Ernest Dempsey
The Syndicate
1
Adriana’s phone danced on the glossy wooden surface of the hotel room nightstand. She’d been watching the device all afternoon, waiting impatiently for it to ring. Each time she received a text message, an email, or a random call (none of which arrived very often) she leaned over and checked to see if it was the mysterious Belgian.
Each time, she’d been disappointed. Not now.
She knew it was him from the blocked caller ID on the screen. No one else she knew used that feature. More likely, they didn’t know how.
Adriana hit the green button and answered. “I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
“On pins and needles, I’m sure.” His answer was as smooth as it was cruel.
It was week three of her father’s captivity. And this man was the one responsible. She imagined the worst: Her father, Diego, sitting in a cold, damp basement somewhere with barely anything to eat and nothing but a bucket to use when necessary. The thoughts made her cringe, and she hoped that the sinister man on the other end of the line would have the common decency to treat his prisoner better than that. Doubtful, but hope was all she could do for the time being.
Nearly three weeks ago, the man on the phone had sent his goons to a place Adriana and her father, Diego Villa, used as a safe house. Being situated in Beirut lent itself to a particular set of problems on its own, but it also gave a certain level of security since most people tried to avoid the seemingly ever-conflicted city. The Belgian, however, was not deterred.
The big question in Adriana’s mind was how the man had been able to find their hideout. Her father was always so careful, as was she, to make sure their identities, as well as their whereabouts, were kept off the radar.
Diego had made enemies all over the world, though. Working for government agencies had that effect. If one were to hold a strong enough grudge, he might use any means necessary to track him down and offer his location to the highest bidder.
The theory made sense. But that’s all it was: a theory. And how the Belgian had found her father didn’t matter at this point. She would deal with whoever that snitch was later. Right now, she had to get her father back. As soon as she did, next on her to-do list was eliminating the Belgian.
“Why don’t you just tell me the last painting you’re looking for so we can get this over with and move on with our lives.”
Adriana truly did want to be done with the whole charade. She was exhausted and had traipsed across most of the globe while searching for the paintings this villain wanted for his collection. But there was one thing she had to do before she could move on, and that was ending his life.
Men like him, whoever he was, didn’t go to such lengths and take such extraordinary measures to simply let loose ends up and walk away. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that the moment she delivered the final painting, Adriana and her father would be executed. It was highly unlikely the Belgian would let them go free.
“You sound a little testy. I hope the rigors of these little missions haven’t proved to be too difficult for you.”
She wanted to crawl through the phone and punch him in the face. Teleportation wasn’t yet an option. “You have both your paintings, don’t you?”
“Yes, and I am absolutely delighted with your efforts so far. I have to say, I never really doubted your talent. I’ve been watching you for a long time and been an admirer of your work. What you did in central Germany was most impressive.”
How did he know about that? She’d kept that whole adventure a closely guarded secret. She couldn’t help but wonder how long the man had actually been watching her from afar. He obviously knew about her unusual personal mission. Adriana didn’t want to give the appearance that his comment bothered her.
Her patience with the man had reached the frayed end of thread it had been holding onto. “And if you don’t mind, I would prefer to go ahead and get your third painting so I can get my father back. Please, what is it you want?”
“Very well. I can see you’re in a hurry.”
“I’m on your time line. You want to give me an extension?”
His lips flapped a short laugh through the line. “Unfortunately, no. That is out of my hands.”
That statement lent some credibility to the whole Syndicate story Hummels told her.
He went on. “Very well. During World War II, a painting by one of the greatest Old Masters of all time went missing. It was taken to Paris by the Nazis, along with over three hundred other works of art. They were to become features in Hitler’s personal museum.”
“That sounds a little strange.”
He interrupted his story to ask, “And why is that?”
“Typically, Hitler wasn’t a huge fan of some of the bigger names in the art world. He preferred ones that pointed more to German superiority. He had the same kind of feelings toward music, especially music that was created by minorities.”
“That is partially true, yes. He did prefer German works of art, but Hitler also knew the value of great pieces. Many of the pieces he had brought to Paris would be considered priceless today. Out of all of them, only 160 have been recovered. The painting I need you to find is one of that missing lot.”
She didn’t need him to add that last piece. It was overstating the obvious. She chose to let it go instead of derailing him again. He was giving her what she needed. And so far, he’d mentioned nothing about her covert alliance with Allyson Webster, the other woman brought in to compete for the paintings with Adriana.
“The missing paintings from the Paris museum have been well documented. Some of them are pretty high profile. Treasure hunters from all over the world have spent their lives — and some of them, their fortunes — trying to find those paintings. What makes you think I’ll be able to succeed where they failed?”
“Because you are connected in places they are not. Turn over the stones no one else will touch, and you will find the clues you need.”
The way he said it only confirmed her suspicions about the Belgian knowing where the art was. He just wants me to go get it for him like some sort of errand girl.
“I have to admit I’m starting to think you already know where all these paintings are.”
“Ah. And you think I only need you to recover them for me?”
She shrugged and switched the phone over to her other ear, wishing she had her hands-free headphones and mic. “Don’t you?”
“While it may seem I am privy to much information, and I am, there are key elements to the puzzles that I do not possess. That, Ms. Villa, is why you are in my service.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him, but right now that didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered. It drove her, constantly lurking in the back of her mind. “What is the painting?”
“Very well,” he sighed. “It is a piece by Rembrandt. It is known simply as An Angel with Titus’ Features.”
No big deal. Just find a Rembrandt that’s been missing for the better part of a century.
“Are you serious? A Rembrandt? Keeping your ambitions a bit low, aren’t you?”
The sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “It was one of the pieces that was closest to the artist. While Rembrandt painted many portraits of his son, Titus, this is the only one we know of where he took his son’s facial features and applied them to another image. That makes it extremely unique.”
“And desirable for a private, illegal collection.”
He ignored her comment describing his collection. “Precisely.”
“And all I have to do is figure out where this thing is, bring it to you, and you’ll let us go.”