The Chrysalis (16 page)

twenty-one

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

T
HE FRIENDS SAT IN SILENCE WITH A SECOND BOTTLE OF
chardonnay between them. Sophia, known for her abstinence, joined Mara this time and chugged glass after glass. The evidence of their immoderation upset the equilibrium of Sophia's stark, nearly sterile apartment, where, unlike Mara's, even the concealed places were subject to merciless order. Tonight, however, Sophia ignored the empty bottle, crumpled napkins, and bowls of half-eaten pasta. Both women were focused on the purloined documents spread out before them.

Sophia shook her head. “Oh my God, I still can't believe you took these. This is not what we talked about, Mara. We specifically agreed that you'd go in there and look around—nothing more. What if you'd gotten caught?” The wine turned Sophia's wrath into mere terror. Just an hour before, she had raged at Mara for taking the documents from Michael's office. But Mara had known from the start that the strict, ambitious Sophia would never sanction the risk.

“Sophia, we've been through this before. I had no choice. Without these papers, I can't begin to understand what scheme Michael's involved in to hide this Strasser information and why he used me. I couldn't leave the documents there—I'd lose whatever leverage I have in Michael's game.” Even saying the words aloud made Mara furious again, at the injury done to her pride and the damage done to the Baums and others like them.

“But, Mara, what are you going to do when Michael finds out you've stolen the papers from his safe? It's only a matter of time.”

“I'll replace them before he discovers they're gone, I hope. He won't be back from Europe for a few days. In the meantime, I need them to investigate what he's really up to—and why he felt the need to use me like some kind of insurance policy.” Mara wondered what had happened to the righteousness Sophia had felt on Mara's behalf on Sunday evening; it seemed to have disappeared. To be sure, it had been preceded by her anger over “the stupidity” of Mara's relationship with Michael, but Sophia had softened and even helped Mara plan her search of Michael's office. When Mara arrived unannounced at Sophia's apartment earlier in the evening, loot in hand, she harbored no illusions that Sophia would condone the extent of her search, but she was astonished that the damning documents did not make her friend more supportive.

“What do you mean by ‘investigate' what Michael's up to?” Sophia asked, her tone sharp.

“I have to learn who Kurt Strasser is, or was, so I can appreciate what Michael's trying to hide. That means taking advantage of his absence and going back to Beazley's library to do some research.”

“Mara, how do you know he doesn't have a perfectly good reason for keeping these papers tucked away?”

“I don't, and believe me, I hope he does. But I can't leave it to his word.”

Sophia stood up, a little wobbly from the wine. She pleaded, “Mara, please forget about this nonsense. Return the documents before he notices they're gone and put this behind you. Please focus on what's important: yourself and your career.” Mara silently added the words Sophia did not utter, the plea to consider Sophia's career, too; it was all too clear to her that Sophia was alarmed at how Mara's actions might reflect on her as well.

“Fee, I can't do that. I can't pretend this hasn't happened. Uncovering all this may be more important than winning the case and advancing my career.” Curious, Mara thought, how comfortable she felt now that she had a clear line of principles to follow, how at peace she was with stepping off the path she had followed for so long. It was a thorny mantle, but it fit much better than the cloak of success. Her father would rankle, but her grandmother would be proud.

Sophia stared at Mara as if she had grown unrecognizable. “Then, Mara, I can't help you. I can't watch you destroy all that you've worked for. You're on your own.”

Sophia retired to her bedroom. Without intending to, Mara fell asleep on the couch, utterly spent. She awakened in a sweat, remembering restless dreams.

THE NEXT EVENING, MARA EXITED THE ELEVATOR AT BEAZLEY'S.
She did not feel at all nervous. She sensed the adrenaline pumping through her veins, but its speed was almost a relief after the endless day of feigning composure at the office. She advanced down the first hallway, already darkened for the evening, but so familiar that she could see without the light. Turning left, she spotted the guards in the distance. Coming closer, she forced herself to smile.

“Hey, guys, how're you doing tonight?” she greeted the men.

The guards looked up from their steaming cups of coffee and deeply layered pizza, astonished to see her, surprised to see anyone after 6:00 P.M. Her favorite, the jolly Santa-faced one with the long white beard whose name she could never remember, replied, “We're doing fine down here. What brings you to our neck of the woods so late at night?”

She attempted humor. “Late? You guys know that this isn't late for lawyers—I wish it were. Nope, some court ordered me to gather up more information. Sorry about that.”

The jolly one retorted, “Nothin' to be sorry about. We're always glad to see your pretty face, Miss Coyne. We're just sorry you have to spend your nights poking around through some dusty old papers.” She waited to see if they would let her in. “Come on, we'll get you in there.”

Still chewing on a big bite of pizza, the other one—Tommy she thought his name was—hoisted himself out of his seat, wiped his greasy hand on his pants, and lumbered over to the door with the keys jingling in hand. Mara winced; Tommy was more of an adherent to the rules. She had been banking that Santa would unlock the door for her.

After he unbolted the door, she fluttered her eyelashes and asked, “Oh, I might need to have a few documents copied tonight. Would you mind unlocking the back door for me, too?” It was her entrée to the document room.

Tommy glanced back at his fellow guard. “You know, you're supposed to have a research staff person with you to do that.”

“Oh, you're right. Shoot. I'm sure they're all gone by now.”

Santa yelled over. “What the hell, Tommy, we know her by now. Let her in. Don't be a stickler.” Waves of guilt engulfed Mara. She hadn't thought through the trouble these guys would get into if she were caught. But it was too late to go back.

She nodded at Santa. “Thanks.” Then, at Tommy, “Thanks to both of you. I really appreciate it.”

Mara trailed after the rotund guard into the library, trying her best to look nonchalant as he painstakingly opened the door to the document room. “We'll be right out here if you need anything.”

Knowing her time was limited, and that the guards would keep the front door ajar the entire time, she proceeded to work. She ignored the beauty of the library and focused on PROVID.

Using Lillian's password, she logged onto PROVID, clicked the World War II icon, and combed category after category for references to Strasser: French archives, records from the Germans, Dutch files, and papers from the United States War Department. She tried permutation after permutation of searches. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The hands raced around the face of the clock.

Before she quit PROVID, Mara hunted down whatever she could about Beazley's other purchases from Kurt Strasser. Having listened carefully to Lillian, Mara flew through the categories. She entered each painting's title into the myriad of categories: archival documents, sale catalogs, bills of sale, museum provenance files, indexes to public collections, governmental records, and collectors' files. When the title didn't yield any answers, she moved on to the artwork's other attributes: artist, subject matter, and time period. Results poured in, but she had to hurry, so she printed them without reading them.

Gathering up her papers, she crept to the document room, hoping not to draw attention to herself. She left the door open a crack and hurried to the climate-controlled inner sanctum of the room, to the direction Lillian had gestured when she made a veiled reference to classified documents. Opening the tightly sealed glass door, Mara noted that the air was very thin. She would have to work fast.

She hastened to the back wall, where several sturdy-looking wooden boxes were stored. She opened them up and sifted through their contents; they did indeed contain World War II papers. She scouted for documents from the United States Office of Strategic Services' Art Looting Investigation Unit in particular. The unit often prepared dossiers on various individuals; she trusted these would provide a quick answer. As she reviewed page after page, her rapid-fire reading skills came in handy and permitted her to scan for Strasser's name without getting bogged down in all the other information.

The stack of boxes containing no references to Strasser grew. There were only two unopened ones left, and Mara was disheartened. Even more, she worried how she'd explain her actions, her criminal acts really, if she got caught—especially without the damning evidence against Michael she had hoped to find. And what if she were wrong about Michael's actions? She played out different repercussions in her mind—firing, disbarment, and an indictment. What would her father say? Her grandmother? Michael? Harlan? With effort, she purged all their voices from her head and refocused her attention.

And then she found it: a transcript, from the United States Art Looting Investigation Unit, of the interrogation of Kurt Strasser.

Cross-legged on the floor, she scanned the transcript. At the start, the American soldiers from the Art Looting Investigation Unit asked Strasser seemingly routine questions about countless people, artists, paintings, and sculptures. Then the soldiers began asking Strasser about his work as a wartime art dealer.

Q: Where did you get the paintings we found in your shop? The Degas portrait, the two Corot drawings, the Sisley, and the Monet still life?

A: I told you, clients sold them to me.

Q: Clients? What clients? We found no records of the sales in your files.

A: You know, it was wartime. Sometimes clients didn't have time for sales receipts. Sometimes clients had their own reasons for not wanting them.

Q: You didn't get the paintings as part of a trade with any representative of the ERR?

A: No.

Q: You're certain of that?

A: Yes.

Q: Lieutenant Bernard, bring over the paintings. Strasser, are these the paintings we found in your shop?

A: Yes, they appear to be.

Q: Turn them over. What do you see on the back of those paintings?

A: A stamp.

Q: Do you know what that stamp means?

A: No.

Q: I'm going to ask again. Did you get these paintings as part of a trade with the ERR?

A: No.

Q: Really? You really don't know that when the ERR inventoried looted artwork they placed stamps like these on the back of those pieces?

A: I don't know what you mean.

         

(
A twenty-minute pause ensued.
)

         

Q: I will ask you one last time. Did you get these paintings from the ERR?

A: Yes.

Mara understood the pauses in the interview to reflect the soldiers' efforts—physical, she assumed—to get the recalcitrant Strasser to confess. As the interview progressed and Strasser persisted in his obstinacy, the gaps in the record grew longer. In the end, the soldiers succeeded. Strasser confessed to procuring artwork for and from the Nazis and selling it on the black market. He also named names, including a reference that they did not want to hear. His American art world launderer, he said, was a fellow U.S. soldier whose name was blacked out from the transcripts.

“Mara, what on earth are you doing here?”

Lillian's voice unexpectedly broke through the voices from the past. Mara looked up, mouth agape.

“I asked you a question, Mara.” Lillian enunciated each word with painful slowness. “What the hell are you doing here? You know you can't be back here without me or one of my staff. In any event, you told me you were done with your research.”