“Tight security,” she mentioned as they passed through the gate.
“One can never be too careful, Ms. Villa.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked.
“I know many things about you, Adriana. I know where you went to university. I know who your father is. And most importantly, I know what it is you are looking for.”
The statement worried her. They knew who her father was? The car veered around a sharp curve. An enormous mansion appeared in front of the vehicle. A solid wall surrounded all sides with a single tower off to the left. The home was made of a mixture of old stone and brick. She wondered how old it was but kept her thoughts to herself as she observed the beautiful structure. The driver pulled the car around a gravel circle and stopped in front of a large wooden door. The entrance was underneath a stone balcony that jutted out from the second floor.
Many of the windows were dark, save for a few on the right.
The driver got out of the car and ran around to open the door for her. The man in the front seat exited and walked directly to the door. Another man who had been waiting on the steps quickly opened it for him. Adriana hurried to follow the mysterious man into the mansion. She wondered if he ever waited on anyone.
The man led the way into a large foyer and then headed to the right past a giant set of stairs that wrapped upwards to the second floor. The hallway they entered must have been twelve feet high. The décor, however, was simple. Brushed bronze wall sconces dotted the beige walls. Under foot, the stone floor was made from what appeared to be pure sandstone, something she was fairly sure didn’t come from that region.
She wanted to ask the man so many questions but he never turned around as he strode quickly down the corridor. When they reached the end, the hall turned sharply to the right and opened into a large study just beyond dark double-doors.
“Herr Foyt will see you now,” the man directed her in with one hand. His sharp, distinct features never wavered.
“So you are not Herr Foyt?” she seemed a little confused.
The man cracked his lips into a thin smile. “Nein,” he said as he shook his head.
Adriana nodded slightly and stepped through the open doorway into the study. Twenty-foot-high bookshelves wrapped around the octagonal shaped room. Two rolling ladders on opposite sides stood on bronze wheels. A large, red oak desk sat off to the right in front of a set of shelves containing a random assortment of pictures and objects. Behind the desk, a thin, gray haired man in a dark sweater sat writing on a piece of paper. His wire-framed glasses rested on the tip of his splotchy nose.
She stopped about halfway across the floor and stared him. For the first few moments, he didn’t acknowledge she was there. Apparently, the documents he was signing were extremely important. After a few awkward moments of silence, he spoke but still kept writing.
“You may sit down if you like.” His accent was ruffled with the scratchiness of age.
“I’d prefer to stand, if that is alright,” she responded.
“Suit yourself,” he answered as he punctuated his last signature with a flamboyant line. Foyt laid down the silver pen and looked up. His old, blue eyes were still as piercing as they must have been fifty years before.
“So, you are Adriana Villa and you seek the lost Van Gogh. Given the chance, would you have stolen it from me?”
“I do not consider it a crime to take something that was stolen.” She stood firm, uncertain what was going to happen. On the outside, she had nerves of solid rock. Inside, though, her stomach was in knots. She wasn’t sure where the conversation was going.
The old man laughed; his voice echoed through the tall chamber. “Of course. I imagine most thieves have some sort of justifications for their actions.”
“Did you bring me hear to kill me? You could have just done it at the shop.”
“Kill you?” he waved a dismissive hand. “I did not bring you here to execute you, my dear. If I wanted you dead I would have let Friedrich finish what he started. I brought you here because you wanted the painting. You do still want the painting, yes?”
She nodded but was still confused.
“That is why I have brought you here. It has been in my possession long enough.”
Adriana was stunned. Had she just heard correctly? This old man was about to give her what was most certainly a priceless piece of lost art? “I’m sorry. You’re just going to let me have the painting?”
He nodded. Before she could ask her next question, he answered it for her. “There is one catch, though.”
She didn’t like the sound of that.
“What do you know about the painting?” Foyt asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know much. Although, it would seem the people who know the most are dead now.”
He stood from his brown leather chair and walked over to one of the bookshelves. His fingers ran along a row about shoulder high and stopped on a particularly ordinary looking book. The white lettering on the olive green cover had faded through the years. He pulled back on the book and suddenly she heard a click. The bookcase next to him swung open slowly, revealing a secret passageway.
“Cliché, I know,” he said, smiling. “But a necessary precaution given the collection I inherited from my father.” He stepped into the hidden stairwell as light bulbs flickered on, illuminating the stone wall.
Adriana hesitantly followed the old man into the passage. The stairs continued down further and further, deep into the belly of the mansion’s foundation.
“My father purchased this home during the war,” he said. “It was a very lucrative time for our family. Unfortunately, most of our gains were ill gotten.” The last sentence was filled with regret. “Originally, it was built three hundred years ago, a fairly young home in German years. The family that lived here was of noble descent and had been close to kings and kaisers for centuries. They had fallen on hard times after the first Great War and the offer my father made to them was more than enough to help them recover.
“That was one of the few decent things my father did,” Foyt said with disdain.
They came to the bottom of the stairs in front of an old, steel door. An electronic keypad next to it seemed out of place in the ancient structure.
“So you don’t believe in what your father was doing?” she asked innocently.
He turned and gave her a quizzical look then entered a few digits on the keypad. “No,” he shook his head. “What they were doing was pure evil; all of it. I’m ashamed that my family had anything to do with the Nazis.”
The sound of a bolt moving inside the door interrupted their conversation for a moment. Then it slowly began to swing open. Fluorescent lights blinked to life inside the vault-like room beyond the threshold. Adriana peered into the space for a moment then followed her host inside. Once inside, she realized the enormity of what she was seeing.
The room, carved out of the mountain rock, was at least forty feet long and probably that wide. Each wall was decorated with various pieces of artwork. She didn’t recognize any of them but assumed they were part of the cache that had been amassed during the war. On the floor, various sculptures and busts lined the walls making the chamber feel like it was the exhibition room of an art museum. As she looked closer, her eyes grew wide upon seeing the signatures on some of the paintings.
She stopped and stared at a particular piece. “Yes,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “That is a Monet. We have three of his paintings. There are several renowned artists represented here. Each one of the works in this room is absolutely priceless.”
“Were all of these taken by the Nazis?” she asked.
He nodded, solemnly. “Yes. They were.” He stood still for a moment and looked thoughtful. “My father wanted to sell off all of these works to fund the rise of a new Reich. He believed that the Fuhrer would have wanted that. When he died, I swore to protect these works of art and never let any of them be sold to fund the Nazi’s evil.”