"Well, isn't this a surprise. It's been so long!" Aaron Roark said over the phone. The last time Indy had heard his voice, he was an inexperienced twenty-something. Now, it was warped and bent with age. It was hard for him to imagine the young soldier given more responsibility than he could handle on the other end of the line.

"You still remember that train we chased down outside of Heiselberg?"

"Of course. I was scared witless! I still can't believe some of the things I did during the war. Jeeze. Sometimes I think back on those times, and it feels like it happened to a different person."

"It did. It happened to someone inexperienced and dumb enough to throw themselves into the line of fire."

"True enough."

"And you're still the director of the Dayton Art Museum, is that right?"

"I'm the director for another year or two. I'm thinking about an early retirement. Time to let the next generation take over."

"Hitting golf balls and fishing?"

"Hardly. I think I might paint. It has always been a hobby of mine. It's hard to be so close to great artwork and to paint in your free time. No matter what you come up with, it will always pale compared to what's on the museum wall. But who cares. It's fun. It's something of me I can pass down the grandkids. Maybe they will hang my work on their wall next to prints by Monet."

"It's good to hear you're keeping busy."

"It has taken some getting used to. You spend your entire life dedicated to just one thing, in my case art, and it's hard to let it go. It took me some time to understand that you're not letting go completely, just shifting focus. And what about you? Have you retired yet?"

"Oh, yes. A while ago now. I'll admit that the transition has been," Indy took a moment to find the right word, "difficult."

"How long has it been? A year or two?"

"Over a decade."

"Oh. Well, what do I owe the pleasure of the call? I'm sure you didn't call just to reminisce about the so-called good times."

"Sort of. I did want to talk to you about that train outside of Heiselberg."

"It still haunts me that we didn't recover everything. So much of our world's heritage was blown up in that conflict."

"What if I told you, I knew where some of that missing cultural treasure was?"

"First off, I would call you a liar. But then I would ask how you know, because you rarely get two swings on the same pitch."

"I've come across a man who appears to have a Klimt that shouldn't exist. Now, I'm not an art expert, so I'm still in the process of verifying the painting. I wanted to know if you could authenticate a painting from a photograph?"

"No. Not from a photograph. I would need to see the actual artifact."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"But now you've made me curious. What Klimt are we talking about? We lost a number of them during the war. I've always been fascinated by his 'faculty paintings,' each depicting philosophy, medicine, and jurisprudence. Only black and white photographs of the pieces survive."

"It's actually 'The Portrait of Trude Steiner.'"

"That's an incredible painting from what I've seen. It's different from Klimt's famous gold paintings. It has an otherworldly feel to it, like we're peaking behind the veil that separates us from the next world."

"You're familiar with the painting?"

"So many works of art got eaten up by that war. I still think about whether we did enough. But there are a few works in particular that I think about to this day, and that would include 'The Portrait of Trude Steiner.'"

"What can you tell me about the painting?"

"Klimt would do portraits for Vienna families, and the Steiners owned a silk company. The portrait is of their daughter who had died at the age of thirteen, which I would guess is why it has such a ghostly appearance. Klimt wasn't painting a live subject. In fact, it's so eerie that I've always wondered why the family would want to display it in the first place."

"And how did it get destroyed."

"We're not sure. The Steiners fled Vienna when Germany annexed Austria in '38. Like a lot of families who had to flee Europe before and during the war, they left a lot behind. 'The Portrait of Trude Steiner' was seized by the Nazis. They came up with some excuse, like failure to pay taxes. But this was a common way to steal. The last record of the painting is an auction in '41. And since then, silence."

"Are the Steiner family still around?"

"I remember hearing that the mother, Jenny Steiner, passed away in the late fifties in New York, I believe. But they had several children. They certainly have heirs who would be happy to see Trude returned to them."

"I'll see if I can make that happen. I don't think this is just about 'The Portrait of Trude Steiner.'

"Be careful, Indiana Jones. We're not the same soldiers that chased after that train in Heiselberg."

"No, we're not. I'd like to think I'm a bit wiser."

"Why do I think that's exactly the kind of thing you would say before doing something foolish. Please, Indiana. Don't go it alone. Surely you have friends and family helping you out."

"Don't worry about me."

"But if you do manage to retrieve this lost painting and others, then you would be doing a great service to the families who were terrorized and robbed. In less than a decade's time, those people cut a great wound across the globe. I don't think we've ever fully healed."

"Believe me, I know."

"And this man who has the Klimt, is he one of them?"

"I think so, yes."

"Then take it. Get it back, Indiana. And remember, I don't care how long it has been, how many decades separates this man from when he wore the swastika, he will show you no mercy. Do not trust his lies."

This time, Indy knocked forcefully, a confrontational succession of beats rather than the neighborly tapping. Fred looked confused when he answered the door. "We have to stop meeting like this," he joked. "What can I help you with this time."

"Here's the thing," Indy said, "I can't stop thinking about your art collection."

"Like I said before, it's mostly just reproductions. I would hardly call it a collection."

"But do you mind if I take one more look at those ceramics. It's just that I don't get to use my professional training much anymore."

"But they're just trinkets. Pots I bought from a street vendor."

"And maybe, just maybe, you have something more valuable. You can't object to me helping you discover that you're sitting on a piece of art worth twenty times what you paid for it, can you?"

"Sure," Fred said in defeat. "Take a look."

The ceramic pieces still stood on the fireplace mantle. Indy picked it up and examined it for a time. The shape, color, and design all matched the array of Mapuche artifacts Dr. Zhao had shown him. It would take more time and equipment to date the pottery, but with near certainty, Indy could tell these were Mapuche, likely taken from Chile.

"I'm sorry," Indy told Fred ruefully. "But these aren't authentic. They're replicas." It was best not to reveal how much he knew about Fred's collection.

"That's a shame. As much as I like them on my mantle, I wouldn't mind making a few dollars on them. Maybe my wife and I could take that trip to Finland we've been talking about."

"I'm curious, though. Where did you happen to pick these up?"

"Tijuana," he said without hesitation. "We were on a trip to San Diego many years ago now, and we took a quick step over the border. They've stayed with us ever since."

"Strange. The designs are reminiscent of Mapuche. Even if they are replicas, it's unusual to find something from the southern Andes being sold in Baja California. Are you sure you didn't pick these up another time, perhaps during a different vacation to South America?"

"I've never been to South America, alas. My wife and I have an ever growing list of places we would like to visit, but, to be honest, South America is pretty far down on that list."

"Really? You've never been to Chile? Argentina?" Indy said the last word with some bite. The implication was clear. He saw it on Fred's face. Although former Nazis who managed to flee Germany and escape capture by the Allies made it to a number of Central and South American countries, including Chile, Argentina was by far the most notorious Nazi safe haven.

"You seem awfully hung up on an old piece of pottery that you yourself admit isn't anything more than a nice looking replica. Sometimes it's best not to ask questions about these things. Just enjoy what you have."

"I suppose you're right. I should just leave the past in the past. But then there's the problem that I'm an archeologist. I can help but dig things up. You can't get rid of decades of training and work that easily."

"Surely it has been decades since you've worked as an archeologist. Enjoy your retirement, Dr. Jones. We never know how long we have on this earth. You might as well make the best of it. At least, that's what I've come to believe."

"I wouldn't want my curiosity to get the best of me, and I've intruded on you for long enough, but I also wanted to take one more look at that incredible painting I saw when you moved in. It was really quite striking."

"I'm not sure which one you're referring to, but we put most of our art in storage. It's probably time to start unloading all of that sort of stuff anyway."

"You don't want to do that, I'm sure. I mean, you spend your lifetime collecting beautiful works of art, wouldn't you want to surround yourself with it? Or at least pass it down to the next generation?"

"I'm afraid my son doesn't have much of an eye for aesthetics. I went wrong somewhere as a parent, it would seem."

"Funny you should say that. I got into a little spat with my goddaughter over her choice of career in advertising. So I know the feeling."

"But what can be more American than tricking dullards into buying things they don't need."

"Certainly you've lived here long enough now to fully assimilate. Don't you collect useless things?"

"Perhaps, but as you've seen I like to surround myself beautiful objects. For me, that's filling a need."

"And when did you first start this hobby. Was this something you learned from your parents or did you take an art class in college?"

"For me, art is about civilization. It is the yard stick by which societies are measured. I like my little South American trinkets, as you see. But they are reminders of what we have evolved beyond."

"As someone who has studied the works of antiquity, I have to say that you sound like you're underestimating the sophistication of ancient and indigenous art and their societies. In some ways we have improved as a society. I remember what life was like before the refrigerator. But with all of our improvements, we still find ways to kill on a massive scale. Maybe we haven't evolved as much as you believe. Hell, maybe those indigenous societies have a few things to teach us."

"You were in the war. Don't let those events forty years ago color your view of all of humanity. Besides, forty years is a long time."

"If there's one thing I've learned as an archeologist, it's that forty years is much shorter than we think."

"Sometimes it seems like half a lifetime goes by in a blink of an eye. Speaking of time, I must get going. There are still a few odds and ends that need fixing around the house."

"I'll get out of your hair. But one last thing. That painting of the girl—"

"As I said, it has been stored away," Fred started sounding perturbed. "I don't really have time to dig it back up."

"Yes, I understand. It's just that it bears a remarkable resemblance to a Klimt painting called 'The Portrait of Trude Steiner.' But that just can't be. That painting was lost during the war."

Finally, Fred's normally implacable face froze. It took him moments to recover. "As you say. That's impossible. It must be a resemblance or perhaps the real artist found moments of inspiration."

"Yes. That must be it," Indy said without inflection. And then he excused himself. Indy walked directly over the yard to his house. Upon entering, he went around the house to check every lock and make sure they were secured and then pulled his well cushioned living room chair into the dining room where the window directly faced Fred's home. With a pair of binoculars he monitored the front door, sitting back from the window and drawing the curtains with just enough room to see out, but making it difficult for anyone to see him sitting there. He had upset the rat's nest. Now, to see where they scurried.

The next morning, Indy's back ached from having fallen asleep in his reclining chair. He had spent countless nights on the floor of some jungle, but now his back could barely handle a night on a cushy recliner. Immediately, he grabbed for his binoculars. It was six in the morning. It was unlikely that he missed Fred, although the man struck him as an early riser, the kind of man who had his weekly outfits lined up for the week.

After fixing himself a cup of coffee, Indy waited for a few hours before Fred's garage opened and his Chrysler exited. He took note of which direction he left from his driveway, and then rushed to his Cutlass. He was able to catch up with the Chrysler, but he kept his distance. Fred made several unexpected stops at the pharmacy and home improvement store. Each time, Indy found a parking lot across the way to stop and observe. At the hardware store, Fred had an employee help him ferry his goods to the care, he had bought so much heavy material. But Indy was too far away to get a good look at what he purchased.

Around noon he made his way towards downtown Bedford, a quaint row of shops and businesses that hadn't changed much in the last century. Before reaching Main Street, Fred took a quick and unexpected turn into the Exeter Street Synagogue.

Once again, Indy parked a safe distance away and pulled out his binoculars.

A well-dressed man came out and greeted Fred with a sharp handshake and a pat on the shoulder before leading him, a former Nazi, into a Jewish house of worship.

"What are you up to now, Fred?" he intoned to himself.