by Cathi Stoler
I nodded, and she went on. He took the painting to a man in the city with whom he had done business before, someone he knew loved art more than money. That man was Papa’s great, great, great grandpapa. She smiled. Or maybe even one or two more greats, she shrugged. His name was Yitzhak, like yours. He promised Signore Fontini that he would treasure his painting and guard it with his life. And he did, passing it along in our family.
But, I asked, if it is ours, why couldn’t we have this painting here? I would like to see what Signore Fontini looks like, and if I could, use it to practice my own drawing.
Oh, Isaac, she said, holding me close. It is not so simple. If anyone knew we had it, they would take it from us. Papa … Papa would …
Mama looked hard at me. Isaac, I am going to do something I swore to Papa I would never do, but you must promise me that you will never tell.
What, Mama? I demanded, excited now. Mama never kept secrets from Papa. She walked to the tall bookcase in the dining room and lifted a book from the top shelf. She opened it and removed a small photograph from its pages and handed it to me. It was the painting of Signore Fontini.
He was seated in a high-backed chair, one arm leaning on its armrest, the other in his lap, holding a book. He was dressed in heavy robes and wore a large medallion hanging from his neck and a large ring on the hand holding the book. A small cap covered his head, and behind him was a window through which you could see cypress trees and a city in the distance. The photograph was old and a little bit faded, but it was his face that I couldn’t stop staring at. Long and lean, with a pointy nose, the face seemed to leap out of the photograph at me, mouth smiling but eyes proud.
But, Mama, I said, thinking about what he must have been like when he was alive, there are no colors. What colors were his robes and his chair and …
Isaac, Mama said, grabbing my chin with her hands and smiling, you are too full of questions, a true artist who must know everything. The colors of the painting are beautiful. She pointed to the picture. A rich red here and dark blue there. A golden medallion and ring. The colors of a nobleman’s dress and home.
I concentrated even harder, trying to imagine this man, taking in every detail so that I might be able to draw it from memory, even though I knew I should not.
Perhaps someday, Mama said, you will be able to see it for yourself … and paint it, too, she added as if she had read my mind.
Just then the front door opened, and we heard Papa in the hall talking to Elise and Anna, the girls giggling as they helped him take off his hat and coat. Quickly, Mama replaced the book on the shelf, not realizing that I still held the photograph. I slipped it into my trouser pocket just as Papa entered the parlor, trailed by my sisters.
Ever since then I have been waiting for Mama to ask me for the photograph. Maybe she has forgotten that I have it. Or maybe now that Papa is bringing “it” home, it won’t matter. When Papa gets home, we will have the real painting to look at and study.
Lior finished reading, refolded the pages, and slipped them back into the envelope. His grandfather had told him many times about that night and the days that followed.
Bernard never returned to the Stern home. Instead, he disappeared like so many others in Berlin.
A friend of the family in whom Bernard Stern had confided and who had promised to help should anything happen to him arrived at the apartment early the next morning. He informed Isaac’s mother, Rachael, that the Gestapo had taken her husband and that she and the children must leave the city immediately.
Bernard had been followed to the painting’s hiding place by an elite unit of the Gestapo, commanded by Reichsmarshall Hermann Göring. When he emerged from the building, Bernard was arrested as an enemy of the Reich and the painting confiscated. It seemed that Göring had heard rumors about the existence of this particular work of art and had placed Stern under surveillance. Göring waited for the right opportunity, then pounced like the jackal he was. This was a true find, a masterwork, and its provenance would stun the art world. After the war, it would be the centerpiece of the Göring collection.
The family fled, taking with them the identity papers that Bernard had already purchased, a little money Rachael had put aside, and anything of value that they could carry to barter or sell. Eventually, they arrived in Palestine together, except for Bernard and the painting.
Isaac never stopped searching for the portrait of Signore Emilio Fontini. Until he died, he worked with every group that could help him and never gave up hope of finding it. He was determined that it should be returned to its rightful owners—the Stern family and Israel—those who had a vested interest in its recovery. It would be a huge coup to repatriate this consummate work of art. And when Lior became a member of the Mossad and joined its Asset Recovery Unit, he took up his grandfather’s quest.
Lior picked up the photograph that his grandfather had entrusted to him and studied it closely. It was worn and cracked from being carried and handled, but to Lior it was as clear as if it had been snapped yesterday.
He had researched the painting scrupulously. If what Isaac had told him was correct, there was none like it in the world. He’d spent months on the Internet and traveling from city to city in Italy gathering information, slowly piecing together what must have happened to Signore Fontini and his portrait.
The man had been a scholar and artist who had been well received at court. At some point, however, he ran afoul of The Society of the Black Cross, a secret and deadly group of art collectors, and was ruined by them several years after his portrait was completed.
He was also a friend to Michelangelo Buonarroti, who was visiting in Florence in the year 1504, and spent much of his time at the Fontini palazzo. Eventually, Fontini persuaded the master to execute a portrait of him that he planned to hang in his country villa outside the city.
For a time, that was all that Lior could find. Fontini had been exiled, and it seemed that no other records of him or his painting existed. Then, in a small, little-known library in Padua, Lior stumbled upon a diary written by Signore Fontini after he’d left Florence in disgrace. For Lior, it completed the story.
It appeared that Michelangelo was halfway finished with the painting when Pope Julius II summoned him back to Rome to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. There would be no time to complete the portrait of Fontini himself, so he turned to one of Florence’s foremost masters, Sandro Botticelli, for help. They had been introduced by Fontini and had spent many evenings together discussing politics and drinking wine at Fontini’s palazzo. After some persuasion, the now elderly Botticelli agreed to paint in the missing background and complete the work. Michelangelo signed the unfinished canvas before he left for Rome as a gesture to his friend and a thank you for his generous hospitality. And, when it was complete, so did Botticelli.
It was a painting by two of the world’s greatest masters, created the one and only time they worked together. It was also part of Lior’s family’s heritage and he was going to get it back.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Stanfield Hotel
New York City
Helen was in. She’d reserved an elite suite at the Stanfield for two nights, starting this evening. The suite, on the 17th floor, had two bedrooms connected by a sitting room, two master baths, and a balcony overlooking the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was one of the few rooms available. The renovation and grand re-opening had been played up in the press, and the publicity, coupled with the hotel’s heritage, had created a huge demand for rooms. It was at ninety-eight percent occupancy and Helen had taken what was available. This, it turned out, was the Grand Suite. She’d been informed that it was “quite special.” At two thousand dollars a night, it had better be special.
Helen had never spent anything close to this amount of money for a night in a hotel. She was going for her lungs, as Joe would say. The amount seemed more like what the monthly rent on an apartment might be, or in Manhattan, a garage space. But hey, she told herself, this was a v
ery important assignment, albeit a free one, and it was critical to be inside and prepared to move quickly.
Two bedrooms would be perfect if she asked Joe to join her and act as her backup. His presence at her shoulder would bolster her cover as a moneyed guest. Didn’t rich folks usually have an entourage? Then why shouldn’t I?
She was using the name Helen Stratton—her middle name from her mother’s family. Helen was carrying a complete set of false identification and credit cards, along with a Dune Road Southampton address—her parents’—should anyone check. When she’d made the reservation, she had given the impression that it was an upper class name attached to upper class money, all the better to pay for the Grand Suite.
When Helen had decided to return to the Stanfield after their drinks in the bar, Joe had stopped her. “Hey, Ms. Impulsive who just blew three hundred bucks on a bartender who will definitely remember you, don’t you think it might be better to just call and reserve a room? If you go back into the lobby now, hotel security or someone who saw us at the bar might get suspicious. Why raise a red flag?”
“You’re right.” She handed him her cell phone. “You call for me, instead. Pretend to be my assistant and ask them to please hold for Helen Stratton. Make it sound like I might be just a tad difficult.” She’d arched an eyebrow at Joe’s snide look. “I’ll take it from there.”
Now here she was, being shown all the suite’s amenities by a very attentive bellman, also garbed in the hotel’s ubiquitous tailored black suit. “Let me get that suitcase for you.” He pushed down the retractable handle and prepared to heft it onto to an ebony wood luggage rack.
“That won’t be necessary.” Helen held up a hand, afraid that he’d lift the suitcase and realize that her Louis Vuitton was a: a fake and b: almost empty, with just a few items inside, including a black suit exactly like his. “My assistant will be here momentarily to unpack for me.” She handed him a ten dollar bill and smiled as he left the suite.
I hope Aaron Gerrard appreciates what I’m doing for him. She tucked her quickly emptying wallet back in her purse, then flopped down on the room’s king size bed. Maybe I can expense this with the NYPD or the FBI. Helen stretched her body from head to toe on the soft and roomy mattress and surveyed the beautiful room with its sleek, modern furniture accessorized with Japanese antiques. She smiled. A girl could get used to this, but unfortunately, this girl’s got work to do. She sat up and reached for her cell phone. There were calls to make and people to spy on.
Helen worked her way down her list. She let Joe know she’d checked in and asked if he’d like to spend the night. “No hanky-panky,” she reminded him, “just a little protection and reassurance. And, wear a black suit.” He hung up on her.
She dithered about calling Aaron, then decided to leave him a message on his private line. It was better to tell him where she was, if not what she was up to. Knowing Aaron, he’d quickly figure out that she wanted to keep an eye on Moto and try to drag her away before she could interfere in his case. They could fight about that later.
Laurel was on her list, too. Helen hadn’t heard from her since yesterday afternoon and wanted to speak with her about Monica Sargasso. It wasn’t like Laurel to just disappear, and Helen was starting to suspect she might have done something that had gotten her into real trouble. She was tempted to call Aaron again, but she didn’t have anything specific to tell him. It was just a bad feeling. Helen didn’t want to push everyone over the edge into a panic. Not at this point, anyway.
Hopefully, Laurel was simply still in a snit over what Helen had said. And, Mike Imperiole was in his worried father mode. She hadn’t known what to tell him when he’d called this morning to see if she’d spoken to Laurel. Helen had heard the anxiety in his voice but hadn’t been able to diffuse it. She’d bitten back the words that threatened to spill from her lips—her suspicions would only add fuel to the fire—and she really didn’t know where Laurel was or what she was up to.
She shook her head and smiled. She really liked Mike. He was a great guy, and she loved spending time with him. But their relationship was complicated—mixed up by her working with Laurel. Helen didn’t want to blow it. She realized that Mike would feel terrible if he knew about her apprehension about Laurel, not to mention where Helen was right now, and that she’d invited Joe to spend the night. Mike would never understand that Joe was just a friend.
Helen’s last call was the most important. It was to Vicki Simon, the hotel’s bath concierge. She made an appointment an hour from now for a refreshing and energizing basil, rosemary, and lime bubble bath with scented candles and African tribal music. At two hundred and fifty dollars a session, she couldn’t wait to see what goodies Vicki would bring her. And how she could use them to get to Moto.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
5th Avenue and 81st Street
New York City
Aaron was in an unmarked cruiser across from the Stanfield Hotel. The air was stuffy and filled with the familiar aromas of a stakeout—coffee, fast food, and sweat. They’d been at it for over four hours, and Moto was still en route. Aaron had visions of him pulling off the road in Flushing to grab a few hotdogs and catch the Met’s twi-nighter at Citi Field. He wouldn’t put it past the cocky bastard to do something totally unexpected. Whatever the deal was, it was going to go down in his time and in his way.
Aaron had just flipped closed his phone and tuned into the conversation Mickey Buonarroti was having with Agent Jimmy Liu from the FBI Art Crimes Team, who’d just slipped into the backseat.
“We’re in place, Mickey, just waiting.” The veteran agent, Jimmy Liu, glanced at his watch and shrugged as if to say all that waiting was business as usual. Then he ticked off the team’s deployment on his fingers. “Two of our guys are in a building across the street from the private residences. Our mics are live, and we’re all set up, as soon as something happens worth taping. We got Max Roth undercover as the hot dog guy on the corner by the entrance to the park.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the scruffy looking Fibbie serving hot dogs to a pair of teens with skateboards. “There is a team in an unmarked around on Eightieth Street and two teams of Lieutenant Gerrard’s people inside.” He consulted a notepad. “Tassone and Fareri are in the bar, and Waxman and Jones are in the dining room. Hope the NYPD has a fat expense account. This place is pricy. Anyway, we’re ready to rock and roll.” Jimmy nodded confidently.
“Any civilians who might be in the way?” Mickey was thinking of the hotel’s guests and the stink the management would make if they found out the FBI and NYPD were camping out in and around the hotel without their knowledge. The new owners of the Stanfield were personal friends of the mayor, and they wouldn’t hesitate to call him, especially if anything went wrong.
“Naw, not that I could see. Just a bunch of upscale tourists and the postprandial Madison Avenue drinkers.” Agent Liu appeared to notice Mickey’s expression at the choice of words. “What? I went to college, just like you,” quipped the agent. “I don’t think any of them will notice us. But we’ll try and keep everyone clear of the action.”
“Well, there’s one guest I’d like you to keep an eye out for,” interjected Aaron sarcastically. “Actually, I’d like you to cart her off to the closest station house if you see her.”
Mickey raised an eyebrow.
“Helen McCorkendale.” Aaron replied to Mickey’s unspoken question. “The biggest pain-in-the-ass P.I. I know. That was the intrepid Ms. McCorkendale leaving me a message.” He waved his cell phone in the air. “Just wanted to let me know she was going to be staying at the Stanfield for a few days, in case I wondered where she’d gone off to.” He snorted.
“Fuck. What the hell is she doing here? If she gets in the way, it could be very dangerous.” Mickey banged his hand against the steering wheel. “Worse yet, it could blow the whole deal.”
Aaron knew Mickey was right. Helen wasn’t stupid, far from it. She had great instincts, but sometimes was incredibly headstrong. Helen didn’t
always realize that what seemed like a good idea at the time could be the recipe for disaster instead. The last time they’d worked together, Aaron had literally jumped in at the very last moment and saved her from being shot by a crazed murderer and scam artist. He didn’t want it to come to that, ever again.
Shit. This might be my fault. I told her it was okay to try and find out where Moto was staying. Of course, I wanted her to tell me, not just go off on her own. Damn, leave it to Helen to figure it out then make her own plan. He wondered if she’d told Laurel what she was up to. Thinking of Laurel added to his frustration. He hadn’t spoken to her since yesterday afternoon. He was hoping that she was just busy and wasn’t avoiding his calls. He’d try to reach her again in a little while. In the meantime, he had to concentrate on the operation about to go down.