20. Thomas
20
Thomas
A s the clock above a nearby church declared the top of the six o’clock hour, Will reached up and adjusted my bowtie. Antonov’s impromptu shopping spree had netted each of us mediocre formalwear that I supposed was the best he could do in a war-torn city. At least everything fit. That was a victory in itself.
Despite the garments’ quality, Will looked spectacular.
“Damn,” I whispered, staring down as he worked my tie. “You should wear a tux more often.”
He patted the tie, as if telling it to be a “good boy,” then leaned up and pressed his lips to mine.
“We need to go down. Antonov is probably waiting.”
I nodded and held an open palm toward the door. “After you, my good sir.”
Antonov was, as we suspected, sitting in his car with the motor running. Smoke curled out of his open window from a cigarette that dangled from his lips.
“Are you ready for a party?” he asked with a smile that looked more like a grimace.
“A party in postwar Berlin. What more could anyone want?” I deadpanned.
Will elbowed me. “We’re visiting a historic museum. This will be amazing.”
Antonov’s eyes rolled in the rearview mirror.
When we reached the museum, Antonov parked the car, climbed out, and opened my door before I had the chance. His uniform looked as impeccable as ever, though there was a trace of weariness in the set of his shoulders.
“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the grand entrance.
As we entered the museum, Will paused for a moment to let it all soak in.
The lobby was a vast expanse of marble and gilded molding, the opulence of its pre-war days evident despite the scars of conflict. Given my family heritage, I’d seen my share of palaces and dynastic homes. I was used to a certain level of grandeur. While I appreciated the German architecture, I had seen far more impressive places on my family’s travels.
Will, on the other hand, appeared awed by the majesty of the place.
“This,” Antonov said, “is what the Nazis—and American bombs—could not destroy.”
I couldn’t understand why he kept referring to Americans destroying Germany. The Soviets claimed to have liberated the country from Hitler, the Nazis, and anyone who might’ve endangered a sausage or stein over the last thousand years. They took credit so liberally one might’ve thought they’d established the German empire all those years ago.
In truth, the Soviets had inflicted as much damage as anyone upon their entry into Berlin. They had looted—or “liberated,” as they called it—more liberally than any of the other occupying powers.
Never mind that we’d also been allies, comrades in arms, as it were. He continued to deride our efforts as wantonly destructive. Sure, we’d fallen out recently, Uncle Sam not caring for how Uncle Joe governed his people and threatened the world’s tenuous new order. Still, barely a year earlier, we’d been united and fighting a common foe who’d slain far too many of our countrymen.
I was coming to appreciate the Soviet Union’s skill at outdoing itself where hypocrisy was concerned.
A waiter in a crisp white jacket with a spotless towel draped over his arm approached and offered champagne flutes from a silver tray. Antonov took one without hesitation, though he didn’t raise it to his lips. I suspected he wouldn’t. Will and I followed suit, the chilled glasses a welcome contrast to the warmth of the room.
“Enjoy your evening.” Antonov raised his glass, his tone clipped. “But remember, you are guests of the Soviet Union. Never forget that.”
“Well, isn’t he pleasant?” Will snarked as Antonov vanished into the crowd. Many in attendance were uniformed men, but a fair number of couples in tuxedoes and gowns also milled about. I recognized a few dignitaries—Americans, French, and British—visiting from their sectors. Delegations from Switzerland and a few other nations chatted quietly in clumps of three or four.
The opening of this storied museum was a bigger deal than I’d realized.
Will took a sip of his champagne and wriggled his nose.
“Bubbles get you?” I smirked.
“Always do. Right up my nostrils.”
I stifled a laugh and handed him my cocktail napkin.
The first hour was ponderous as we waded through pleasantries, false smiles, and shallow greetings. Will couldn’t stop bouncing from one painting to another. He was a kid in a candy store. I’d known of his art studies in college but had no idea just how much he loved the subject. Watching him marvel at the work of masters was more satisfying and amusing than anything I had witnessed in a very long time.
Antonov never strayed far. He occasionally introduced us to officials whose names I promptly forgot and steered us away from conversations that might stray from the curated narrative of Soviet cultural heroism.
Our intention was for Will, ever the charmer, to handle most of the talking. His easy smile and quick wit disarmed even the most rigid apparatchiks. I was supposed to play the quieter counterpart, the dutiful bodyguard, offering thoughtful nods and the occasional pointed question. It was a dynamic that had served us well in the past, though that night it felt more like a performance than usual.
Unfortunately, Will’s utter lack of Russian language skills complicated our carefully crafted plan. For the few German locals in attendance, language was no barrier. Unfortunately, the majority present, especially those who might be targets for our operation, were Russian speakers.
Will was virtually helpless.
As the evening wore on, Antonov finally excused himself to speak with a colleague.
“Do not wander far,” he said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Will replied.
The moment Antonov disappeared into the crowd, I leaned closer to Will and murmured, “Our friends from the goldfish bowl are here.”
Will didn’t glance around but shifted slightly. “Where?”
“By the window. Beige suits. They haven’t taken their eyes off us all night. I think Boris might have a crush on you.”
“Thanks for that . . . while I was drinking.” Will had to dab his chin with a cocktail napkin. “And here I thought they were simply admirers of fine art.”
It was painful to admit, but the Soviets had outdone themselves with both the renovation of the museum and the art on display. I pretended to be the Neandertal, uneducated in the ways of art and culture, but no living du Pont was truly ignorant of the world’s aesthetic intricacies. In fact, we were each schooled in such things from a very early age. As Will’s eyes widened appreciatively with each new painting or piece we passed, I catalogued the names of artists I remembered from my early studies.
The collection was astounding. How much of it was original to the museum? How much was added after being liberated from unfortunate owners? Those questions made my heart sick.
We moved through the gallery, pausing at each display just long enough to seem genuinely interested. Pieces looted from Nazi collections were prominently displayed, their placards making no mention of their provenance or the fate of their original owners, though their subject matter often belied the historical ownership.
As we rounded a corner and entered a side gallery, a glass case positioned in the center of the cozy space caught my attention. It was impossible to ignore the case. While there were many paintings of pastoral scenes covering the walls, the case and its inhabitant were the lone display positioned in the center of the room. Museum staff had even positioned a spotlight to shine directly on the piece from the ceiling.
Beneath the glass sat a statue standing no taller than a foot. The piece was carved from a rich, dark wood, appearing a century, possibly several centuries, old. As we’d seen many times over the past few days, the statue depicted a rabbi seated in a stiff chair that reminded me of a medieval throne. A book lay splayed across his lap.
Unlike the works we had seen in the depos we’d visited, the details of this carving were exquisite. The lines of the rabbi’s beard, the folds of his robe, the intensity of his gaze as he appeared to read—everything about the piece was artfully and expertly done.
It had been crafted by a true master.
The placard affixed to the podium on which it rested read:
“The Keeper of Wisdom. Artist Unknown.”
“No fucking way,” Will exclaimed in an urgent whisper.
I hadn’t really been paying attention, but Will’s sudden outburst made me turn.
His mouth hung open.
I followed his gaze, still not registering anything interesting. “Rescued, or confiscated?”
“Look closer,” Will said, forcing my eyes up to the aged man.
Something pulled at the corners of my mind. The longer I looked, the more it resonated with something deep within me. There was a gravity to it, a sense that it had witnessed more than its slight frame should be able to bear.
“It’s remarkable,” I said, my voice low.
“You could say that.” Will’s brow scrunched, and a look I recognized as annoyance entered his eyes. “The name is even more remarkable.”
I glanced down at the plaque.
A lightbulb flared in my mind.
“Holy shit,” I said loudly enough to turn a few nearby heads.
“Quiet,” Will chided. “Do you think this is—”
“A stately man, is he not?” A wispy voice speaking Russian startled me.
I turned to find a man behind us. He was tall and thin, with gaunt features and piercing blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. His suit was well tailored, though not ostentatious, and he held his champagne flute with the air of detached elegance bred into society’s elite.
Will’s eyes remained fixed on the piece as I chatted with our mysterious guest.
“Indeed,” I said, struggling to transition from German to Russian, a language I rarely spoke. “Do you know its history?”
The man smiled. “Only what the placard says, but a piece like this . . . it speaks for itself, no?”
Playing the part of a connoisseur, I extended a hand. “I’m Wilhelm Müller.”
The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gripped my hand. “Viktor,” he said. “I am . . . an admirer of history, you could say.”
Viktor glanced at Will, then back toward me. I switched to German to rescue my language-challenged partner. “This is Viktor.”
Will’s face brightened as he followed my lead and extended his hand. “A pleasure. My name is Tobias, Tobias Richter.”
I opened my mouth to translate, but Viktor seized Will’s hand and switched effortlessly into German. “The pleasure is mine. The way you study this piece, you are a lover of art, yes?”
Will smiled, and the room brightened. “I am, very much indeed. It is my passion—and my profession.”
Viktor looked from Will to the rabbi, then back to me. “It was nice to meet you both. Have a pleasant evening.”
With a lazy turn, he vanished.
“Well, that was fucking weird,” I muttered so only Will might hear.
Viktor hadn’t asked why we were there or what we sought. He hadn’t asked where we were from, despite Will’s German or my obvious non-native Russian. He hadn’t asked many things one asks of new acquaintances who might share an interest at a party.
Was he MGB? French intelligence? A former Nazi? Some other player on our three-dimensional board with far too many pieces already?
Or was he a Soviet stationed in Berlin who simply loved art?
The possibilities made my head hurt.
I looked back at the statue.
My mind was racing.
If the Soviets were using this event as a display of their cultural dominance, then every artifact here had to be significant; but the statue—small, unassuming, and tucked away in a side gallery—felt out of place.
Was it too out of place?
Was this the piece they’d sent so many assets to find? Could it really be sitting here, under glass in the open, where anyone with a bit of knowledge could recognize it?
Was this a trap?
The Soviets loved their nested dolls. They loved their nested rouses and false flags even more. As Churchill had said about the Russians in 1939, they were “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”
“What do you think?” I asked quietly.
Will didn’t answer immediately. His eyes scanned the room before settling back onto me. “Too much of a coincidence that ‘the Keeper’ was among the few words of chatter our people picked up?”
“There are no coincidences in our business.”
“Right,” Will said, staring down at the statue.
“Humor me. What do you really think?”
He tapped a forefinger against his chin. “Three possibilities: One, it’s just a statue and has nothing to do with anything. Two, it’s important, but Uncle Joe hasn’t figured it out yet.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why would they display it at a public event if they thought it had some clandestine use? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Okay, what’s number three?”
“Three: Uncle Joe knows something’s up with the rabbi but isn’t quite sure what, and he wants to watch us to see if we’ll uncover it for him.”
“What about number four?” I asked.
Will cocked his head. “I only had three. What’s number four?”
“Uncle Joe knows we’re here to play and is dangling raw meat under our noses, using the statue as bait to catch us doing something untoward.”
“Well, shit.”
As usual, Will summed things up perfectly.