Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) (10 page)

He pushed
his chair back, fear gripping him at the thought of upsetting them any further.
He exited his office and strode through the small gallery, unlocking the front
door. Holding his breath, he pulled open the heavy door and his eyes opened
wide.

Nobody
was there.

He
leaned out and looked to the left and right. There were plenty of people on the
street, though none seemed like they had just knocked, and none paid him any
mind. He was about to close the door when something caught his attention.

A small
box sat by the other half of the door.

And by
its shape, he knew immediately what it was.

He
eagerly grabbed it, looking again for whoever had left it, then stepped back
inside, bolting the door and rushing toward the workshop in the back. Placing
the box on a workbench, he sliced it open and pulled out a small crate,
handcrafted some time ago by the looks of it, exactly the size he would expect
the self-portrait to be.

Carefully
prying it open, he lifted the contents out of the wood crate then gently
removed the brown paper that wrapped it, brittle and dry, it so old he could
picture his grandfather packaging it so long ago.

He fell
into his chair, tears filling his eyes as he gazed upon what was revealed.

The red
chalk drawing of the master himself.

He gazed
up at the heavens, tears rolling down his cheeks, then down at the picture of
his grandfather that hung on the wall nearby.

It’s
home, granddad. It’s home!

Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
October 1
^st
, 1998
Two weeks after the return

Laura Palmer peered through the microscope, her professor explaining
what to look for. It was disappointing, yet exciting at the same time. She was
only in her third year of university, and her Art History professor had invited
several of the more promising students with her as part of a team to determine
if a drawing recently discovered was indeed genuine.

And it
wasn’t.

It was
actually a relief, the self-portrait, in red chalk, heavily degraded from years
of neglect. If it had indeed been the genuine article, it would have been a
travesty what had happened to it.

But it
was unfortunate as well.

The
drawing had a storied history, not the least of which was the fact the Nazis
had tried to acquire it, legends apparently surrounding it that it could imbue
great power to anyone who possessed it. Apparently, the curator of the museum
had secreted it away, eventually dying after being brutally tortured for days.

She
sighed at the thought this man’s efforts would go unrecognized, the drawing
still lost to history.

She rose
and looked at the current curator, the grandson of the hero who had tried to
save the genuine article.

“Are you
certain?”

She
nodded. “It’s very good, but the paper is far too new. It’s a near exact
duplicate when you compare it to the photos you provided, but the paper is all
wrong.”

The man
dropped into his chair, deflated. He pulled at his hair as he shook his head.
“It’s not fair! He died for nothing!”

Laura’s
heart went out to the man. His grandfather, whom he had obviously never met,
had died a horrible death, and the fruits of his labor were still lost.

“You
know some people still say he stole the portrait? That he got what he
deserved?” He slammed his fist on the arm of his chair, startling Laura. He glanced
up at her then at her professor. “It isn’t fair.”

Professor
Cindy Osborne nodded. “No, it isn’t. He was a hero. He protected the portrait
from the Nazis. Eventually, one day, it will turn up, and he’ll be recognized
for what he has done.”

Donati stared
off into the distance, his eyes glassing over, then his eyes flared for a
moment as if something had just occurred to him. He looked at Professor Osborne.
“You are bound by the confidentiality agreement, correct?”

Osborne bristled,
Laura getting the distinct impression she knew exactly what was about to be
said.

“Yes.”
The word was drawn out, as if the answer was feared.

There
was a knock at the door, interrupting them. Laura turned to see an old man
standing there, a shaking cane in his right hand, his left gripping the
doorframe.

Donati leapt
from his chair. “Mr. Santini!” He rushed over to the old man, his mouth agape,
then turned to the others before giving the man a chance to say anything. “This
is the man who helped my grandfather, who took the portrait to Rome!”

“Is it
true?” asked the man in English, his voice low yet still filled with vitality.
He froze when he caught sight of the portrait on the worktable. “Is that it?”
His voice was filled with wonder as he shuffled toward it, the excitement in
his eyes clear.

And it
crushed Laura to see his face when the curator responded.

“No.
It’s a forgery.”

The old
man leaned on the table, staring at the portrait then looking about. “Bring an
old man a chair.”

Laura
leapt forward, dragging a chair toward him then helping him into it.

“Thank
you, my dear.” He looked up and smiled at her. “Aren’t you a pretty one.”

She
blushed.

He patted
her hand. “
You
can call me Nicola.”

She
smiled and squeezed his hand. “Laura.”

He gave
her hand a trembling kiss then pointed at the remains of the crate that the
portrait had been shipped in. “Did he initial it?”

Donati’s
eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Did he
initial it? Your grandfather always carved his initials in the bottom of any
crate, that way he’d know if it had been repackaged.” He looked at Donati. “He
wasn’t a very trusting man.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you?”

Donati
seemed unsure of what to say, but Laura was already examining the pieces of
wood. She grinned, grabbing one of the pieces. “Here it is, VD, Vincenzo Donati!”

She
handed the piece of wood over to Nicola who examined it himself then nodded,
handing it back. “Interesting. Had it been opened before?”

Donati
shook his head. “I don’t think so, but it’s hard to tell. I think Grandfather
himself wrapped it.”

“Wrapped
a forgery.” Nicola grunted, frowning, his knuckles turning white as they
gripped the arms of his chair. “He tricked me, right from the beginning.”

Laura
knelt down beside him. “Do you have any idea where the genuine portrait is?”

“I’m not
sure. I removed what I thought was the real drawing from its case so this”—he
motioned toward the disassembled crate—“couldn’t be from what I took.” He
sighed, his chin dropping to his chest. “This forgery was never part of the
plan I knew about.” Nicola looked up at her, tears filling his eyes. “I have no
idea where the original is, but I have a feeling I never had it.”

Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
July 3
^rd
, 1941
The night before Nicola took the portrait

“He must think it’s the genuine portrait.”

Vincenzo
Donati nodded, the pit in his stomach at deceiving the young man almost
overwhelming. He wanted to throw up. He looked at the man whose name he had
never been given. “What makes you think he’ll take it?”

“The
fact he wants to help tells me he is brave. His age tells me he is impulsive.
If he thinks it is about to be taken by the Nazis, he
will
act.”

“But if
he doesn’t?”

“Then I
will place it in his hands and tell him to run. He won’t think twice.”

“I hope
you’re right.” He stared at the forgery the man had brought. “It’s really quite
good.”

The man
glanced at the portrait and nodded. “We have experts available to us. They were
able to recreate it based on the photo you provided. It won’t stand up to
scrutiny, but it will fool a teenage boy.”

Donati shook
his head, his head low. He looked at the packaged genuine portrait gripped in
the man’s hands. “You’re sure it will be safe?”

“Absolutely.
We’ll take good care of it and return it when the time is right.”

“When do
you think that will be?”

“When
every living Nazi is dead.”

“Do you
really think that will ever happen?”

The man
nodded. “Evil will never triumph in the end, God will see to that.”

Donati
sighed. “I wish I had your faith.” He checked the clock on the wall. “Okay, you
must go now, before Nicola gets here. He must never know what we are doing.”

The man
shook Donati’s hand, the top of an ornate tattoo revealed by a loose shirt
button. “He won’t, but we will help keep him safe for as long as we can.”

“Please,
you must. I feel guilty enough deceiving the poor boy. Should harm come to
him…” Donati looked at the forgery. “He could die for nothing.”

“If he
dies protecting the forgery, then the Nazi’s will be convinced it is genuine
and never think to look for the real one.”

“But if
they discover it is a forgery?”

“Then
you will claim it always was.”

Donati reached
out and touched the boxed portrait. “I feel as if I’m losing a part of me.”

The man
shook his head.

“No,
you’re protecting it for eternity.”

Approaching Rome, Italy
Present Day
The morning of the theft

“So it was a fake.”

Professor
Laura Palmer nodded, not proud of what she had been forced to go along with so
long ago. But she had been a student, bound by a confidentiality agreement she
actually thought was important. Her professor seemed more concerned with the
donation the curator had offered, and the unfettered access to the Turin Royal
Library’s impressive collection.

It had
been so distasteful it had soured her view of the entire profession, and it was
a meeting with the dean that had kept her in, despite her initial
protestations.

“Why do
you want to leave?”

“I can’t
say.”

And it
was immediately clear he knew exactly why. Which had soured her even more.

“I
assume this is surrounding the events in Turin last week?”

She
nodded.

“It’s an
ugly business, sometimes. Today too many museums are desperate for money, and
money in cash-strapped times usually comes from donors and tourists. A da Vinci
draws attention.” He leaned forward. “Whether genuine or not.”

She had
opened her mouth to fire with both barrels at the man when he cut her off.

“The
fact, Miss Palmer, that you are so offended by what happened, is exactly why
you
must
stay on the path you have chosen for yourself. This profession
needs people like you, desperately needs people like you, people who would
never dream of agreeing to what your professor signed, then never sticking with
it should what happened, happen.”