Chapter 28: Looking Ahead

On September 12, 2005, at 7:35 p.m. Vincent Adler and Kate Moreau were taken into custody. Peter paused typing. He wouldn't have time to finish the report, but that was one line he couldn't wait to document. Marcel had assembled a crack team of French agents to assist in the takedown. The five guards, Kate, and Adler had all been captured without a shot being fired and there were no serious injuries.

Peter didn't have much time to tease Neal about looking like Orlando Bloom. He'd stripped off his wig before they finished reading Adler his rights. As for Peter, the mustache was gone as soon as they crossed the border into France.

Neal reported that Adler had used a couple of drugs on him but claimed not to be suffering any adverse side effects. Since he appeared to be okay, Peter didn't press.

Mozzie took off in the Volkswagen shortly after the cave had been emptied, muttering to Peter he'd meet them later in town. The rest of the team rode with Marcel in a police van to Besançon where they'd process the suspects and the art. As they entered the ancient city, Marcel pointed out the Citadel, an eighteenth-century fortress. During the war, it had been turned into a garrison by the Nazis and was the site of numerous executions of Resistance fighters.

The paintings were taken to a secure room within police headquarters to be uncrated. Marcel had brought along Odette Paquin, an art specialist who served as liaison to the French museum association. She was an unfamiliar face but she'd worked with Marcel on the theft of The Astronomer. She'd proved her trustworthiness on the Vermeer. Peter would need to rely on her and Marcel's discretion once more.

Neal and Odette unpacked the paintings while Marcel and Peter documented the discoveries and Travis recorded the proceedings. No one else was in the room. That was at Peter's request. The second phase of the op had already begun.

Peter couldn't follow Odette and Neal's running conversion, but judging by their looks of excitement and happiness, the long period of concealment hadn't damaged the art in any significant way. Some restoration work would be necessary, but the cave was dry and the paintings had been carefully packed. By the time all the crates were emptied, fourteen works were propped against the walls. They included all the art listed on the shipping manifest: Murillo's St. Justa, Pissarro's Rue de Village, Harlequin and Columbine, Raphael's Portrait of a Young Man, along with works by Matisse, Van Gogh, and Renoir. Peter was particularly satisfied to see a work by Georges Braque—Violin and Candlestick—also displayed against a wall. Somehow Mozzie had spirited it into a crate with a Degas when the suspects were being processed.

When it was over, Neal gave a small nod to Peter, his face a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. He wasn't alone. They'd been able to experience the once-in-a-lifetime exhilaration of being modern Monuments Men. The satisfaction of recovering the art along with capturing Adler . . . Peter wished he could bottle up the feeling to share with El and the other members of the team. He could only imagine the joy Neal must be feeling as an artist. He and Odette were drifting from one painting to the other as if trying to imprint each one indelibly into their memory.

But time was short, and there were vital details to be ironed out.

"Are you ready to discuss that plan you've been working on?" Marcel asked, casting him a shrewd glance.

Peter nodded. "I'd like you to hold off releasing news about two of the paintings—the Raphael self-portrait and the Renoir of the woman reading a book."

"How long do we need to delay?" Marcel asked.

"No more than two months. You've already agreed to delay the disclosure of the theft of The Astronomer. If we're successful, you'll be able to announce its recovery along with these two paintings by December. There will be no risk to the works. You can continue to safeguard them."

"You intend to use them to con Ydrus?" Travis asked.

Peter nodded. "Neal had painted a forgery of the Degas work, Harlequin and Columbine, which was instrumental in capturing Adler and Kramer. I'd like the flexibility for a repeat performance."

Neal shot him a speculative glance. The Raphael was particularly significant given Neal's history with the artist's works. Klaus had stolen Raphael's St. George and the Dragon because of Neal's connection to Raphael. The self-portrait had been listed on the shipping manifest, a copy of which Kramer must have transmitted to Ydrus.

It didn't take much effort to persuade Marcel since he had so many other paintings he could go ahead and announce. After securing his agreement, Peter directed Travis to take additional photos of both the front and back of the two paintings in question.

When the paintings were being prepared for transport, Peter conferred with Neal and Travis in a side room. Neal already knew about his intentions for the Renoir but he hadn't heard about the Raphael.

"We've already laid the groundwork that I've become dissatisfied with the Bureau," Peter explained. "Assuming Kramer relayed the reports, Ydrus knows I've become a big spender. What if I siphoned off two of the paintings?"

Neal smiled. "Stealing two paintings from under the watchful eyes of the French? That would make you irresistible to the brothers."

"I hope that's the case. The Renoir will be a gift to El. The Mansfelds are already well aware of your fondness for Raphael. It would be just like you to convince me to keep it as well."

"But don't forget, Neal is still the primary target," Travis warned. "Once the news about the discovery is released, they'll have no reason to delay approaching him."

"That's what I'm counting on," Peter said. "When we're back in New York with the rest of the team, I'll outline the details. But first we'll need to soothe the Germans."

"Have they been informed about Oberammergau?" Neal asked.

"John Hobhouse called them from London this afternoon while we were tailing you," Peter said. "By now they must have confiscated the Volvo and collected the monitoring equipment. I don't know what they've told the homeowners. We'll find out when Travis and I meet with them tomorrow in Freiburg."

"We've arranged to stay here overnight," Travis added. "We'll rent a car for the trip to Germany and then fly home from there on Wednesday."

"How do you intend to explain what happened?" Neal asked.

"We'll tell them the truth," Travis said blandly. "We were following an abducted agent who led us to Oberammergau. We weren't sure of the location till you arrived there. It was Adler who ordered the break-in and the only items which were taken were the directions."

"The Germans will need to know that Mrs. Geigner was actually Mrs. Bergmann," Peter said, "but we'll keep Isabelle's name out of it. The Germans will be delighted to have more of the plundered art recovered. I don't expect we'll have any issues with them."

"Henry intends to fly back from Albania on Thursday," Travis said. "He's staying with the team to document evidence from Adler's estate. Albanian officials are already at the site."

"If you don't need me, I'd like to head back to Paris tonight," Neal said. "I'll ride back with Mozzie. We'd like to see Isabelle in the morning. There's an afternoon flight from Paris I can catch to go home."

"Don't you want to stay in Besançon overnight?" Travis asked.

"I'll sleep in the car. I need to get back to New York." He shrugged wryly. "I have a full day of classes on Wednesday and a master class to present that evening."

"Glad to hear you're not thinking of slacking off," Peter said with mock severity. "But you might as well admit the real reason you're driving back overnight. If you visit Isabelle you'll be able to return to Auvers-sur-Oise. You'll have more time to sketch and channel your inner Van Gogh."

Neal shot him a sharp glance. "Actually, taking a break to sit in class sounds good to me after the past couple of days."

Peter studied him for a moment. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the police station, Neal was showing the effects of the ordeal. He was slumped in a chair, looking more like road kill than a pirate who'd just recovered a priceless fortune.

"You sure you don't need a checkup?" Peter asked.

Neal dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "No need. I'll see Christie later this week."

Peter didn't comment since Marcel entered the room to discuss the news release. But afterward Peter pulled him aside. Christie had given Neal a clean bill of health last week. He wasn't due to see her again so soon.

"Did something happen I should be aware of?"

"Yeah, in the truck. It might have been because of the drug, but I don't think so." Neal described how he'd dreamed he was Van Gogh and had awakened with an irresistible urge to paint. Even more unsettling was his conviction that the woman who'd been in the dream was Astrena. Under other circumstances, Peter would have been inclined to dismiss it as drug-induced. But Kate had believed he was running a fever, and from the way Neal described his condition, something caused him to be physically ill.

"How do you feel now?"

"Not great," he admitted. "You know me. I should be floating in the stratosphere from recovering the paintings. Instead I just want to crash somewhere and sleep. That's not normal."

"No, it's not." Neal was worried, and he wasn't alone.

#

Mozzie didn't accompany Neal to New York since he wanted to visit Camille Souchon in Bergerac before returning. Camille had been Paul Lévy's secretary. When Mozzie tracked her down in July, he persuaded her to tell him about the fractal code Lévy had invented.

It was fitting that so many women played a key role in the recovery of the plundered paintings. Rose Valland, who oversaw the collection at the Jeu de Paume museum and was responsible for saving thousands of works of art, would have been proud of them. Camille, Isabelle, even Nina Bergmann had a part to play. Nina probably never knew about the duplicity of her husband. But if he hadn't given her two of the paintings, the others would most likely never have been discovered.

Now Isabelle had her revenge. Huber and Adler, along with their associates, would all serve time. Kate would likely get off with a much lighter sentence, but her dream was shattered. Kate, Leila—they both thought they'd never be caught. That's the way Neal used to feel too.

The only cloud on the art recovery horizon was the missing Matisse painting. Two possibilities struck Neal as most likely. Klaus must have been intrigued by the high price Adler offered for the Braque. He might have returned to the chalet and realized there was another prize to be snatched.

Or Mozzie could have lifted it. According to the timeline Peter outlined, Mozzie had been alone conducting surveillance on Sunday till Peter and Travis showed up that evening. The Geigner family had left earlier in the day. Peter had arrived in the early evening, leaving Mozz plenty of time. He was acquainted with many forgers who were capable of painting the low-grade copy Neal found.

Mozzie could have considered the Matisse payment for his assistance. Perhaps he intended it to keep it. Neal knew he possessed valuable autographed manuscripts and memorabilia. He'd snuck into a corrupt music publisher's house last summer to make off with his collection, and the items had never surfaced.

Neal didn't know where Mozzie stored his treasures, and he'd never ask. They couldn't have recovered the art without Mozzie's help. If he'd claimed the Matisse as a reward, so be it. But Neal hoped that wasn't the case.

When the day came that they captured Klaus, perhaps they'd find the Matisse along with the other paintings he'd stolen. The painting was beautiful. It should be on display where it could be admired by the world.

Neal slept through the flight to New York. It was early evening by the time he arrived at the mansion. The house was quiet. June was away visiting her daughter Vanessa. He felt restless and out of phase. Now that he was home, the decision he'd made during the flight didn't seem as clear-cut.

He tapped a speed-dial number on his phone. "I just got back. Would you like some company?"

He heard Sara let out a breath of air at the sound of his voice. Had she suspected he and Henry had made targets of themselves? How difficult had the weekend been for her?

"I'd love it. Have you had dinner yet?" she asked, adopting his casual tone. She must have a thousand questions. He appreciated her not deluging him with them immediately.

"I'll pick something up on the way," he offered.

"Not this time. Give me thirty minutes and I'll have it ready."

"I'll need an hour for the scenic route."

Nothing these days was simple. He was under a constant threat of being tailed by Ydrus, particularly now that news of the art discovery had been released. Neal headed for Low Library on campus where he donned his disguise in a men's room—a tawny-blond wig with highlights. It was on the disheveled side with hair falling untidily over his forehead, a simple but effective transformation.

When he arrived at Sara's apartment, her warm green eyes wrapped him into an embrace before her arms did. Sara was barefoot and in leggings. He'd worn his plum t-shirt and was in jeans. He breathed in her scent, a subtle fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood. As he kissed her, his resolve faltered. Had he waited too late to pull back? His body was already protesting the folly of the move.

Stepping back, she brushed the hair off his forehead. "It's a good look for you, Matthew. Alicia approves. But we're inside now and I prefer Neal."

He gladly stripped off the wig and placed it on a side table, where it looked like a tawny long-haired guinea pig. "Matthew can go play with Alicia's blond mop."

"Great idea! I'll be right back." She raced to her bedroom and returned with "Alicia" in the crook of her arm. Placing the wig next to his, she nodded with satisfaction. "There. They look very happy together. As for you . . ." She frowned as she studied him. "Several hours of rest are what you need. Come sit on the couch. I'll get us some wine."

Neal didn't attempt to hide his exhaustion. Now that he was at Sara's place, fatigue grabbed him by the throat. He hoped he could manage to stay awake through dinner.

Sara might not be able to cook but her taste in takeout food was excellent. She'd found a new place and had ordered cashew kale Caesar salad and a shrimp linguini. She fixed plates for them to eat while sitting on the sofa.

Neal couldn't tell her everything that happened. But that still left plenty to discuss—the kidnappings, the chalet, the secret opening to the cave, and, of course, the art. While they ate, he described the glimpses he'd had of Besançon. "I wish I'd had time to see more of the city. There's a historic district you would love. The setting along the river is idyllic. I read about it while waiting at Orly airport for my flight home. The art museum has some outstanding works."

"You'll have to make a return trip. Won't you need to do research for your doctorate?"

"That's what I'm counting on." He refilled her glass with wine as he described his joy at seeing the lost masterpieces. He couldn't mention the Raphael but he longed to describe it to her. His history with the Braque would have to remain a secret too, for Peter's sake as well as his. Unbidden another painting popped into his mind—the wheat field he'd imagined in the truck. Was that a signal it was time?

Sara was looking at him worriedly. She knew something was wrong. "Astrena was in my head again," he admitted. He hadn't told her about the occurrence a week ago, hoping it was a random incident, but he couldn't keep her in the dark any longer. Sara should have the chance to call a timeout. He'd be conning Bianka. The Mansfelds and Ydrus could launch their attack at any moment. With so much chaos around him, it wasn't fair to her. Back out now, Sara, before you get hurt.

As Neal described the episodes, the fear he saw in her eyes reinforced the decision he'd made. He paused to take a breath. "That's why I came to see you tonight. Under the circumstances, it's best that we put our dating on hold."

She placed a hand over his mouth. "Stop. If you weren't so exhausted, you'd realize what a truly bad idea that is."

"You don't understand. I've got Astrena in my head, Bianka knocking on the door, and the Leopard patrolling the perimeter. Once I'm free and clear—"

She shook her head vehemently. "Listen to me. No one knows about us. Not Klaus, not Rolf, not Bianka, not Astrena. We've already lost too much time. Everything you told me only serves to reinforce my belief that we shouldn't squander an instant."

She drew him into a kiss which he couldn't have pulled out of even if he wanted to.

Some days later when they separated, she said, "I'll take that as confirmation we're in agreement. Look how happy Matthew and Alicia are cozying up to each other. We can't break them up."

He wasn't about to let a wig outdo him in the snuggling department. That sofa was meant for lounging. Before long they were reclining side by side. She played with his hair while various body parts made intriguing suggestions for a follow-up. But there was no hurry. The evening was theirs . . .

He had no idea when he fell asleep, but when he woke up she was no longer in the room. It wasn't late—only nine o'clock. He called out and when she didn't reply, headed for her bedroom.

Sara smiled at him as she talked into the phone. From the tone of her voice, he assumed the call was work-related. He retreated to the living room. There was a book on the side table. When he saw the author was Cecilia Hepburn, he picked it up. That was Chloe's pen name. He knew she wrote urban fantasies, but had never read any. The book's title was Mandrake's Kiss. Sara had mentioned it in Cape May.

He flopped on the sofa and began skimming through the pages. Chloe's novels were set in modern times. They featured a young witch named Zoe Alderwood who solved crimes through her knowledge of potions and spells. She'd formed an alliance with an enigmatic adventurer named Ravensword. Mozzie's girlfriend Janet had revealed that when Chloe first met Dean Winchester, she realized he was the embodiment of Ravensword. Reportedly, Zoe and Ravensword's relationship was a steamy one, not unlike Chloe and Dean's.

Neal settled in to read . . .

"I hope the phone didn't wake you," Sara commented, walking into the room.

"No. I'm sorry I crashed on you."

"No apology necessary. It's the middle of the night in France. Your body's ready for bed."

How right she was, but the cause wasn't jet lag.

"What do you think of Chloe's book?" she asked, a sly smile forming. Had she read his mind?

He set it aside and motioned for her to sit next to him. "Ravensword has some good moves but Chloe could use some help in describing the swordplay."

She slipped a hand under his shirt and began feathering her fingers over his chest. "Is that so? Chloe told me Dean was quite an expert with a machete."

"A machete is all right, I suppose, for vampires," he said, stroking the hollow in her neck, "but it can't compare with a saber for elegance or finesse."

"I haven't forgotten you're an expert fencer. I'm looking forward to a demonstration."

He pulled her closer. "Whenever you'd like, I'm up for it."

"Tonight's probably out of the question. You're tired."

"Not that tired."

#

The sun was streaming through the window when Sara awoke. She stretched out an arm. Instead of the sheet, she felt a warm body next to her.

Neal.

With a rush, the events of the previous night came back. She propped herself up on one elbow to study him. He was sound asleep. He still looked tired . . . and happy.

Their passion had been overwhelming and exhilarating. They'd stripped off their banter, masks, and aliases along with their clothes. The remnants of the walls separating them crumbled away. As far as she was concerned, last night their fates were sealed. No matter what obstacles were tossed their way, they were forever intertwined.

"Hey," he said, smiling sleepily. "You okay?"

"I'm perfect now." She leaned down to kiss him. "Any bad dreams?"

He pulled her down next to him. "I only dreamed of you. Seeing you next to me makes me feel like I'm still dreaming." Even half-asleep his eyes were dark with need. They reflected her own desire.

His first class at Columbia was hours off. She could be late to work or call in sick. The only person important in her life was lying next to her. The world outside would simply have to wait.

Notes: I took creative license with the plundered paintings. Harlequin and Columbine was not looted by the Nazis nor was Madame Chocquet Reading by Renoir. The Raphael self-portrait, however, is one of many masterworks still missing.