Trophies of War Page 12

  “Just one.”

  “Boy? Girl?” Beth prompted. “This kid have a name?”

  “Megan,” Lyon replied.

  “That’s a nice name,” Beth said. “I had a friend growing up named Megan. How old is she?”

  Lyon didn’t answer right away. This conversation wasn’t going anywhere good, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

  “I guess I’ll say she’s going to be seventeen forever.”

  Beth gave him a confused look.

  “She died last summer,” he said. “Car accident.”

  “Oh my God,” Beth said, her hands going to her mouth. “David, I’m so sorry … I didn’t know … I mean, I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known.”

  “It’s alright,” Lyon replied. “You couldn’t have known. Anyway, things were obviously very bad for me and Sarah. One thing led to another and then I moved out.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yep.”

  They walked in silence until they reached the Ekaterininsky Garden.

  “So, is that why you’re on this hunt for your mother’s painting? Maybe you can make something good happen for your family?” Beth asked.

  “Probably,” Lyon answered, then stopped himself. There was something about Beth and something about this conversation that made him want to tell the truth. “Honestly, my mother has Alzheimer’s and I don’t think she would know the difference if I found it or not. In fact, she doesn’t know I’m doing this and she asked me not to when I found out about the painting.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  Lyon shrugged.

  “Something do to … having a mid-life crisis adventure, I don’t know,” he said. “Then again, if I can find my mother’s painting and it turns out to be real, it could be worth millions at auction.”

  “Definitely worth millions, no ‘probably’ about it,” Beth said.

  “Yeah.”

  Beth stopped walking and turned to face Lyon.

  “If you had told me at the beginning that you were just in this for the money, just looking to sell the painting, I wouldn’t have helped you,” she said. “But I don’t believe that’s why you’re doing it.”

  Her phone beeped and she took it out to look at the screen.

  “That’s Sasha. He says there’s a hotel across from Ploschad Plobedy—what the hell is that? We should meet him in the lobby bar in an hour.”

  Lyon pulled out his own phone and opened a web browser. He looked at Beth’s phone for the spelling, typed ‘Ploschad Plobedy’ into a search engine and scanned the results.

  “Well, that’s appropriate,” he said, holding up his phone so Beth could read the screen.

  It was Russian for Victory Square.

  “I’m sensing a recurring theme,” he said.

  A quick taxi ride later, and they found themselves with some time to kill before meeting Beth’s source. From the street, Victory Square was just a large oval roundabout, but it was the inside of the oval that was impossible to miss. Lyon asked the driver to slow down and make a few passes through the roundabout so they could get a better look. What had caught Lyon’s eye was a towering granite obelisk that rose from the center of an open-air war memorial: the Monument to the Heroic Defenders of Leningrad.

  At one end was a broken granite ring that led to an underground area. From the street, it was hard to see into, but Lyon could see flowers and flags being set up for Victory Day celebrations. He could also see flames inside from wall-mounted torches. At the opposite end, there were several groups of bronze sculptures, depicting different heroes of the Nazi’s 900-day siege of the city. One group showed soldiers holding up their rifles, waving a flag and pointing their bayonets. Another was of civilians carrying a steel beam to build the city’s defenses. A third depicted women tending to the dead and wounded. The one that Lyon found most striking was the one of armed civilians, men and women, that looked like they had stepped right off the field of battle, rifles and grenades at the ready.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a war memorial that looked so … warlike before,” Beth said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Lyon replied. He pointed at the hotel and told the driver he could drop them off now.

  I hope this Sasha guy hasn’t chosen our meeting place to send a not-so-subtle message, Lyon thought. It seems like Russians aren’t too pleased to be talking about what the Trophy Brigades did, least of all now as they’re getting ready for Victory Day. If Beth’s supposed source has the same attitude as the other museum people we’ve talked to, that’ll be the end of it. Time to forget about the Manet and go home.

  Inside the hotel, there was a wood-paneled bar off the lobby with red-shaded lamps hanging from the ceiling. Several solitary drinkers sat at the long oak bar that ran down one side. Lyon found a seat away from the others and pulled out a chair for Beth.

  “Oh, God, no. No more,” she moaned as she sat down, putting her phone facedown on the bar. The bartender came over and she made an ‘X’ with her fingers like she was warding off a vampire. “Ginger ale, please.”

  Behind the bar were a dozen or so large glass urns, each filled with a clear liquid and different fruits, herbs or vegetables.

  “Vodka?” Lyon asked, pointing to the urns.

  The bartender nodded. He rattled off the contents, placing his hand on top of each urn. His English was heavily accented, so Lyon ordered one of the two or three he understood—dill. The bartender placed a small carafe of the infused vodka and a shot glass in front of Lyon and filled the glass halfway. Lyon took a sip.

  “Mmm. Damn that’s good,” he said.

  “I can’t believe you’re drinking after last night,” Beth said. Lyon shrugged and took another sip.

  Beth looked around the bar.

  “I’ve never actually met Sasha, so I don’t know if he’s already here or what. I’m hoping he’ll recognize me,” she said.

  Lyon gave the vodka in its carafe a swirl and watched the tiny leaves of dill settle on the bottom.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “Let’s just say that you’re very recognizable.”

  Beth punched him the shoulder.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed, giving her an angry look. The same damn spot every time.

  Beth’s phone beeped. She turned it over and read the new text message, holding it so Lyon could see.

  I’m here.

  They both looked around, trying to figure out which one could be Sasha. It wasn’t until after he’d scrutinized every person sitting at the bar that Lyon noticed the man standing in the doorway of the bar, holding up his phone.

  He was tall and wore black jeans and a black leather racer jacket with the zipper pulled all the way up. His blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and he had a mustache, which Lyon thought was odd considering he looked like he was no more than twenty-five.

  Then again, maybe I’m just out of touch with the trends, he thought.

  Beth noticed him and gave an uncertain wave. The man waved back and walked over to the bar.

  “Zdrastvooyte, Elizabeth,” he said, extending his hand to Beth. Lyon noticed that he had a ring on every finger. “Sasha.”

  “I have to say, Sasha,” Lyon said. “You don’t look like any of the curators or museum directors that I’ve seen.”

  Sasha and Beth shared a look. Beth laughed.

  “Um, yeah,” she said. “That’s because Sasha is a … special art consultant? I’m searching for the right euphemism here. Sasha, what do you call yourself?”

  Sasha broke into a broad smile full of perfect teeth.

  “I am art thief, Elizabeth,” he said.

  Sasha and Beth laughed at the confused look on Lyon’s face.

  “So your Deep Throat here isn’t someone who works in a museum, he’s an art thief?” he asked Beth. “Someone who steals art is helping you report on stolen art?”

  “Not exactly,” she answered. “Sasha does work for a museum, just not in the capacity you expect.”
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  “I am heating and air conditioning technician at the Hermitage,” Sasha explained. “Very important for artworks to be kept at constant temperature and humidity.”

  “Where does stealing art fit in?” Lyon asked, still confused.

  Sasha sat down and ordered a carafe of vodka that looked like it was infused with cloves of garlic.

  “Hermitage has less than five percent of their collection on display,” Sasha explained. “The rest are in storage. There are many people who would pay for what’s in storage. I provide this service to them.”

  Lyon looked at Sasha’s clothes.

  “I guess that explains the all-black outfit.”

  Sasha laughed. “No, it’s just fashion. Most art thefts are what you call an ‘inside job.’ I don’t climb down a rope from the skylight. I just use my key. Before Hermitage, I worked for Moscow Museum of Modern Art, State Literary Museum and Pushkin.”

  “Artworks missing from Russian museums is not a new story,” Beth said. “Since the fall of the Soviet Union, there are many oligarchs who have come by their collections this way. There have also been many simple crimes of opportunity by people working in museums—taking their work home with them you might say—and selling on the open market.”

  Sasha held up his hands in mock indignation.

  “Please, don’t call it crime.”

  “Sasha is different,” Beth continued. “I found out about him when I was searching for someone from a museum that would talk to me on the record. Two people referred me to Sasha. If there is an artwork in his museum that, let’s say … doesn’t belong there, he can get it.”

  “For a fee,” Sasha added.

  “For a fee,” Lyon repeated. “Okay, how much?”

  Sasha shrugged. “It depends. How hard is it to find? How big? How famous? Will it be missed? Those sorts of questions.”

  “Okay … ,” Lyon said again with an edge to his voice. “How much?”

  “Five thousand, ten thousand, fifty thousand,” Sasha replied. “It depends.”

  Lyon refilled his glass, drained it and filled it again.

  “Sasha is having fun with you,” Beth said. “He’s going to help us for free.”

  “Free for Elisabeth,” Sasha said. “You are her friend, so free for you, too.”

  “Plus it’s unethical for a journalist to pay a source, which I already told him,” Beth added.

  “Stupid rule,” Sasha said, shrugging. “But Elisabeth is going to make me famous instead, when she writes her article. I think she should call me ‘Robin Hood of Art Museums.’ ”

  “We’ll see,” Beth replied, punching him in the shoulder.

  Over more vodka and several zakuski plates, Sasha explained what he could and couldn’t do to help. Beth had sent him the details of the Manet, but he couldn’t find any references to it at the Hermitage. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there, it just meant that if it was there, it could take months or years to find it among the millions of objects in the museum’s collection. For a no-charge job, Sasha couldn’t devote all his time to searching for one painting. The best he could commit to was keeping an eye out for it when he was busy looking for other works.

  “I understand,” Lyon said, feeling deflated as well as a little drunk. He took another bite of a mushroom-filled pirozhki, hoping the bread would soak up the vodka in his stomach.

  “Unfortunately, I think that’s your best bet,” Beth said. “We’re at a dead end, but if the Russians have your mother’s painting, Sasha should be able to find it.”

  Sasha gave them a mischievous smile.

  “I have been saving best for last,” he said. “Would you like to hear it now?”

  Lyon couldn’t decide if Sasha was a daring hero or someone who needed to be punched in the mouth. Maybe both.

  Lyon nodded.

  “There is a better place to look,” Sasha explained. “Your mother’s painting may be at the Hermitage, may be at Pushkin, but you will never find it among millions of objects. Where you need to look is a place called Sergeyev Posad, near Moscow.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Beth said.

  “It used to be called Zagorsk in Soviet days,” Sasha said, looking at Beth and waiting for her to catch on to what he was suggesting.

  Beth frowned, thinking. After a moment she slapped the bar.

  “Of course!” she exclaimed. “The Art Gulag!”

  Beth explained that with the volume of objects the Trophy Brigades were sending to Moscow, museums and other repositories quickly ran out of room and began to search for overflow sites. The Pushkin Museum selected a monastery about forty miles outside Moscow—the Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius. Declared a museum by the Soviet government after the revolution, it had conditions that were almost as good as any other art museum, making it a logical choice to contain the thousands of objects coming in from the front.

  “Then after the war,” Beth continued. “When there was a purge of ‘ideologically harmful’ and ‘degenerate’ art—sound familiar?—they used St. Sergius as a place to store undesirable works. After Stalin was denounced by Khrushchev, portraits and sculptures depicting Stalin were sent to be stored there. Then after Khrushchev, his portraits and paintings followed. Then Brezhnev’s. Sort of comical, really. You can’t airbrush someone out of a painting, so you just sent the painting away. To a gulag for art. It’s existence was a secret until the mid-Nineties. Much of the art stored there has since gone on to other museums, but we don’t know how much is still there.”

  “Bizarre,” Lyon said.

  “It is,” Beth agreed. She turned to Sasha. “While it’s definitely one more place to look, what makes you think the Manet is there?”

  “Nothing,” Sasha replied. “Maybe it is there, maybe not. What is there, I do know. I saw myself.”

  “What?” Beth and Lyon asked at the same time.

  “All of the records of the Trophy Brigades—their lists, diaries, shipping records … everything.”

  Lyon could see Beth’s eyes light up at the thought of getting her hands on those archives. He didn’t know whether to feel dread at the thought of sifting through more musty old papers or hope that it might finally give him an answer.

  Sasha laughed. “Now will you call me ‘Robin Hood’ in your article?”

  “I will if you get me those records,” Beth replied. “Can you? I mean, it’s not like a regular museum where we can walk in an ask —”

  “— not that we’ve had any success doing that,” Lyon interrupted.

  “— and you don’t work there. Do you have someone inside?”

  “I do know one or two people there, yes,” Sasha said. “But I did some work there two years ago when their heating system broke down so I can tell you that getting in will not be a problem. It is getting all of the records out that will be a problem. There are many, many boxes. I would not risk multiple trips—I would have to take it all at once to do you any good. I cannot guess which boxes have what you want.”

  “That’s easy,” Beth said with a laugh. “I want it all, Sasha!”

  Lyon refilled his glass, but then thought better of drinking it. His head was already swimming.

  “There’s three of us—isn’t that enough?” he asked.

  Beth shot him the same you’re crazy look she gave him when he first suggested they come to Russia.

  “Elizabeth, I think your friend wants to be Robin Hood, too,” Sasha said.

  Lyon shook his head.

  “You said yourself that you’re not rappelling down through the skylight,” he said. “If you really are just walking in the door, we can follow you in and help you look. What are we looking for—a few pieces of paper?”

  “Yes,” Beth answered. “Probably only a few documents, but Sasha is a professional. He even has a plausible reason for being in these museums. If we get caught, we will be in big, big trouble.”

  Lyon felt the vodka making his decisions for him.

  “Sasha, will we get caught?” he asked.

>   The Russian poured himself another shot, clinked his glass to Lyon’s and drained it.

  “We will not.”

  14

  Cotta, Germany

  May, 1945

  The convoy of Moscow-made ZIS-5 trucks rumbled down a dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust that rose into close-packed trees. Natalia Zharova, riding in the cramped, boxy cab with her SMERSH driver, watched the lead truck pull into a clearing ahead. They were entering a sandstone quarry which looked like it hadn’t been in operation since well before the war. A drooping crane sat next to several rusted quarry tubs full of weathered stone blocks—the Cotta sandstone that had been quarried here for hundreds of years. Zharova recognized the tan stone from the many wrecked buildings in Dresden where it had been used for walls, doorways and decorations, including the bombed-out Frauenkirche. Much of the rubble in the streets was Cotta sandstone.

  The lead truck, carrying Lt. Col. Veselovsky and Hermann Voss turned into the woods. Zharova knew that Veselovsky didn’t speak German or French, so there was no possibility of communicating with Voss. Taking the former Dresden Gallery director with him was nothing more than a power play against Zharova. If she had ridden with Voss, she could have gotten more information out of him, a possibility Veselovsky could not permit.

  The convoy pulled up to a small overgrown clearing in the woods with a sandstone outcropping like a wall on one end. Covered in moss, ferns and vines, the stone blended into the dark woods. This area had not been quarried, and the sandstone was unremarkable but for the small, square hole cut into the face of it. The hole, barely tall enough for a man to walk in, had the look of an abandoned tunnel carved into the rock by ancient hands. When Voss had told her that the artworks of the Dresden Gallery were safe in quarry tunnels, Zharova had pictured a modern mining operation, but Veselovsky and Voss got out of their truck and walked over to the entrance. This was the place.

  Zharova ordered the SMERSH driver to stop the truck and she jumped out. As the rest of the convoy came to a stop behind her, thirty to forty men filled the clearing, many with PPSh-41—‘Pepesha’—submachine guns at the ready. Veselovsky waited by the square tunnel entrance, his pistol pointed at Voss.