“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What is going on here? Who was that woman? Who are you? What is all this about?”
Adriana stared at the road ahead. The early afternoon sun was hidden behind soupy gray clouds. “My name is Adriana Villa. You won’t find any information about me, so don’t think you can get on your phone and send me a friend request. I keep all of that very secretive. The only thing you can know about me is my name. That other woman who was going to kill you is a thief. She usually steals things that have a historical value. She is very dangerous. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I suppose I should thank you for that. But if it is all the same to you, I would like to get out of the car now.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Besides, the fact that you’re alive could change at any moment.”
His face turned sour at the comment.
“Just being honest,” she said. “And I’m not letting you out of the car. I may need your help.”
He shook off the macabre insinuation about his death and went back to the topic. “My help? With what? And what did the other woman want with the Rubens painting? She seemed hell bent on finding it.”
“So am I.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “I don’t understand. You’re trying to find The Annunciation too?”
“That’s right. And before you ask, I can’t tell you exactly why I’m looking for it. Just know that I won’t let anything get in my way.”
He processed her comment and then spoke again, this time with a heavy tone of derision. “So you’re just a common thief like her?” He crossed his arms and glared at the road.
“No. I’m not like her. She steals for profit. I specialize in finding lost pieces of art and returning them to the rightful owners. Or a government if the case requires.”
He let out a snort. “For a hefty reward, I’m sure.”
“Occasionally, I’m offered financial compensation for my efforts. But I don’t do it for the money.” She turned toward him and peered into his heart. “I’m independently wealthy.”
The statement didn’t deter his scrutiny. “So what, you are… how do they say in America… some kind of action junkie?”
“Not exactly.”
He pondered the situation in silence for a few seconds. Off in the distance, a gray stone castle’s parapets towered over a lush green hillside and the tiled roofs of a village below. “So you’re telling me you’re just some kind of saint who goes around finding stolen paintings and taking them back to their owners for no fee? Pfft.”
She let him stew for a moment before responding. When she did, her tone was as even as a billiard table. “First of all, I’m originally from Madrid.” The way she said the word Madrid belied her true city of origin. “So I’m only American in that I own a few properties there. I also have dual citizenship.” He seemed surprised by the answer. “Second, I am no saint. But I feel very strongly about art and history. It is wrong that evil people took those great works from humanity, never to return them. I do not need a day job because, as I mentioned before, I have money. Years ago, I felt called to do this.”
Koenig was still skeptical. “How many works of art have you recovered so far?”
“Intact? Seventeen. Not counting the one from last week.”
His face scrunched into a look of disbelief. “Seventeen? Wait, what did you find last week?” Koenig’s demeanor rapidly turned to that of a seven-year-old on Christmas morning.
She kept silent for a few seconds. “I’m not allowed to say.”
“What?” He threw up his hands. “You can tell me nothing about it?”
“I can tell you that the painting was lost. I recovered it, but it was taken from me. I’m not happy about it.” She didn’t like lying and frankly didn’t feel she was good at it, but for the time being, Adriana didn’t know how much she should tell the professor.
He let out a sigh. “Seventeen works of art. Incredible.” He looked at her again. “Any I might have heard of?”
She smiled. “I’m certain a man with your knowledge of the art world has probably heard of them all.”
“Tell me. Just tell me one.”
Adriana shook her head, still smiling. “Impatient one, aren’t you?”
“My ex-wife used to say the same thing.”
“Yes, I read about your divorce when I was studying up on you.”
His mouth was agape. “You studied me?”
“Herr Koenig, I suggest you relax for a while. It would appear that the other woman used the same methods I did to find you. Perhaps in the future, you might consider keeping a few things under wraps. Maybe use a pen name when you publish something.”
He shook his head. “In the world of higher education, publication is necessary. We do not have the luxury of anonymity. Our work is heavily scrutinized all over the world. It lends credibility to our name and our jobs.”
“And it brings the university money.”
He shrugged. “Some of which they use to pay me. It’s an endless cycle but a necessary one.” Koenig’s eyes narrowed. When he spoke, he stared straight ahead. “You are not going to get away from this conversation. And if you think I believed your lie earlier about the painting being lost, I don’t.”
How did he know? Was it that obvious?
Before she could defend herself, he spoke up again. “I don’t know what you are up to, but I know a lie in any language. I’m also a student of people. Your body language, the way your voice trembled ever so slightly when you spoke, it gave away the truth. So, if you want me to help you with whatever it is you are doing, I suggest you speak honestly with me.”
Adriana thought about it for a moment. She wasn’t sure if she’d need his help or not. They were headed to a town she knew nothing about to find a man she knew little about. At the very least, Koenig could probably direct her to Graupe’s grave. That might save some time. And time was something she desperately needed to save. She drew in a deep breath and told him everything, right down to the name of the other woman who nearly killed him.
The story took a minute to sink in. Koenig leaned back and slouched a little in his seat. “That is quite a tale.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I believe you. That story is far too intricate to be made up. And I’ve seen the evidence myself when that other woman, Allyson, took me hostage. They really took your father?”
“As far as I know. He was gone when I arrived at our safe house.”
Koenig shook his head again and put his hand to his temple. “I just can’t imagine living that way. I guess you must be pretty good in a fight.”
“I can hold my own.”
“Hmm. I’m sure. I suppose I am not allowed to ask where you received your training.”
She weaved around a Mercedes sedan and merged back into the right lane. “I started when I was very young. My father believed I needed to know how to defend myself. Mother protested. He let me do it anyway. Besides, I thought it was fun. The first time I fired a gun, I was seven years old. And by then I was already very advanced in hand-to-hand combat, at least for my age.”
“I’d still like to know why we are going to Baden-Baden. That isn’t exactly a short trip, and I have classes to teach tomorrow.”
“You have an assistant?”
“Of course,” he shrugged.
“Better call them and make arrangements then.” He started to protest, but she cut him off. “Professor, that sheet you brought with you from the archives, there’s a clue on there that tells us exactly how to find the person Graupe sold the painting to.”
He frowned and his eyebrows stitched together. “What are you talking about? I’ve looked at that document dozens of times. I never noticed any clue.”