Sean Wyatt Compilation Box Set

by Ernest Dempsey

  She stopped and stared at a particular piece. “Yes,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “That is a Monet. We have three of his paintings. There are several renowned artists represented here. Each one of the works in this room is absolutely priceless.”

  “Were all of these taken by the Nazis?” she asked.

  He nodded, solemnly. “Yes. They were.” He stood still for a moment and looked thoughtful. “My father wanted to sell off all of these works to fund the rise of a new Reich. He believed that the Fuhrer would have wanted that. When he died, I swore to protect these works of art and never let any of them be sold to fund the Nazi’s evil.”

  Adriana shook her head. “Why not return them to the families they were taken from?”

  He laughed. “What should I have done, my dear? Make an announcement that I have found a lost Monet and whoever the rightful owner is should come forward? I would have ten thousand people showing up on my door. My father and his men kept an inventory of everything but not where they were taken from. Except one.”

  “The Van Gogh?” she asked.

  The old man nodded.

  At the end of the room a little frame hung in the corner. It was much smaller than the rest of the artwork in the room and could have easily gone unnoticed. Even before Adriana got close to it she could tell what it was. Her breath quickened and her heart raced. She could barely believe she’d found the lost Van Gogh. The painting was more legend than anything else. Most people believed if it did exist, it had been destroyed decades before. But there she was, standing in front of it.

  She admired the artistry of the brush strokes and noted the oddness of the subject in the painting. The tree’s two trunks and odd-looking fruit were certainly different than anything she’d ever seen. A small river flowed under two trunks that joined in the center. Flowers, bushes, and other trees blurred the background behind the majestic figure.

  “During the early stages of the war, it was taken from a Jewish synagogue in Poland. After my father interrogated the Rabbis, he had them all executed.”

  The last sentence sent chills down her spine.

  “Beyond that, he was given one mission. He was to do whatever it took to find every bit of information he could about the tree.”

  “Hitler wanted to live forever,” her voice trailed off.

  Foyt nodded. “Yes. I see Helen must have informed you on the Fuhrer’s true aspirations.” His voice stopped, cracking a little at the end.

  She turned around, sensing his pain. “I’m sorry. It is my fault she’s dead. None of this would have happened—”

  He raised his hand and stopped her in midsentence. “I appreciate your empathy. It was only a matter of time until something like this happened anyway. The men that killed Helen and captured you have been after this painting for a long time. They work for a group that has been trying to find clues as to the whereabouts of the real tree.”

  He looked around at his collection then back to her. “They are an evil organization, Ms. Villa, much like the one my father worked for. They do their work with a religious zeal.

  “They were called The Rosicrucian Order in the old days, hundreds of years ago. Now they go by a new name, one that they believe fits their motives. The Order of the Golden Dawn.”

  He sat down on an upholstered chair nearby and began to talk again. “Mueller had been recruited by The Order a long time ago. They have people everywhere. I have spies of my own throughout the country so I keep well informed.”

  Adriana’s eyebrows came together trying to understand the information. “So, you knew Mueller wanted the painting but you invited him to come to your home and see it? Why?”

  He shrugged and smiled. “I’m an old man. Got to have some fun while I still can.” His eyes beamed from behind the glasses.

  “You were taunting them?” she asked.

  He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. “It was funny to me.”

  Adriana smiled at the thought.

  “But now,” he continued, “I need you to take the painting.”

  “Take it?”

  He nodded. “I won’t be able to keep it safe much longer. They were content to wait it out and let me die, hoping to purchase the painting at auction. Now that Mueller has been murdered, I suspect the ones pulling the strings will try to take it by force. It is only a matter of time.”

  “But it’s secure here. Does anyone else know the code to this room?” she wondered.

  Foyt waved his hand. “Locks can be broken. While I trust most of the people who work for me, nearly everyone has a price, Ms. Villa.”

  “I have protected the painting and its secret for long enough. It is time for someone else to do it.”

  She shook her head. “Why me?”

  He laughed. “You are a horrible thief, Ms. Villa. You came here for the painting. Now I try to give it to you and you will not take it.” His face was sincere. “I know you are not a typical thief,” he said before she could protest.

  The old man stood up again and walked over to the frame. Gently, he lifted it off a hook and handed it to her. “You must take it,” he said. “And you must protect it. The secret it hides is more powerful than anything the world has ever known. If it falls into the wrong hands it could change the course of human events.”

  Her eyes were puzzled. “It’s just a painting,” she said, confused.

  He shook his head. “No, my dear, it isn’t. When you figure it out, then you will understand.”

  She held the object carefully, eyeing the colors and images.

  “You must go now,” he said, already heading back towards the door. “The Order will no doubt be coming for retribution.”

  “You are a powerful man. What could they do to you?”

  He smiled again at the sentiment. “I appreciate your respect but there is only so much I can do against a foe such as The Order.” Foyt hesitated a moment before speaking again. “Do you know how Vincent Van Gogh died?”

  “She shrugged her shoulders. He shot himself when he was 37,” she answered.

  The old man nodded. “That’s what the history books say. But if he shot himself, why did the authorities never find the gun?”

  Adriana looked down at the painting again.

  “The Order murdered him. They killed him because they knew he’d stumbled upon a secret, a secret they had been searching hundreds of years to uncover. My resources can only protect the painting so long, Ms. Villa. But you can hide it. They don’t know you.”

  She understood. The old man felt like he was at the end of his run. With the wolves howling at the gates, he needed someone else to take his torch and run. She followed him out of the room and the heavy door closed behind them.

  She started to head back up the stairs but he grabbed her and shook his head. “You should probably go out another way.” He held out his hand pointing towards another corridor that led away from the safe room.

  Adriana obeyed and headed down the hallway to an open door. Through it, she saw two, black Range Rovers.

  When she looked back at him, he was holding out an electronic key. “Don’t try to tell me you cannot take one of my cars. I can only drive one at a time anyway.” He smiled kindly at her.

  “Thank you for trusting me with this,” she said, grappling with the gravity of the situation.

  “You are a good person, Ms. Villa. I am certain you will do what is right. Now go.” He turned and started walking back down the hallway.

  She looked over at the nearest SUV and hesitated for a moment. Then she pressed the remote ignition button.

  Adriana sat on the edge of a bed in a hotel room. She’d left the mountain complex and driven down a hidden dirt road and found her way back into town. There was no way she was going back to her room in Wernigerode so she’d left her things and driven the two hours straight to Frankfurt. There weren’t any flights available until the next morning so she decided to hole up for the night.

  She held the painting reverently and lo
oked over it, trying to see what was so special about it. He’d said it was one of many clues. Clues to what, she wondered?

  The television interrupted her thoughts with an image of a fire. She recognized the mansion instantly. The news reporter was speaking so quickly that it was hard for her to understand all of the German. She did, however, pick up a few words that gave her goose bumps.

  The fire at Holger Foyt’s mansion had destroyed all but the stone and brick on the outside. Several bodies had been found inside the building but none had been identified yet. The scene seemed chaotic with police and firefighters rushing around everywhere. It was believed that there were no survivors and the cause of the blaze had yet to be determined.

  A small twinge of emotion panged in her chest. Foyt had been a nice man and he’d trusted her with something big, perhaps something he didn’t fully comprehend. She certainly didn’t understand it.

  She flipped over the painting and looked at the back. On the backing paper of the frame, she noticed the bottom right corner had been peeled away a little. She lifted the edge and pulled it back. Five numbers were written on the back of the canvas accompanied by a strange set of backwards letters.

  Adriana stared at the numbers, wondering what they meant.

  36115

  Curious, she grabbed a pen and paper and started writing down the numbers and letters. For several minutes, she tried to make different words of out the letters but kept coming up with nothing. She looked up from the paper and saw herself in the mirror. Then it hit her. She took the painting over to the mirror and held up the back of it to the reflection.

  The letters spelled out the word, Coronado.

  But what did it mean and what about the numbers? Fatigue was setting in. Her eyes were getting heavy. The long drive hadn’t been easy after the day she’d had.

  There would be time to figure out the mysterious meaning of the word and numbers tomorrow. For now, she needed sleep.

  As she laid her head on the pillow, the news had changed to a story about an American agency that had discovered some ancient relics just outside of Istanbul. Two men, probably in their mid-thirties, appeared on the screen holding up a few small, stone statues. They looked proud, smiling as they handed the objects over to a Turkish emissary.

  The room was getting blurry as her weariness caught up to her. The last thing she heard as she drifted off was one name.

  Sean Wyatt.