:: Dreams and Liars ::Chapter One 10 December, Sunday There was little doubt that Sarah MacKenzie liked first class. She liked the wide comfortable seats and the extra room between the seats that only someone with her long legs could appreciate. The service was impeccable and the food passable. She was still pissed. After eight long hours in the air, she had read the last scanned letter, the last monograph, the last Internet article she could stand. Closing the laptop, replacing it in the travel case, she huffed and turned to glare out the window. At thirty thousand feet, the clouds were still thick and enveloping – it suited her mood perfectly. It had been snowing when she had left D.C. And, according to the pilot, it was snowing in Paris below them and it would be snowing when they landed in Munich. Of course it's snowing! It's the second week of December. I haven't even begun to start my Christmas shopping. I had to cancel the invite to the dinner party at the White House with that nice presidential aide, an aide whom I could probably have invited to the Roberts' Christmas Eve party. But nooooooo. I'm on a plane to Germany pretending I'm Indiana Jones for Christ's sake. "I'm gonna kill him." "Man troubles, dear?" Sarah swallowed her groan and turned to Mrs. Dearborn, the spry, gray-haired octogenarian who had already shown her pictures of the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. "What? I'm sorry, did you say something?" Mrs. Dearborn smiled benevolently. "You said you wanted to kill someone. I can only assume your boyfriend has made you very angry." Sarah MacKenzie, who had no intention of discussing her love life – or lack thereof – did the only thing she could. She lied. "Ah, no. Actually it's my...paperboy who I am going to kill. He keeps throwing the paper where I can't get to it." It was lame, even for short notice and the old lady stared at her over the tops of her half glasses before returning to her book, with the incredible title of "Cold Passion" by F. J. Morris. Sarah spared half a moment to wonder if the book was about the numerous penguins on the cover or a truly odd bodice ripper. Returning her gaze to the clouds beyond the triple thick window, Sarah invited the consideration of her pathetic love life to her pity party. She pondered her abysmal, no disastrous, track record. Chris Ragle, her late, unlamented husband; she could chalk up to youth, stupidity and alcohol. Dalton Lown had loved her. Wanted to `improve' her lot in life; offer her the chance at the gold ring. But in the end he had not been what she wanted or needed and had ended up dying for his fascination. John Farrow, her commanding officer in Japan had been an error in judgment; granted an error that many women in the armed forces made, but still ill advised on her part. AJ Chegwidden, her current CO, had not been a mistake, but only because he had the strength to say it was a wrong before they both jeopardized their careers. She considered AJ for a long while and wished for about the thousandth time that he had gone ahead and kissed her before declaring it inappropriate. She had spent many a wasted hour during the past two years daydreaming what his lips, so firm and yet impossibly soft, would have felt like on hers. She breathed a sigh of relief when she came to consider Mic Brumby, who had been an annoyance that she had thankfully avoided, and now that he had returned to Australia, hopefully out of her life for good. Finally, she pondered upon the enigma that was Harmon Rabb, Jr. She was tired of trying to figure out why he spurned her and had finally decided that he could commit to no one but himself and to his obsession with his family. His friendship, though, was precious to her and the one constant, if not completely steady, thing in her life. Of course, where was she to find suitable men to date? The White House aide had been a fluke. She had met him at the Pentagon when she had dropped off papers to the SecNav. Literally dropped. She remembered with a smile how he had insisted upon helping her pick up the brief while the SecNav had stood over them scowling. The Secretary of Navy was quite possibly the one man who never invaded her dreams. Well, Tiner hadn't, but he was just a baby, and the very married Mattoni and Bud were conspicuously absent too. Gunnery Sergeant Galindez, if she were being honest, had made an appearance or two, but not for a long time. In fact, even her wet dreams were becoming fewer and further between. The plane bumped and jostled in the turbulence and she grabbed the armrests. She hated flying as much as Rabb loved it. She glanced over at Mrs. Dearborn who had surprisingly fallen asleep and even snored through the roller coaster ride. Sarah's eyebrows furrowed and if anyone had taken that moment to look at her they would have felt extremely sorry for whomever it was she was thinking about. That is unless they, too, knew Clayton Webb. Mac closed her eyes and thought back to last Thursday. December 7th, a date that will live in infamy, indeed. She had just returned from Pensacola after successfully prosecuting a rather vicious murder case. Poor Bud, even with the help of Singer, hadn't had a chance, but it had still drained her emotionally. She had secured a sentence of life at hard labor for the defendant and was looking forward to taking some of her accrued vacation. She was even planning on getting out to see Chloë for a long weekend. She had come into JAG ops to hand the Admiral her vacation request when Gunny had informed her that she was to go in to the Admiral's office immediately, "Here, let me take your coat and briefcase, ma'am, you don't want to keep him waiting." An hour later she was glaring at Clayton Webb's smug face. She heard more than she ever wanted to know about Jewish treasures stolen by the Nazis during Hitler's reign of terror, the ever-present threat of the Nazi Party's re-emergence in some skin-head right wing political party, and how much she resembled a Russian-American Jewish scholar on Renaissance art. "Webb, its Christmas and I've got two months of vacation time accrued. And, I'm tired. I don't know a damn thing about most art and nothing about Renaissance art. Get Dr. Jacobs to go. She's the expert. Let her give up her holiday." Webb looked at his shoes and then over at AJ who took in a deep breath. "Ah, Colonel¼ Mac¼Dr. Jacobs agreed to go to the Conference a month ago. She even wrote a paper to present. She is considered one of the pre-eminent experts in¼" He looked at Clay for help. Webb straightened up and began. "Re-attribution. It's a growing area of gender studies and art history. A number of women artists have had their work absorbed into the oeuvres of better-known men, either by mistake or through greed and financial pressure from the owners of the paintings. Art historians have used a variety of contemporary information, guild records, records of payment, even court, royal not legal, documents, to identify the real artists. Dr. Jacobs is considered to be one of the best, she's written two books on the subject and her classes at Georgetown are always filled as soon as they're open." "Terrific, Webb. She wants to go. She's the expert. Let her go!" Mac crossed her arms and waited. "Mac. She's dying." AJ said softy. Mac dropped her hands to the arms of the leather chair. Her voice was an embarrassed whisper. "What? How?" Clay continued softly. "Mac, she found out a week after she accepted the invitation. She went in for her yearly check up and they found a rare fast growing cancer had metastasized to her brain, liver and pancreas. At the most, she has six months to live; half of those will be spent in agony. She's your age, Mac." At that moment Mac hated Clayton Webb with every fiber she possessed. He must have seen it in on her eyes because he suddenly blushed a bright red. She knew it wasn't fair and she also knew she was spending her holiday season in Munich. "Talk to me. Tell me how I'm supposed to know enough to get through this and tell me why we care so much." Her voice was a controlled whip and her words cut deep. Clay crossed his arms and began to pace. "Are you familiar with any of the flap going on in the major museums throughout the western world?" She cautiously nodded. "A little. What I've read in the paper and Law Review. It's not really anything that the Navy has concerns about, Webb." "Practically every museum has been accused, either publicly or privately of having artifacts whose provenance is sketchy at best. The publicity has been so bad the Association of Art Museum Directors in June, 1998 drafted Guidelines Concerning the Unlawful Appropriation of Objects During the Nazi Era. There have been lawsuits in every country and several class action suits in the US. The AAMD is sponsoring a special conference before their next big meeting in January in Paris to see how they can better their efforts and their reputations without losing too much priceless art that they paid good money for; supposedly in good faith." Mac sighed. "That's all very well and good, Clay, but why does the CIA care?" "We don't." She gritted her teeth, raised one eyebrow at AJ and snarled. "Then why..." Clay held up his hands and snapped back. "I'm getting there, Colonel. The Conference is a cover for us." He ran his fingers nervously through his hair. "Probably for a couple of others too. Actually, the museums have more than enough lawyers to handle the current situation. What we are interested in is plundered loot that never showed up at museums or in private collections. Himmler looted three-quarters of Europe's art treasures. A lot of it wasn't recovered. There are very interesting stories still floating around nearly 60 years after the fact and there have always been treasure hunters looking to make a big score." "Why, if the original owners or their families are going after it?" Clay shook his head. "That's mostly major works of art - really big-ticket items. Do you have any idea how much gold and jewelry was lost or "sold" for a fraction of their 1930's worth?" Mac shrugged. Clay rested his hip against AJ's desk, and looked down at her. "In 1934, in a small town in northeast Bavaria, a Jewish industrialist's country mansion was invaded by Himmler's SS. The entire family was sent to Dachau and only one family member lived long enough to escape - a miracle in itself. The boy, sixteen at the time, made his way out of Germany and into France where he fought in the resistance. He immigrated to Canada where he had relatives and spent the next 40 years telling anyone who would listen about his family's vast treasure of paintings and gold works of art, mostly Middle Eastern antiquities. There was even some Christian stuff, which is why Franklin said his neighbors turned them in so early in the purges, most of it gold, all of it very valuable. No one believed him, one because he was a fanatic, and two, because even though he could describe several important pieces that were listed in art history books and such, not one piece ever showed up." He paused dramatically. Mac rolled her eyes. "Until¼." "Until a Frau Kappel offered a 11th-Century reliquary to the curator of a small museum in Munich. Fortunately, the curator is a stickler for detail and he tracked the piece's provenance. Unfortunately, his discovery had stirred up a lot of interest." "Damn it, Clay. Why!" Clay was getting flustered and Mac couldn't hide her glee. She peered around him to made eye contact with AJ who had a most peculiar look on his face. "Tell her, Clay. Just tell her and get it over with." Clay sighed. "There's a Biblical artifact that is mentioned is several Germanic texts. It's gold, covered in precious stones and it supposedly gives the owner invincible power – The Breastplate of Aaron" Her military training and discipline momentarily forgotten, Mac surged up and got right in Webb's face, "I saw that movie, Webb. You're not Indiana Jones and I'm not a Bond Girl." She turned on her heel and made her way to the door. "Sit down, Colonel." AJ voice was low and polite and left absolutely no room for interpretation. Mac took a calming breath and returned to her seat. AJ leaned forward in his chair. "Colonel, I don't like this any more than you do. But the fact remains that as stupid as the idea sounds, as ridiculous as the whole premise is, there are people out there who believe it and they are willing to kill people to get it. Webb showed me the reports and," he glared at Webb, "if they are only half true then many people have died over the past 1000 years because of this thing. If skin-heads or right wing radicals find it and use it to spur increased violence around our military bases in Germany, then by God, we're going to help Webb find it and get it into a museum where it belongs." "I thought you said the original owner was looking for it?" Mac reasoned meekly. Clay, also surprisingly subdued, explained. "He died two years ago and in a move nobody thought much about at the time left his entire estate to the British Museum." "Fine. So, am I going in on my own or are you going to get me some back up, Mr. Webb?" She narrowed her eyes as he visibly squirmed and once again looked to the Admiral for clarification. "Mr. Webb will be your backup. Evidently he was able to find another member of the conference that he resembled enough to impersonate. Dr. Edward Thomas is an expert on early Christian artifacts specializing in illuminated manuscripts. The conference starts Monday. You have all weekend to study up on your subject. I understand that Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Thomas are old friends. You two better be able to work together. Find the damn thing and get home." AJ quirked a smile at Mac. "Have you gotten any of your Christmas shopping done, Mac?" Sarah sighed. "Not much, sir." "Good." His smile increased. "Good, sir?" Mac studied him carefully. AJ rose and came around to the front of his desk. "Have you ever been to Munich in December, Colonel?" "No, sir." "It's quite beautiful. The Germans really know how to do Christmas right. There's this wonderful Christmas Market there on Marienplatz. I remember there's a huge Christmas tree at the end of the stalls. Everyday, Christmas music is played on the balcony of the Town Hall. I'm sure that you can get all your shopping done there and I'm sure Webb here will make sure that all your gifts arrive home before Christmas." He clapped his hand down rather harder than he needed to on Webb's shoulder. "Won't you Webb." Mac remembered how Webb had straightened his tie and adroitly moved AJ's hand from his shoulder. "Of course, AJ. I had planned to suggest it myself." She and Webb had spent Friday and Saturday at her place reading everything they could find on Jacobs and Thomas. When Mac read Thomas file she looked up at Clay in surprise. "You gonna be able to handle this Webb?" He snorted back. "Well, geeze Mac, just because the guy is homosexual doesn't mean I have to jump into bed with the first guy that asks me to." "Yeah, but it says here that he is pretty militant about it." She was trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. Webb had gotten up and looked down at her, "You got a problem with the gay lifestyle, Colonel?" He left her somewhat stunned as he went to her bathroom to wash up for the Chinese they had ordered in. The pilot made a soft announcement that they would be landing in Munich in a little under two hours. After being wide-awake for nearly eight and half-hours already, Mac was not surprised to find herself nodding off. The last thought in her head before she fell asleep was <<<there's something he's not telling me.>>> :: :: ::
10 December, Sunday Mac woke with a jolt when the wheels touched the tarmac. Groaning, she stretched and tried to ignore the nausea that always threatened when she napped and woke too soon. She waited patiently as the stewardess helped Mrs. Dearborn down the aisle before gathering her laptop and then her coat from the overhead compartment. By the time she nabbed her suitcase and garment bag off the carousel, trudged through customs and finally hailed a cab, it was 2233 hours and Mac was hungry. "Konigshof, Karlsplatz 25," she advised the driver before laying her head against the headrest. It took them nearly an hour to make it into the city itself and another hour to reach the hotel; holiday traffic and snow had the same effect in any big city. By the time she checked in at the front desk of the luxury hotel, it was after midnight and the hotel kitchen was closing. The look on her face must have scared the clerk because he began to stutter. "Fräulein I w-w-will t-t-try¼" A hand, holding a twenty-dollar bill appeared from just behind her, a hard, firm chest grazed her back and his voice caressed her ear. "You better find the Fräulein Doktor something to eat, a thick steak perhaps. She gets very cranky when she's hungry and you don't want to see her cranky." The clerk snagged the bill and promised that a tray would be sent up within the half-hour and Clay picked up the keycard off the countertop. Mac took a deep breath and turned into his embrace. "Edward! I heard you were going to be here. When did you get in?" Webb clasped her shoulder and slid his lips along her cheek in the manner of old friends greeting each other. "Hours ago, love, took the Concorde then a connecting flight." He led her to the elevator as the bellhop shouldered her suitcase, garment bag and small carry-on. Mac held onto her laptop and stepped into the ancient elevator with Webb. "I will meet you at your room Fräulein Doktor." The bellhop advised as the doors slid shut. Finally, she turned and studied her partner for this mission. She pursed her lips. "Getting into the part, Webb?" She took in his stylish and probably expensive boots; form fitting jeans that rode very, very low on his hips. The snug soft knit turtleneck, where it peeked out from his heavy leather bomber jacket, accentuated his abs. Why am I surprised that he works out? Clay turned into her personal space, crowding her into the corner of the tiny elevator. "Getting into what, Mac? The southern California intellectual lifestyle or the whole Gay Pride Guy thing?" He only stood three inches taller than she did but his stance was provokingly intimating and Mac didn't like it one bit. "Oh, I don't know, Webb, I think you're a real chameleon." She ground out angrily until she realized that was what he wanted. Trying another tactic, she ran her fingers up the side of his coat until she gently tickled the last concession he had made to look more like his cover personae. The tiny diamond stud glittered in the elevator's spotlights. "I just wonder how much you're really willing to sacrifice for God and country and what you're going to do if somebody¼some guy makes a serious pass." She scored a direct hit and he stepped back and raised an eyebrow. She readied herself for his snide comeback or angry retort. She wasn't prepared for his gentle, "Why, Mac? You wanna watch?" She felt the blush start at the vee of her breasts and quickly work its way up past the scoop of her sweater, up her neck to flood her face. The ding of the elevator door snapped her attention away from his smirk and she managed to stalk down the hallway. Of course, the effort was wasted when she realized halfway down the hall that she was going the wrong direction. She turned and found that he had placed the cardkey in the mechanism of the door and was nowhere to be seen. That night strange dreams invaded her sleep. Biblical visions of a man wearing a breastplate sparking in multi-color stones leading an army of screaming swastika-tattooed skinheads gave way to scenes that she never could have imagined. When she woke at dawn, still exhausted, she was soaking and it was not from sweat, at least not entirely. :: :: ::
13 December, Monday Sarah stepped into the hallway and looked for Webb. She wasn't really expecting to see him and was glad that she didn't. She descended to the main lobby and looked around for the sign pointing the way to the restaurant. "Fraulien Doktor Jacobs?" The thin reedy voice near her shoulder startled her and she spun around and looked down on an elf, or was it a gnome? Whatever it was he was barely 5 foot tall, the beard long and white, the cheeks red and Dear God, it's Santa Claus. She managed a polite, "Yes?" The gnome held out his hand and squeaked. "It is an honor, Fraulien Doktor Jacobs. I have studied your work for several years now. Such a young woman to have accomplished so much." A wave of sadness washed over Mac as she considered that the real Dr. Jacobs was missing this praise. The little man continued. "I am Professor Hans Bauer of the University of Brandenburg. I have used your book, ‘Return of the Women’ in my classes for the past two years." He grinned. "Come. We will breakfast together and you will tell me everything that you know, ja!" Oh, shit! Oh, damn! Webb, where the hell are you? She allowed Bauer to lead her into the dining room where a hostess sat them and explained that the breakfast buffet awaited them. Mac ordered coffee, stood up and firmly announced that they should fill their plates. She hoped that she could avoid discussing Jacob's work because she knew another expert would know her ignorance as soon as she spouted anything off the cuff. She and Webb had carefully gone over what she was going to say at the conference. She would read her paper and then feign a coughing fit if she had to – anything to avoid answering esoteric questions that would blow her cover. They filled their plates, well, Mac filled hers, and Dr. Bauer filled three, the waitress resignedly helped carry two of them back to the table for him. While Bauer merrily began to stuff his face, Mac carefully timed her bites so that her mouth was full every time his was empty, which was mercifully not very often and she was able to gloss over a few points without having to go into any great detail. By the time Bauer leaned back, wiped his mouth and dusted the crumbs from his suit coat, it was time to go. Taking her elbow, he led Mac back to the lobby. "Come Fraulien Doktor, we will share a cab to the University, we can talk in the car." "There you are, Hannah!" Clay appeared from behind a column and from the look on his face Mac knew in her heart that he had witnessed at least some of her discomfort and she silently vowed her revenge. "Eddie!" Her excited squeal made Clay blanch. "Come and meet Professor Bauer. Professor, this is my very dear friend, Dr. Edward Thomas from Stanford University. He is an expert on ninth-century manuscripts." Momentarily startled by Mac's enthusiasm, Webb found himself dragged to the taxi stand. "Uhm¼Hannah, Professor¼Bauer¼I didn't eat breakfast." Clay looked longingly over his shoulder. Pushing him into the waiting taxi, Bauer intoned gravely, "Oh, that is very bad, Herr Professor. The food at the university is very bad. I have attended these types of things in the past and it is best to fill up at breakfast." He gallantly waited while Mac scooted in next to Webb before settling himself next to the driver, giving the man detailed instructions to the exact building at Munich University. He then turned and insisted upon hearing about everything that Clay was going to speak on. Mac leaned back and listened with fascination as Clay held Professor Bauer enthralled with his expertise on medieval manuscripts, most of them written in gold, all of them beautifully illuminated. Lucky bastard, who's going to question him; most of the people at the conference have interests in the later periods of art. She tuned him out and let the beauty of Munich's center city capture her imagination. While much of the town had been destroyed in the war, the oldest part of the city, with its baroque and rococo buildings, inspired by Italian architecture, still showed an almost fairy tale beauty. Dr. Bauer listened intently to Webb and only interrupted him once to point out the Marienplatz, dominated by the city hall, the street already starting to bustle with dealers setting up their Christmas shops. He then pointed out a huge church. "You must plan on visiting Frauenkirche, Herr Professor." Against her will she was impressed by Clay's quick response. "Well, I'm sure we will see the Church of Our Lady, but Dr. Jacobs is more interested in 15th-century art than I." She was able to remember enough information from her reading over the weekend to smile sweetly and make a few general comments about some of the treasures that Dr. Jacobs would have wanted to see at the church. Turning the tables on the German, she smiled and demanded. "So tell us, Doctor, what do you plan on talking about at the conference? There was no mention of your topic in the brochure." As Dr. Bauer eagerly turned to her, Webb grinned approvingly and sat back and listened as Bauer outlined his area of expertise in cataloguing and dating gold artifacts dating back before the dark ages. Mac listened with growing interest and fought the urge to catch Clay's eye. Perhaps Dr. Bauer knew something of the piece they were interested in.
:: Chapter 2 ::11 December, Monday The taxi dropped them off in front of an auditorium at the University. Together they started up the walk and were surprised to see pickets marching back and forth shouting right wing slogans. Mac looked at Clay in alarm but Bauer marched up to one of the skinheads and berated him rapidly in German. Clay's eyes grew round. "Wow. Remind me not to piss of Kris Kringle there. What a mouth." Glaring at Webb Mac insisted, "Hey. I like him." Mac walked up and put her hand on Bauer's arm, glared at the protester and followed the little man into the building. When Webb finally joined them she noticed he was dusting dirt off of his pants. "What happened?" "Nothing." He snapped. "Nothing, indeed." A soft voice disagreed and Mac looked around Clay to see a very pretty woman standing there. "Grazie, signore." Webb blushed, "Hey, no problem." At Bauer and Mac's questioning looks he shrugged. "One of the bad boys decided to accost the lady. I just explained that it wasn't polite and we scuffled, that's all." The dark-haired beauty gracefully held out her hand. "Lucretia Pedrotti, she smiled brightly at Clay. "And my knight in shining armor, you have a name?" Clay held out his hand, "Edward Thomas, Stanford." Mac watched with some amusement as Pedrotti's face fell. Oh Webb, Dr. Thomas' reputation precedes you. Pedrotti grew serious. "Ah yes, Doctor Thomas. You wrote the monograph on the Muratorian Canon, very interesting. I am Curator for Acquisitions at Accademia de Belle Arti di Brera, in Milan, so it is important that I come and listen to what is going on. Much will come out of this meeting, vero?" The four of them found the banner announcing the conference room and they entered a rather small lecture hall with perhaps 100 seats, a little over half of them filled. In sotto voice Mac muttered to Webb, "Great turn out. Oh wait. It's Christmas isn't it." Webb looked at her disgustedly and found their chairs. Snatching up his nametag from a seat three aisles away he plopped down next to her. Pedrotti sat on her other side and Bauer stood there staring at the cramped little lecture desk and then longingly at a larger chair down on the lecture stage. Mac glared at Clay who finally sighed, rose and ran down the aisle to steal it for the stout little professor. They watched as a few other people straggled in before the moderator entered and gave his speech about the problems facing curators all over the world and the cause celibré that the stolen Jewish works of art had become and how hard it was to authenticate the proper owners. "In that vein I would like to ask our first speaker to step forward. As many of you know, some of the questionable pieces we are dealing with not only concern proper ownership but also, proper credit to the artist. I would like to welcome Dr. Hannah Jacobs to speak on the issue this morning." Mac was nervous, more nervous than she had been since her first case. She had read and re-read Dr. Jacobs' paper until she thought that she could recite it blindfolded, but she knew that if she didn't present it with passion she would feel that she had cheated the dying expert. She took a deep breath and stood. She looked down in surprise as Clay reached up and gently squeezed her hand. "You'll do great. Knock `em dead." She stood before experts that had known more about her subject before they got their BA's than she knew now and she said a silent prayer that she wouldn't ruin Jacobs' reputation. She cleared her throat and began softly, "When I was a small child, I would sit and listen to my Grandmother talk of the old country and the grand house they had in Berlin. She would talk of the great works of art that her grandfather had collected. She could describe each and every painting in the living room and hallway. She spoke with such joy and passion that it instilled in me a love of great works. She would take me to museums when I was very small and one of her favorite artists was Frans Hals. It was her love of the Dutch Masters that spurred me in my career. It was her fondness for Frans Hals' paintings that gave me my life's joy; the joy in rediscovering great women painters of the Renaissance period. In 1893, the Louvre purchased a work attributed to Hals. However, the appraiser discovered that instead of just using her usual cipher of her initials surrounded by a star, Judith Leyster had actually signed the painting and the art world was forced to open the door to a whole world of women painters who either through misunderstanding or greed had their works attributed to their more famous, more profitable male counterparts." Mac found her eyes locked with Clay's and she drew strength in his presence. She managed to speak eloquently on a subject that she hadn't had a clue even existed last week. Finally, after another 10 minutes, she concluded. "So it is up to us and our colleagues next month to make sure that not only are the works of art that were lost to my mother's family and countless other Jewish families returned to their proper owners, but that credit is given to the proper artist." She took a deep breath and a sip from the glass on the podium and managed to field several pointed questions from the audience. As she sat down she breathed a deep sigh of relief and Lucretia leaned over. "You did very well, Professor Jacobs. Your speech was very well received." Mac smiled and squeezed Webb's hand back when he took it for a brief moment and then sat forward to pay close attention to the next three speakers. They broke for lunch and Clay insisted on taking them to Andechser am Dom for lunch. "Hey, I was here last summer, it's a great place for lunch." Evidently, many of the other attendees agreed because as they sat down a stout woman of indeterminate age ran up and hugged Lucretia and fawned over her in French. Turning to the other three she sighed, "Pardonnez-moi, it has been a long time `Cretia." The Italian Curator smiled politely and made the introductions, "Lealia Bouchard, allow me to present, Professor Hans Bauer, Dr. Hannah Jacobs whom you heard this morning, and Dr. Thomas Edwards." She said Clay's cover name with a sigh and Lealia laughed. "Ah yes, the great American homosexual expert on manuscripts, correct?" Mac nearly choked on the mineral water she had ordered when the others chose various beers. Clay looked perturbed for just a moment, but Lealia continued. "I am afraid Dr. Edwards, that your Internet article on Homosexual Rights was much discussed last night at dinner when someone recognized your name on the program. Of course no one really cares. Germany and France both have very liberal laws." She looked over at Lucretia pityingly, "Of course in Italy the Supreme Court ruled that you are suffering from a psychiatric illness or disorder." Clay followed her gaze and studied the Italian for a moment. "Oh, no, Edward my dear, Lucretia is not anti-gay. `Cretia just considers homosexuals, particularly one as visually pleasing as you, a missed opportunity. Don't you dear." She laughed at the rude gesture and ordered a beer. Mac just sat quietly and gleefully watched Webb squirm. I really want to feel sorry for you Webb, but, hey, I'm having way too much fun. "Professor Jacobs?" Mac turned and nearly spilled her drink. "Yes?" She swore the words came out normally. Oh, damn. He is fine. The man before her was tall, tanned to a deep bronze, his blond hair streaked in white from long exposure to the sun, and so good looking that handsome didn't begin to describe him. The man actually clicked his heels as he bowed down. "Kurt Farber, Assistant to the Minister of the Interior. I am your host, Fraulien Doktor. We missed you at the welcoming party last night." Mac smiled prettily. "I couldn't get a flight out sooner, Herr Farber. But had I known you were going to be there, I'd have tried harder to find a earlier flight. "We will have to make up for that. Tonight, you will dine with me, ja?" Mac gulped, Well that's a little fast, but oh my. "Well actually, I am really very tired, Herr Farber. Jetlag and all, you understand. But perhaps, another night?" "Very well. Tomorrow, of course is the dinner at Tantris, our finest restaurant, for all the members of the conference, but perhaps Wednesday?" "Perhaps." Mac turned in time to see a shadow pass over Clay's face but she ignored it. They returned for the afternoon session and jetlag actually did begin to creep up on her and she found herself nodding off as Armin Dettwiler, a vice-president of Barclay's Bank in Geneva, explained how his bank was handling requests from supposed survivors of long dormant accounts and safety deposits. Tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in an expensive Armani suit, his voice held absolutely no accent whatsoever and Mac couldn't keep her eyes open even though Clay kept poking her. Finally, the conference broke up a little after 1600 hours and she gratefully ran into the ladies room to splash cold water over her face. As she was patting her cheeks dry she saw that Lealia was staring at her from the doorway. Mac waited patiently. The one thing that Clay had been able to ascertain from Dr. Jacobs was that she had not actually met anyone who was going to be at the conference simply because Dr. Jacobs, who hated to fly, seldom traveled. Finally, she asked, "Is there a problem, Dr. Bouchard?" "You don't remember me do you, Dr. Jacobs?" The voice was low and husky. "No, Doctor, I'm sorry. Where did we meet?" Mac kept her voice low and calm refusing to panic this early in the game. "It was in Washington last year. I was there for a conference on feminist painters. You spoke on Judith Leyster then, too. We met at the reception that evening." Stay calm, girl, remember Bauer thought you were Jacobs without being introduced to you. "I'm sorry. I don't remember." She concentrated on pulling another paper towel out to finish wiping her hands, but she noticed Bouchard move closer. The Frenchwoman shrugged. "I understand. We only spoke a few words." Almost to herself she continued. "There is something not right. Comme ci comme ça I must be tired myself. But I am very good with faces. I paint them you know. Portraits. Very perfect. Very detailed." She sighed. "Too perfect and detailed, perhaps." Mac stood there, a rigid smile engraved so deep it hurt. She remembered something the Admiral had said to her once. Never explain, Major. She willed her muscles to relax, lifting her shoulders just a fraction, she tossed the paper towel into the garbage. "I don't know what to say." Reaching the door she smiled more naturally. "I am tired tonight, too, though. I think I'll skip the cocktail party. See you tomorrow." Mac saw Webb talking to Bauer, Farber and several other people. He smiled over at her and even though she knew he saw the panic in her eyes, he continued to talk, in particular to one person – a little taller than Webb, darker, with a full, thick head of hair, and very conservatively dressed. The stranger's expression was one of intense concentration as he appeared to hang on Webb's every word. As Mac watched Webb ignore her, anger replaced panic and she made her way outside. She remembered where they had waited in line for the cab that took them to lunch. Damn you, Clayton Webb. She fumed while she waited for her turn at the next cab and the laughter and happy conversation finally caught up to her. An arm was thrown careless around her shoulder. "Hey Hannah, make sure we get a couple of cabs, we're all going to the Hofbrauhaus before the cocktail party at the hotel. She turned and forced a smile. "You guys go ahead. I'm not feeling too good." Clay's answering smile never reached his eyes. "Oh come on, you'll feel better after a couple of drinks." She was next in line and she jumped into the cab, rolled down the window and stuck her head out. "Sorry guys. Tomorrow." She rolled up the window before he could say anything else and let the cab take her back to the hotel. The snow was almost pretty tonight. Big flakes fell and melted as they touched the road. Tiny lights shown all over a city that was one part old-world charm and one part modern commercial tacky. She stepped out in front of the hotel and quickly made her way up to her room. Once the door was firmly shut and secure she sank down to the floor and clutched herself. What the hell are you doing here, Sarah MacKenzie. You're a lawyer not a spy. One person questions your identity. No. Be honest. It wasn't even that and you handled it pretty well, but you wanted Clay to come and hold your hand. God! She forced herself to strip out of her tailored suit, one that she had worn when she worked for Dalton's firm, and pulled on comfortable sweats. She turned off the lights and went to sit in a chair by the window that looked out over the courtyard five stories below. She nodded off until a soft but insistent knocking finally woke her. Sighing, she got up and opened the door and saw him standing there. She started to smile but the look on his face froze it, unborn. He looked down the hall and then pushed past her. She was shocked at the anger in his voice. "What the hell happened back there?" He stood there, his tie askew and hair disheveled and wet. "Bouchard knows I'm a fake." His eyes lost some of their anger and a flicker of concern shown through. "How, why? What did you do?" Anger raged up and she stepped into his personal face and hissed out. "I washed my face, Clay. She was staring at me and when I asked her what was wrong she said something wasn't right." She poked him in the chest. "She met me - Jacobs last year." "What did you say?" She could see his mind working. "I told her I didn't remember and she just shrugged. But¼" Clay sighed in exasperation and turned away. "Can you tell me the entire conversation?" Sarah closed her eyes thought for a moment and then repeated the entire exchange, word for word. By the time she was done she felt a steady flush streak up her cheeks. Repeated out loud it sounded silly and she knew it. "That's it?" He stared at her. "You really are just pissed that I ruined your Christmas shopping aren't you." "No! Damn you Clay all I wanted was to talk to you about it, but you¼" "But I was doing my job, Colonel! Just like I expected you to do yours. But if you're going to fall apart on me over something like this¼ Shit, you followed Rabb into goddamn Russia but you can't watch my back at a lousy beer hall. Maybe you better suddenly get sick and go home." His words stung, cut her to the core. "Damn you, it wasn't like that. I was concerned¼" He shook his head. "Forget it, Mac. Look, I've got to get to the party downstairs, check out some of the other people there, figure who else might be interested in the damn breastplate. Just pack up and go home, I'll figure out a way to do it myself." He turned, slowly opened the door, and looked both ways down the hall before quickly leaving. She stood there stunned, too furious to move. "You son-of-a-cold-hearted-rat-unfeeling-bastard." She spun and clenched her fists. She kicked a shoe across the room and stalked into the small bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Ripping off the warm sweats she stepped into the shower and turned on the water. Cold waves struck her skin and she finally gave into the urge to scream out her frustration. "Not watch your back. Ha! It was at a damn public restaurant, you¼" But she knew he was right. She had always prided herself on being a professional, and she had accepted the assignment. She turned up the hot water and washed every inch of her body. "Okay, he wants a partner, that's what he'll get. I'll make him eat his words." She stepped out of the shower and dried off. She took extra care with her make up and hair before going to the closet and pulling out the black crepe cocktail dress that she had wore to a party last month. She remembered not only the slack-jaw expression on Rabb's face but also the glint of approval in the Admiral's eye and she remembered the incredibly handsome Farber. Slipping on her 3" spike heels she took one last look in the mirror and smiled in approval. Let Lealia Bouchard question her identity, she would stare her down. :: :: ::
11 December, Monday She entered the lounge about a half-hour late and was pleased with the entrance she made. She had no idea how Hannah Jacobs partied at home but she was sure that a reception for feminist painters was probably a staid affair compared to the obviously loose and happy atmosphere before her. "Hannah. Eddie told us you were very sick, you look pretty good for a sick woman." Sarah turned a 1000-watt smile to Lucretia Pedrotti. "Oh, I wasn't feeling too good but I took a couple of Advil and I feel much better now." Pedrotti smiled back. "Well, come and meet some people." Sarah nodded and grabbing a glass of white wine she raised it to her lips in the appearance of taking a drink, but just let the liquid touch her lips. The aroma was enticing but she resisted the urge to actually drink it. She was pissed at Webb, not depressed or desperate enough to need a drink. Lucretia dragged her across the room to a group of people who's names, titles and areas of expertise Mac heard and stored away for later. She and Webb had discussed how they would handle this first meeting and she knew that he needed her to help keep track of the players. She pushed her guilt further down when she spotted him, the handsome man he had been talking to outside the auditorium right next to him. Oh, oh. Well, you're a big boy Clay. The fleeting thought that he might actually¼No! Of course, when I see him at a party, he's usually with his mother. Pedrotti was tugging her arm. "Hannah, this is Dr. Vasilii Gubin." The courtly looking academic smiled benignly. "Good Evening, Dr. Jacobs." Sarah returned the smile and returned the greeting in Russian. "Ah, I see your parents taught you well. Tell me, have you been to Molokovo?" Sarah suddenly, desperately wanted a drink of the wine and she brought the glass to her lips but again let the liquid kiss them without actually drinking. "Actually, no. I hate to fly, I was in a plane crash as a little girl and I simply can't stand it, but this conference is so very important I decided to drink myself silly and get here. I may decide to take a stop there before returning but I don't know. Why, do you know my father's mother's village, Dr. Gubin?" Gubin's smile grew and he led her to a corner and in rapid Russian told her of his childhood in Dr. Jacobs' other grandmother’s village. How he had know Tetya Ivanova and thought it a great shame she married the southerner whom took her away so far. "I heard of her plight in '39. I was glad to hear that she and her family escaped before the Nazis could inter them." Shaking inside Sarah prayed she said the right thing. "I'm sorry, Professor, Nana was very frail even when I was little, she was such a contrast to mama's mother who I spoke of at the conference this morning. She died when I was only ten. "Ah, then let me tell you of what a beautiful woman she was. He began to regale her with stories, all in Russian, all very captivating and it took a while before Sarah noticed that Webb had joined them. Holding out a thin rock glass he took her wine. "Here," he said softly, "I know how much you like your gin and tonics." Keeping her eyes locked on his she took a sip of the tonic water, letting the cooling liquid moisten her dry throat. "Edward Thomas, have you met Dr. Gubin? Dr. Gubin knew Nana Anya when she was a little girl. "Small world." Webb said gravely. "Tell me Dr. Gubin, are you planning on speaking on the lost Romanov treasure?" "Nyet, Dr. Thomas. It is an old story. No one is interested anymore. I am here to listen to people whine and moan about lost treasures. Oh, I see you raise your eyebrow at the old man. It is the way of the world. The young westerners today want everything to be fair. When you live as long as I have, seen as much as I have, you will come to understand that the world isn't fair. That art and treasures have been plundered and redistributed throughout time." He shrugged and threw back the small glass of clear liquid. "Well, it is an interesting position to take at the conference, Professor. Should make for some lively conversations, but if you will excuse us there are some people I would like Hannah to meet." He pulled her away from the old man. "He won't get us anywhere, his area of expertise is Fabergé Eggs." She looked back at the old man and wondered aloud, "Then why is he here?" "Think about it, he's a full professor at the University of Moscow, lives in a room with eight other people and makes less in a month than Tiner makes in a day. Wouldn't you take every single trip that they sent you on? Oh, here's your boyfriend." He plastered a smile on his face as Farber approached them, his hands outstretched to Sarah. "Hannah. You decided to join us. I heard that you weren't feeling well. I hope it wasn't lunch?" He took her hands in his and smiled down at her. Sarah felt Webb stiffen next to her. Gazing into Farber's intense blue eyes she purred. "Oh, I just needed a nap, Herr Farber." "Kurt. Please." "Very well. Tell me Kurt, is that a buffet table over there?" Farber led her to the table and she nibbled at the hors d'oeuvres. When Farber motioned to waiter carrying a tray of Champaign glasses, Mac whispered softly. "Actually, I'm not much of a drinker and I've already had one glass of wine and a gin and tonic. Could I have a glass of tea?" Farber barked an order and a few moments later the waiter brought the beverage to a small table in a corner where Farber had led her. "So tell me, Hannah, have you ever been to Munich before?" Before she went into her fear of flying spiel an elegantly dressed man, perhaps a little older than Admiral Chegwidden approached them. Farber stood immediately, placing his plate on the small table. "Ah, Herr Marshall." Sarah braced herself; this would be the test, but a test that Clay had hammered into her all day Friday night and most of Saturday. Clyde Marshall was a huge benefactor of the history department at Georgetown and had an entire wing named after him at the Smithsonian. He had corresponded with Jacobs and had been the person who urged her to come to Munich for the conference. Jacobs, thank god, had been as meticulous as Tiner was messy and she had kept and catalogued every one of his letters. Mac stood with a smile on her lips. "You can't be Hannah Jacobs." The Texan bellowed indignantly. Sarah's eyes grew wide and she saw that Webb was standing rigid behind Marshall. She gulped. "Excuse me?" A grin suddenly suffused Marshall's face. "You're far too pretty to be such an expert on the Old Masters." Farber nearly collapsed in laughter at the lame joke and her opinion of the blond god decreased somewhat. Pulling her heart back out of her stomach she glared at Farber and then growled at Marshall. "Funny, Clyde, nice first meeting. I think I'll start returning your letters unopened." Even though she held a hint of a smile she noticed the flash of anger behind Marshall's eyes, but someone snorted a laugh and Lucretia burst into giggles. Marshall composed himself quickly and laughed too, though with little gusto. "Why not, Hannah, you don't take half my suggestions anyway." Mac picked up two glasses of Champagne and handing him one, clinked rims. "That's because I'm just a lowly professor on the board at the museum, Clyde." She purred before lifting the glass to her mouth and taking one sip. From the corner of her eye she saw Webb's eyes grow dark. Screw you, Webb. If I can handle Clyde Marshall, I can handle one sip of Champagne for effect. "Now, come and tell me of your latest plans for the museum in Austin." The party flourished long past the expected end time. Mac met most of the other attendees and she reaffirmed a basic understanding of human nature, everyone likes to talk about themselves. Whenever someone expressed interest in her – Jacobs' – work she would answer vaguely and then turn the question back on the other person. After her one forbidden sip, she didn't touch the champagne glass again. She listened to Clyde with as much interest as she could muster as he explained his expansion plans for his private gallery in Austin, Texas. Webb ignored her for most of the evening, so as people were beginning to break up into smaller groups to leave for dinner, she finally sought him out. She noticed he was talking to the banker who had spoken early in the afternoon and the good-looking man who had been next to Webb when she had her panic attack after talking with Lealia Bouchard. She opined that all three men were terribly good-looking actually and she walked up to the group and tucked her hand into the crook of Webb's arm. She smiled at the banker, "Mr. Dettwiler, I enjoyed your talk this afternoon." Dettwiler returned her smile but clucked his tongue and wagged his finger at her. "Armin, please. And I do believe I just saw your nose grow an inch." Mac drew her lips between her teeth and then laughed. "Busted, huh? I really was listening, it's just¼" Dettwiler snorted. "I know. Mittagessen is such a filling meal in Munich. I swear I heard Rupert here snoring." The elegant man looked down his nose at banker. "I beg your pardon, Dettwiler. I do not snore." Turning his full attention to Mac he held out his hand. "Rupert Sinclair, Dr. Jacobs. I'm in charge of Middle Eastern Acquisitions for THE Museum." Sarah spared him a half smile, decided that she didn't like him one bit and purred back, "That would be the British Museum, Mr. Sinclair?" Dryly he responded, "Of course. Now, tell me what do you think of Witcomb's allegations that Titan's portrait of Cosimo d'Medici was really Sofonisba Anguissola's? Mac was really proud of that yawn. She started to answer the smug Englishman's question twice, "I really don't¼" and finally Webb put his arm around her shoulder. "Come on, Hannah. It's been a trying two days. Your first flight in years and it's across the Atlantic and half of Europe. Let's get you upstairs." Sinclair cocked his eyebrow. "Not joining us for dinner at Kay's?" Mac felt Webb stiffen though it was probably imperceptible to any one else. "Ah, no. Not tonight, Rupert, I've got notes to go over before tomorrow morning." As they stood in the elevator she looked at him questioningly, "What's up with Kay's?" "Nothing. It's a notorious hang out in Munich for Gays and Lesbians and thrill seekers. If they were going to mount a production of `Cabaret' they'd do it at Kay's Bistro." "Oh." He escorted her to her door and as she unlocked the door, he touched her arm. "You did pretty good tonight, Mac." She started to smile, but his next words, even though spoken with concern, ruined the compliment. "Just don't get cocky with the drinking, okay?" The euphoric bubble in which she had been encased ever since she faced Clyde Marshall's silly accusation burst. Rage and guilt battled one another for just a moment but rage won and she hissed, "Fuck you! Mr. Webb! Go play with your new boyfriend." She slammed the door in his face and viciously threw the safety bar and deadbolt lock home. She almost ruined the zipper pulling the dress off. Kicking her shoes across the room, one hit the mirror over the dresser and she finally made an effort to curb her anger. "Officious, snide, odious little bastard!" She muttered epitaphs as she stripped the rest of the way out of her clothes. Pulling on her sweat pants and T-shirt, she started to get into bed but her anger returned full force. He doesn't want me here. He's acting like such a jerk. Not backing him up! Bull, he's the one who¼I don't need this shit. I really don't! Knowing it would be just 1700 hours in Washington, she found her cell phone and punched in the JAG ops number. She needed to rant to someone and she was sure Harriet would be the perfect person. "Chegwidden." She stared at the phone and gulped. "This is Admiral Chegwidden, who the hell¼" "Uhm¼Admiral¼it's me. Mac." Immediately concern flooded his voice. "Mac? Is something wrong? Has something happened?" Feeling even more stupid and flustered Mac tried to salvage something. "Ah no, sir. I just called in hoping to catch Lt. Sims. I wanted to go over something with her." His relief was evident even from 4000 miles away. "Oh, well the Lieutenant had to leave early, or on time for once. In fact everyone's left and you just caught me." "Oh, well then, sir. I won't keep you. Ah, goodnight Admiral." "Mac, is everything okay? What time is there anyway? After 2200 hours at least." "2213 to be exact, sir. No, everything is going really well. I gave my speech today and I don't think I hurt Dr. Jacob's name in her field. Couple of rough spots but I managed to skate over them." "I knew you would, Colonel. Webb watchin' your back?" Here's your chance, Marine. "Everything is fine, sir. Just tell Harriet that I'll try and call her tomorrow, sir." "Sure thing, Mac. Oh and by the way¼" "Yes, sir." "Make sure you charge this call back to Mr. Webb's mission expense." "Absolutely, sir." Mac cut the connection and sighed. Just talking to him had calmed her down. Even though there would never be a romance between them, she realized that she was rather glad to have such an excellent colleague and mentor in the Admiral, one she could trust to say and do the right thing. After that one wobble in their relationship, she had come to trust his guidance and judgment without any other feelings, other than respect and perhaps even friendship, getting in the way. She padded over to her laptop, already set up on the desk across room, then dialed up, and did a search for Witcomb, Titan's portrait of Cosimo d'Medici and Sofonisba Anguissola so that she could nail Sinclair the next time she saw him. By the time she was finished with the portrait artist who was the student of Campi and the darling of Michaelangelo she felt that she could hold her own - Well, at least I won't look completely stupid - not only with the smug Mr. Sinclair but also with Lealia Bouchard who had been mentioned in several articles as being a recognized expert on the painter. As she laid her head on the pillow the last image before she fell asleep was one of the French artist and scholar, standing in a corner at the party, staring at her intently.
:: Chapter 3 ::12 December, Tuesday She rose early, purposely to avoid Bauer, Bouchard and anyone else, particularly Webb, so she was hideously disappointed to see the spy, leaning against the wall by the elevator, obviously waiting for her. Ignoring him, she pushed the button and stepped onto the elevator. She had chosen a deep blue wool suit that she knew did wonders for her hair, complexion, and figure. Staring straight ahead she waited for him to make the first move, say the first word. When he remained silent, standing beside her, neither too close nor too far away, she gritted her teeth and vowed that two could play the game. When the doors opened she headed for the restaurant, but he firmly took her elbow and steered her outside into the cold Tuesday morning. Grey clouds hung low and snow covered the parked cars on either side of the street. Webb hailed a taxi and slid in next to her. Damn straight you better not help this Marine in. "Schmalznudel, Pralat Zistl Strasse, bitte." He sat back and finally explained. "Great place for breakfast, and we can walk it off. The university is only a mile away." He looked at her stylish, yet fairly sensible shoes. "You should be able to do a mile in those, can't you." She studied him, her face a blank to her roiling emotions. "Lead the way, Professor Thomas." "Mac," he began but shook his head and looked out the window. When they arrived at the popular breakfast spot it was already humming even though it was only 0630 hours. He motioned for her to go inside and she was surprised to see several rather nattily dressed revelers, obviously still awake from the night before, drinking coffee and eating strudel. The waitress started to sit them in the center of the room but Webb pointed to a more secluded table, "dort bitte." Once the waitress had brought them their coffee, Webb studied his fingernails before finally meeting her steady gaze. "Look, Mac¼" "Hannah." "What?" He looked around trying to see how someone from the conference could have missed his scrutiny. She put the cup to her lips, but never broke her steely stare. "Clay and Mac can't seem to get along very well, so let’s keep it purely professional." Webb leaned forward and hissed. "Colonel MacKenzie¼" But he stopped, took a deep breath, and leaned back again. "Mac, I'm guess I overstepped the line last night." "Yes. Yes you did." Her angry whisper reddened his ears. "You listen to me you officious little ass. I'm a Marine. A damn good Marine and I haven't let any of my partners down when it was important. My drinking is none of your business unless you think I'm going to screw up the damn mission and one sip¼" She saw his look of wonder and amusement and ground her teeth, knowing the lie she spoke. "Fine, Webb I know. But damn you, you¼" "I could've not been such an ass about it." He smiled ruefully and took a sip from his own steaming cup. "Please. Can we just get on with the mission, here? The party went fine. You looked like you were having a grand old time with Herr Farber and that stalwart defender of the American way, Clyde Marshall. So tell me what did you learn." She waited until the waitress brought their plates, ate a couple of bites and then reported succinctly. "From what I heard last night, most of the people know about Frau Kappel's little piece of history, but most of them only care from a vague academic standpoint. They're all here because of their own area of interest and because the museums they're affiliated with probably have works that will come under fire." She ate some, but watched as he chewed his food, his jaw working with economy. As he brought the fork back to his mouth she noticed how gracefully his fingers clutched the instrument. Where the hell did that come from? Using his fork to punctuate his speech, he asked. "So who is more than `academically' interested?" She thought and pushed her empty plate to the center of the table. Immediately the waitress was upon them and cleared the empty dishes. They sat drinking coffee while she fussed and then, after finally refilling their nearly full cups, scuttled away. "Well, Steiner and Kauffman from the Berlin Pergamon Museum went on and on about it with Bauer who seemed interested but didn't say much. Pedrotti was waxing poetic on the possibilities of landing a piece or two for her museum. I was rather surprised at her stance until I realized that she didn't know about Franklin and his bequest to the British Museum. So did your boy¼did Sinclair say anything about it." "A little. He is aware of the bequest, of course, but seemed unsure whether or not the Museum will go after the reliquary because of the legal and political ramifications. He seems to think that it was just a single piece not part of a bigger treasure trove." He had chosen to ignore her aborted jab, but she could see he wasn't happy about her slip. She wanted to stop goading him, especially about the whole issue of Professor Thomas' sexual orientation. She could care less whether the Californian was gay or straight or asexual for that matter. `Don't ask, don't tell' had been the mantra for any Naval or Marine officer. Why the hell couldn't she just drop it? "And if more pieces turn up?" Webb shrugged. "We didn't talk that much about it." "Well, Webb, what did you talk about?" He glared and started, "Oh walks in the moon¼" He gritted his teeth and then let out a long breath. "Look, are you ready?" Tossing some Deutschemarks on the table he waited while she rose and then followed her out the front door. He took off down the street and she had to be determined about it to keep up. Shit! I deserve it for that stupid remark. Suck it up, Marine. They reached the auditorium early and were the first ones there. She flopped down into the chair and watched as he pulled some notes from his pocket. "Hey, you want to practice on me?" She asked in a conciliatory tone." He didn't look up. "No. That's okay. I'll be fine." She knew that Webb had actually flown out to California before presenting the plan to her and had spent the day with Thomas. Webb had said the professor was very helpful and relieved not to have to go. "I want to spend some time with Hannah, before it's too late." Webb had made sure that no one would relay to someone at the conference that "Hey, you know I saw Thomas and Jacobs in D.C., I thought they were going to be at the conference." Instead he had arranged for them to spend the week in a FBI safe house in upstate New York. Now he studied the notes he and the professor had gone over. He littered her apartment with everything he could get his hands on regarding medieval illuminated texts. When everyone was settled, Dr. Edward Thomas was introduced and Webb stood. Mac tried to return the squeeze of yesterday, but he didn't give her a chance. Instead he walked down the aisle and stopped to say something to Sinclair who laughed. Clay stood before the group and Mac smiled down at him but she wasn't sure that he even saw. "As many of you realize, not all the works in question at this symposium are paintings. In fact, truth be told tracing ownership of the paintings may be easier than tracing other types of artworks. Often the true identity of the survivor is a bigger issue than the original owner at the time the Nazis stole it. Harder to pin down are the thousand upon millions of pieces of gold artifacts stolen. Pieces of Classical Antiquity and even earlier, as well as religious artifacts from Islamic, Christian and Judeo heritage, were stolen and quite possibly destroyed. How many pieces were dismantled and melted down out of ignorance and greed? The church treasures of Quedlinburg included delicate reliquaries and two manuscripts in jeweled covers, one of which, the ninth-century Samuhel Gospel, written entirely in gold ink, is beyond price. And, ladies and gentlemen, the Quedlinburg case highlights the fact that not all missing art was stolen by Nazis. In 1943, to protect their treasures from the SS, local officials removed everything they could carry to a cave outside of town. After American troops occupied the area in 1945, 12 of the most precious objects disappeared. There was little doubt that soldiers were the culprits, but investigation by the Army was curtailed when Quedlinburg became part of the Soviet Zone. It wasn't until 1983, when the German Government received word that the items were part of a Texan's estate which was in the process of being sold to various other private collectors that they were able to bring pressure to bear resulting in the return of the church's artifacts. As is often the case now, nearly 60 years after the fact, Joe Tom Meador's family professed to have no clue that their eccentric relative had stolen the goods. Meador himself never tried to sell any of the objects. It wasn't until his death that the artworks came to light." Webb continued on in this vein for another twenty minutes and Mac noticed that his audience sat enthralled. When he ended with a plea for all museum curators to make sure that any NEWLY discovered treasures were thoroughly checked before even placing a value on the objects he even received a smattering of applause. When he stepped down from the podium, instead of returning to his seat next to her, he sat between Dettwiler and Sinclair. Well, well. Stop it right now, Colonel. He is doing his job. They listened to another speaker before breaking for lunch and before Mac could find out what Clay was up to, Lealia Bouchard and `Cretia Pedrotti excitedly rushed up to her. "Hannah! Kurt is going to take us to The Christkindl market. Come with us." Mac looked back and caught both Webb and Bouchard staring at her. Remembering who she was supposed to be, she shrugged. "Sure, I've got some friends that I exchange gifts with during holiday season, and I'm always up for a little sightseeing. But what are we going to eat? "Oh, never fear dear Hannah. You will feast on Glühwein and wurst." Farber was so close behind her that she felt her hair move from his breath. Looking back over her shoulder, their noses almost brushed and she grinned. "Well, I'm not sure of the Glühwein but wurst is always good." :: :: ::
12 December, Tuesday They reached the street where they had gotten the taxi the day before, but today a long black BMW limo sat waiting, a driver, dressed in deep burgundy livery, held the door open and the three women got into the back seat. Farber climbed in last and sat across from them on the small jump seat and while he talked pleasantly to each of the women, his eyes never left Mac. The limo dropped them off at the beginning of Marienplatz and the three women stared about in wonder. "Oh Kurt, it's quite wonderful, just like the Ad¼Administrator at the college told me it would be. She visited here last year at this time." Thank you lord for not letting Webb hear that slip. Mac allowed him to take her arm and as he led her down the aisles, he commented on each shop. When they stared up at the magnificent 19-Century town hall he told her, "I'm sorry that you missed the Glockenspiel, Hannah, it is something that you shouldn't miss." He insisted proudly. "And the tree, of course is very beautiful but not nearly as beautiful as it is at night." He murmured in her ear. He pulled her gently to a stall where the most incredible aroma drifted out. "Here is a Glühwein shop. Before she could protest, he thrust a cup of the heady brew into her hand and warmth seeped through the cup into her gloved fingers. Holding his cup to hers he whispered, "Beifall, Cheers, Hannah," and took a drink." Fighting the urge to let the brew warm her, she smiled and brought the cup to her lips. Oh dear, this does smell heavenly. Remembering the disgusted look on Webb's face she smiled at him over the rim of the cup and moved to the next stall. While he was carefully explaining the intricacies of the elaborately carved dolls, she managed to pour some of the spiced wine into a trash bin. Concentrating on the dolls before her, she spied the perfect one for Harm, an old fashioned aviator complete with a Sopwith Camel and vowed to return later so she wouldn't have to explain her choice to Farber. She felt safe in buying little AJ a wooden train at another stall and when she found a beautifully carved music box, she picked that up for Harriet. By the time Farber forced her to sit at a table and went to get her lunch she had gifts for most everyone on her list including a fairy tale princess of a doll for Chloe. She set the bags on the table and allowed her eyes to take in the rest of the sights. The plaza was crowded with busy Munichers grabbing a quick lunch and a few presents of their own. "Here you go, Hannah." He set the steaming plate of sausages before her as well as a steaming mug of coffee. "I figured one glass of Glühwein is more than enough for lunch." "Thanks." Taking her first bite she closed her eyes and sighed. "Very good, Kurt. Thank you for bringing us." He sat very close to her and she felt his warmth through both of their coats. "Oh look, here come Lucretia and Lealia." The two women sat across from them, Lealia moving all the bags down do the end of the table. Lealia examined Mac and Farber's plates and exclaimed, "Oh God, CHE Schifo! Is there nothing else to eat?" Mac looked shocked but Kurt just grinned and pointed to several stalls. "Go and see, Liebling." They were terribly late getting back to the lecture hall but they found that they were not the only ones. Mac had just sat down when the doors opened again and Webb, Dettwiler, Bauer and Sinclair breezed in. They all hurried to their seats, Webb returning to sit next to Pedrotti, as the next speaker, a florid man from Spain, was waiting none too patiently to deliver his speech. Half-way through Webb leaned over Lucretia and whispered conspiratorially to Mac, "I don't supposed you feel somewhat ill and need me to get you away from this¼" Mac tried to hide her grin and Pedrotti giggled and jabbed him in the side. "Sssssh." Webb pouted and Mac, keeping her eyes on the stage but completely tuning the speaker out, wondered just what was going on with Webb. I'm no spy, I admit that, but boy is he acting weird or what. First all pissy, then snooty, then angry and then acting like a real person. We have got to talk. Finally the afternoon came to an end. As she and Pedrotti where gathering their coats, Farber came up behind her and whispered seductively, "Can I send my car for you to take you to the restaurant, Hannah." Mac turned, making sure she backed up at the same time. When she realized how close he was she was glad she had. Seeing Webb come up beside them, she smiled ruefully, "That would be lovely, but I promised Dr. Thomas that he and I would go over some¼" Webb cut in, "That's okay, Hannah. Can't miss a chance to ride in Herr Farber's limo. Besides, I've got some stuff to do before the party. I'll just see you there." And before she could protest or go after him, he was out the door. She rode back to the hotel with Lealia, `Cretia, and Bauer riding shotgun next to the taxi driver. When she closed the door to her hotel room she immediately went to the phone and began calling Webb's cell phone. Each time she got his simple voice message. "I'm unavailable, leave a message." Tonight's dinner at the `Tantris' would be the most formal of the 10 day conference and Mac pulled out the deep red, low cut dress that she had brought especially for the White House dinner party she had to cancel because of this trip. She knew she looked the knockout in it and as the soft satin caressed her body as she pulled it over her head, she smiled wickedly. "Let's see if I can get his attention tonight." Gazing at her mirrored reflection she wondered why she cared. "Oh well. At least Kurt will like it." She slipped on the not-very sensible shoes and then frowned at the wool coat that she would need to throw over her eye-catching attire. "Oh well, it'll just be a bigger surprise when I take it off." She tried Webb's cell once more and then went downstairs. Farber's driver was waiting in the lobby for her. "Gutenabend, Fraulien Doktor. Herr Farber is waiting." He showed her outside and opened the door for her. Farber was waiting there, a bucket of Champagne sitting where the jump seat normally folded down. "Good evening, dear Hannah." He held out a flute to her and she took it. Oh, damn. Holding out his glass to hers, "What shall we drink to?" Mac studied the glass and then smiled over at him. "Why to new friends, of course." Clinking her glass to his, she watched as he drank and then once again went through the ritual of touching the liquid to her lips." "Why do you do that?" He asked gently. "Do what?" She rested the goblet base on her coat-covered knee. "Pretend to drink? Dump perfectly good Glühwein in the trash? Do you not like alcohol? Why don't you just say so?" His voice held a curiosity that she knew she would have to satisfy and sighing decided on the truth – well the truth colored by the situation. She was sure the honest blush on her cheeks would lend credence to her story. "Actually, I like to drink a little too much. About six months ago I decided to just stop. It's worked out pretty well." Exasperation crept into his voice. "Well why didn't you just tell us. I would have made sure that the waiters brought you anything that you liked, Hannah. Why the deception?" Oh, if only you knew, Kurt. She handed him her glass. "Oh, I don't know. I'm not that much of a partygoer. I attend college functions all the time and the occasional museum opening but not often. I'm just a scholar at heart and I'm pretty unsure of myself when I'm around these worldly people. I didn't want to call attention to myself." Oh why didn't we think about this before we left? "I see." His snort broke the tension. "Worldly people, indeed. Ha! Verdorbene kinder, spoilt children, if you ask me." He sighed and took her glass, tossing back its contents before placing the glass in a holder. Turning to her he took her hand in his and whispered. "Now that we have that out of the way. Tell me, what do you think of my country?" She almost melted into a pool of relief. This she could handle. "Oh the little I've seen of it appears to be quite beautiful. Edward, Dr. Thomas promised to show me some of the sights when we get a break on Friday." He sat back at that. "You and this, this¼" She touched his hand, "This very good friend, Kurt." "Ah. Already the jealousy begins." He laughed and sat back. "I think I have a better idea for the weekend." At her arched eyebrow, he soothed. "Kein, mein liebes. I have respect for your position. Let me think on this for a bit, but¼oh here we are." :: :: ::
12 December, Tuesday Mac was rather stunned by the entrance to the "finest restaurant" in Munich. In a city of fairy tale spires, ancient churches and an almost Italianate architecture the restaurant seemed techno industrial, with hints of she didn't know what. Huge winged griffins marked the entrance and she allowed Farber to usher her into the foyer, his hand resting at the curve of her back. A woman came up to take their coats and Mac's attention to the red and black décor that surrounded her was pulled back by Farber's appreciative exclamation, "Gott im Himmel, Hannah, sind Sie schön. How can you even think that you could not, how do you say, keep your own among these, these kaufleute." At her quizzical look, he apologized. "Sorry, I said you were beautiful and kaufleute is a merchant." As they were shown to the private dining room, his hand protectively on her arm, she asked seriously, "You don't like us very much, do you Kurt. You don't like the attention this brings to your country." "Ack. It's not so bad. It's just we are still the focus for so much that happened so long ago. I prefer to show people the beauty of my land." Mac was about to respond when they entered the private dining room and she was momentarily stunned. She had never seen so much gold in her life. Gold colored drapes covered one wall. Dozens of golden chandeliers covered the ceiling bathing the two long tables below in a golden light. The china and glasses was gold rimmed and the flatware looked like it must be solid gold. Down the center of each table a parade of red flowered centerpieces with gold Christmas ornaments completed the setting. The wall not covered by curtains looked out onto a fairy tale setting of Christmas trees decorated in tiny lights and more gold ornaments. "Oh my." "Beautiful isn't it Fraulien Doktor?" She turned to find Professor Bauer just behind them, Lealia Bouchard at his elbow. Before Mac could answer Lealia snorted. "Very overdone, if you ask me." Mac felt Farber stiffen and spoke up. "Oh, I think it is just perfectly marvelous. Just right for the room." That's our little Marine, peacemaker extraordinaire. Bouchard studied her for a long moment. "Funny, after your remarks in Washington, I would have thought different." Mac ran her tongue over her teeth and then smiled sweetly. "Regardless of what I said in Washington, Lealia, I hope not to knowingly insult our host." She could have sworn she saw a ghost of a smile on Bauer's face, but he quickly harumped and insisted. "Come Fraulien Bouchard, let us find our seats, ja?" The tables were incredibly long, seating at least ten to a side and two on each end closest to the door. Farber led her around the back and up to the head of the table where another cross table had been set up, seating six across. He sat her at his right, but before he settled next to her he leaned over, "You will excuse me, I want to check on something." She sat at the head of the table and watched as people began to enter. Bouchard and Bauer were halfway down the table, their backs to the curtains. Bauer was excitingly pointing out the outside decorations and Bouchard kept glancing her way. There were name cards and Mac leaned over to see who would be around her. She wasn't surprised to see that Clyde Marshall was on her right or even that Armin Dettwiler was seated next to him at the end of the table. She saw a name she thought familiar, but couldn't place a face to, next to Farber and she was rather surprised to see Edward Thomas' name on the card at the other end of the table. People milled around and spoke to her and others before taking their seats and it was beginning to get very crowded, particularly when the waiters started bringing drink orders out. Farber finally re-entered the room with Marshall in tow and Dettwiler just behind them. She noted with interest that Sinclair was seated at the end of one of the tables next to the Russian professor, Vasilii Gubin and even from this far away he didn't look very happy about it. Lucretia Pedrotti was almost directly in front of Mac, seated as she was down the center aisle in the first chair. "Incredible room isn't it, Hannah." Leaning forward she whispered, "Very¼ah¼ festive, si?" Mac laughed. "Very festive. Certainly more¼festive than I'm used to, but I don't get out to these types of places very often." The Italian curator paused in sipping her cocktail. "Your university does not hold, how do you say, allevatori di fondo monetario, oh dear." "If you are trying to find the words for fund raisers, then yes, but they are usually very sedate cocktail parties where very important people come and are suitably impressed by our need for funding. If we were to hold a party in a place like this, no one would think we really needed the money." Farber, who had stopped and talked to many of the attendees, finally made it back to her side. Clyde and Dettwiler took their seats and each ordered martinis. Without even ordering, a rock glass appeared before her, the bubbles coating the sides of the glass, a lime gracing the rim. She sipped and was rewarded with the crisp tang of tonic water, unadulterated by gin. Smiling at Farber she leaned into him and whispered, "Danke." Bringing his face so close she thought he was going to kiss her he whispered back, "Sie sind sehr willkommen." Pulling back he gazed around the room. "I see that most everyone is here." Sparing a glance for the two places next to him he reached out and took the card that had been next to him and crumpled it. "Herr Kronig will be unable to join us." Mac was beginning to get worried about Webb. Some partner, Webb, running off without telling me. Oh we are going to have a long talk. "Who is Herr Kronig?" "Assistant to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He was supposed to come tonight, as the Ministry has an equal concern in our mission here. He called and left word that he would be unable to make it." Upon hearing Kronig's position she almost choked on her tonic water but managed a passable, "oh, that's a shame." A real shame, since Colonel Sarah MacKenzie knows Herr Franz Kronig. Webb, did you know that? Are you responsible for his no-show? Lord, I'm gonna have grey hair when we are done here. "Yes, a real shame. But where, pray tell, is your Dr. Thomas?" Mac considered his scrutiny as she answered. "I'm not sure, he didn't mention that he was going to miss the party." She had been looking at him, but when his eyes shifted she looked toward the door and the subject of their conversation came strolling in. As she made out the cut and swelling on his cheek, just beginning to discolor, her eyes widen, "Oh dear." And she started to get up and go to him, but his glare had her back in her seat. As he sat down, he turned his glare upon Farber and in a voice loud enough to answer everyone's question he growled, "Can't say a lot for German hospitality. I was mugged!" All throughout Farber's opening remarks, thanking `some of the great scholars of the world' for coming to his conference, through the first course and the clearing of the soup course, Mac kept glancing around Farber at Webb. In the interlude before the main course, she felt it appropriate to ask him just what had happened and he seemed grateful to tell her and the audience his story. "I decided to go for a walk before dressing for dinner. I hadn't gone far, but I must have turned down the wrong street and then the wrong street again because I was suddenly in a rather darker, meaner part of the city. Anyway, these two young skinheads jumped me and pushed me into a brick wall, which is how I cut my face. They ran off after they grabbed my money clip." From across the room Vasilii Gubin piped up. "They were, what do you call them in America, the gay bashers?" Mac looked at the Russian wide eyed. Several people groaned and Rupert Sinclair uttered a disgusted, "Oh, for God's sake." Before the situation could get any more tense Mac looked over at Webb and winked, "You know, Ed, I've told you not to wear that 'Kick me, I'm queer sweatshirt.'" It was only a half a heartbeat before someone giggled and then the room dissolved into relieved laughter. Gubin looked profoundly confused, Sinclair rather bitter, but Webb appeared to relax. When he excused himself after the cheese course had been brought out, Mac wiped her lips and stood to follow him. Farber touched her arm, but she just smiled and followed Webb out to the lobby rest rooms. She waited for him and when he came out she asked softly "Hey, partner. You gonna tell me what really happened?" She actually thought he was going to tell her but instead he quickly pecked her on the cheek. "I'm fine Hannah, they only got 100DM." Sensing someone was behind them, she sighed. "Well if you're sure." She didn't bother to turn around, but as she entered the ladies room she saw, reflected in the smoked glass wall, the concerned look on Rupert Sinclair's face as he approached Webb. A flash of anger seized her but she continued inside and washed her hands. When she returned to the table, both Webb and Sinclair were nowhere to be seen. As dinner was breaking up she noticed that Farber made a point to speak to each attendee, though longer to some and very curtly to poor Gubin. He helped her on with her coat and murmured in her ear. "I have asked several of the, how do you say, more festive people to join us at Schumanns for a nightcap." She raised an eyebrow. "Us? Kurt?" Some dark emotion flashed quickly behind his eyes but he smiled. "If you do not trust me to make sure that you are safe, Hannah." What the hell is it with me and men misunderstanding every damn thing I say. "No, Kurt. What I meant was I didn't know WE had planned on going to this Schumanns. I like to be asked." She fully expected to see that flash of¼of what¼anger?¼ calculation?¼simple male lust rearing its ugly, intriguing little head but he dropped his eyes and then gave her a little boy smile. "Would you do me the honor of going out to Schumanns with me tonight, Hannah Jacobs." She laughed and shook her head. "Okay, Kurt. I would like very much to see this Schumanns with you." Home :: JAG Index :: e-mail |