In this case, I acquired a ledger. It was detailed accounts of valuables, including art and gold, that were smuggled out of England and into Switzerland between 1938 and 1944.”
“Did Max’s grandfather do that?” Lark sat forward, her elfin face full of curiosity.
“Yes, he did. This particular boat captain documented everything he transported. According to his records, twelve prominent English families sent one huge consignment of art and gold bullion to a bank in Geneva. He turned out to be an honest man, which is probably why the twelve families chose him. A lesser man would simple have stolen the cargo for himself.”
Shelby leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “And you have the names of the twelve families?”
“Indeed I do. Max Whitcomb’s grandfather was at the top of the list. The first of the twelve. He arranged for the other families to deliver their art collections and the gold to the cargo ship, and monitored that it was all stored properly to protect the artwork. He personally made the delivery and payment arrangements with the captain. He received confirmation from the captain that the cargo had been delivered, according to the ledger.”
“Holy shi . . . smokes. What happened then?” Lark asked.
“The captain delivered his cargo to the Banque Privée de Genève on schedule. Further, I have a receipt proving that those same valuables reached a particular banker at that bank. That’s where it all ends, though.”