Dead drop, p.5
Dead Drop, page 5
‘Maria?’ I ask.
‘Yes, dear. You must be Liesl. Come in.’ She is clearly expecting me. ‘You’re right on time.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, following her through a narrow hallway and left into a cosy sitting room filled with pictures and shelves of photographs and ornaments. She looks well-travelled. Her gaze gives me a sense of unease as she looks me up and down.
‘Coffee?’ she asks.
‘Yes, thank you.’ I don’t ask her who sent me. I suspect she won’t say. She leaves the room and returns with a tray.
‘Have a seat,’ she says.
I hesitate then sit down opposite her. ‘Thank you.’
She pours the coffee, passes me a cup and pulls a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolding it gently. She passes me a beautiful old hand-drawn, three-dimensional map of the city. I recognise the Volksgarten, the Sigmund Freud Park by the Town Hall, the Burgtheater, and the Concert House, my favourite building, a grand presentation for some of the best symphony performances. The buildings stand out from the smaller shops, offices, spires and domes, nestled under the southern banks of the Danube canal. All the roads radiate out from the cathedral at the centre, its spire overshadowing all other buildings in the central radius, although I can also see the dome of St. Peter’s. My eyes are drawn to the star encompassing the church. I notice more stars, all hand drawn and scattered across the map like the first flutter of snowflakes landing across a path.
‘Do you like it?’ she asks, looking at me earnestly.
‘It’s beautiful. What do the stars represent?’ I hand her the map and point to the star by the Musikverein. She grins and, for a moment, she looks like a schoolgirl, her face lit up in anticipation. I wait.
‘I was hoping you’d ask,’ she says, her eyes glinting. ‘These were the places where we went together.’
‘We?’ I ask, knowing she’ll tell me more.
‘Yes. His name was Karl.’ She lowers her head. ‘He was a Nazi soldier. My parents wouldn’t allow it. I met him during the Anschluss. Look.’ She points to the star around Sigmund Freud Park. ‘He took me to the Christkindlemarkt. It was beautiful. I can still remember the calendar windows in the arches of the Rathaus, all lit up and full of promise … a promise of Christmas, of the future. I was naïve. The lights and the smell of roasted nuts and pretzels stay with me year after year. He proposed to me, got down on one knee by the accordion player who was playing something beautiful. The name escapes me but I still remember the notes. Karl took my hand and asked. It was that simple, the only complication was my parents, my family, and a dynasty beyond them.’
I take a sip of tea from an ornate china teacup. ‘How did you meet him?’
Her eyes look distant. There’s a flicker of sadness. ‘He came to visit my father. My father was a relation of the Empress Elizabeth.’
I set my cup down on the saucer, trying not to break it as it lands with a crash. ‘You’re related to the Hapsburgs?’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘but I was cast out of the family when Karl and I eloped.
‘That’s a bold move, Maria.’
‘He came one night to see Father about something, I was never told the details, and he looked at me as he left. We crossed paths in the entrance hall. When he came again the following week he handed me a note.’
‘What did it say?’
‘I read it later in the privacy of my room. He asked to meet me by the concert house. He knew I loved music because he’d asked about me.’
‘That would have been a risk for him,’ I say.
‘Yes, but he was interested in what I liked, not just in how I looked or my connections.’ Her features are still striking. It isn’t difficult to imagine a raven-haired beauty with the features of an Egyptian goddess - high cheekbones and dark, captivating eyes which still hold intrigue though now more cloudy. ‘I decided that I wanted a future with him and if it meant leaving my family behind, so be it. I have no regrets.’ She looks straight at me, her expression resolute and determined.
I am still puzzled as to why I’m here and who sent me, but her story is interesting. She hands me a note, gets up and clears away.
‘I’ll get going, then, I say,’ taking my cue. ‘Thank you. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’
She nods. I tuck the note into my pocket and leave, heading back towards the tram. The sun is stronger than when I arrived and Schönbrunner Schlosstrasse is filling up with tourists as they pour out of oversized coaches. I wish they’d limit the numbers. It feels claustrophobic and they’re in my way. I slip between them and down into the underground. I’m the only person who seems to know where they’re going and I need to get to the first lecture of the week. It doesn’t look good if you’re late. I’m never late, not for anything. A train arrives as I reach the lower step. I jump on and pull the note out of my pocket, then catch myself and put it back to read later. In private. Careless risks and mistakes are dangerous and I must stay vigilant. And careful. No one is that good, not even me, and there are eyes everywhere in this city, everywhere.
Chapter 7
I open the letter in the quiet of the apartment after my lecture on the Modernists. I didn’t take much of it in, but I scribbled some notes and I’ll read them later. I mostly doodled sketches of landscapes and sunflowers and watched the sun disappear and reappear until it vanished completely.
Liesl,
Go to the Dorotheum auction house tomorrow at noon. There will be an auction for the New Horse Guards on the first floor. Wait until it’s finished and make sure the cameras are off before you arrive. You know what to do. Wait for the next move.
I reach the Dorotheum auction house the next day well before noon as the sun begins to catch the edges of the buildings. I look up and the street is a forest of turrets and spires, the church, the buildings, all illuminated by its rays. The city is a gallery of shapes and sculptures waiting to be seen by those who will stop and look skywards towards the Gods to appreciate its beauty. I am biased, but I’ve seen Paris, Milan, Prague and Rome. Vienna on a warm day is unrivalled. I take a deep breath, and enter through the front doors. The red carpet and spiral stone staircase to the right give it an air of regal sophistication. With over seven hundred auctions a year, this is a busy place, and is one of the oldest and largest auction houses in the world. They have representatives in Munich, Dusseldorf, Milan, Rome, London, Prague and Brussels. I’m mindful of the links which may be useful in time. Founded by Emperor Franz Joseph in 1707, the Dorotheum is nestled within a city that is full of Hapsburg dynasty history. I imagine ladies and gentlemen from Viennese high society socialising and buying works of art. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall, listening to the hammer fall, watching the expression on their faces, feeling the adrenaline levels rising.
I scan the entrance. There are few people about. One of the guards surveys me, begins with my boots, then up to my knees and scans my black dress, settles on my eyes. He turns away but looks back as I walk towards the staircase. He won’t know I’ve noticed.
A rare stamp collection auction will begin at ten o’clock and an antique radio auction at two. The guard is still watching. I feel his gaze as I walk up the stairs and into the main room. Priceless works of art hang on the walls. Some are placed further up in the balcony of the gallery behind wrought iron railings. The whole space is reminiscent of a ballroom, much like the ones in the Hofburg Palace. I take the stairs up to the next level. There it is, a beauty of a painting, hanging solo on a red wall, with the following words inscribed on a plaque beneath:
New Horse Guards from St. James’ Park, Canaletto. 1753.
Expected to fetch ten million euros at auction.
I stop and place a hand on my chest, as though I’ve just seen a loved one in an open casket. It’s oil on panel. This will make it much more difficult to remove than a canvas, but I can see a way around it. Johann told me it was expected to fetch more. He is one of the museum guards but he also works with us. He’s useful. I know from other sources that the painting is worth at least twelve. It’s not as much as the Van Gogh I deposited in the library last week, but enough for the buyer to commission its removal. I don’t like to use the word theft. It’s distasteful. I transfer pieces to homes of those who will appreciate them. To some, an art collection is not so much about the money as it is an appreciation of the quality of the artist’s work. I never know who the recipients are and I treat each painting with care. Every minute of the operation gives me a thrill I’ve yet to find anywhere else.
I step closer to the painting and I see the Horse Guards and Downing Street, notice the rug being aired in the street, see the swirls left behind from a brush stroke. It’s a work of genius. Canaletto only painted forty pieces during his ten years in London, making this item a rare treasure. His scenes of Venice are more prolific, but these were uniquely commissioned by aristocratic families for a specific purpose. My job is to lift this for a future owner.
I scan the room for cameras and guards. The power’s out in this room. My technical partner, Fritz, has cut the camera and distracted the guard while I’m on this floor. I remove the painting from the wall, cut it from the frame, pull out the copy from my bag, unroll the canvas and clamp it in place. From a distance, it’s difficult for the untrained eye to tell the difference between panel and canvas.
Having studied their movements for months, I have exactly two minutes to move the panel before a guard returns. They think I’m a keen buyer, and why would I be anything else? The room is quiet. I slide the painting down behind a Victorian writing bureau with dark wood panelling, large enough to conceal it for now. I take a deep breath and survey the copy on the wall as a couple wanders into the room. If anybody had walked in during the replacement, it would have looked like maintenance work, too obvious to be a theft. When I worked in Peek and Cloppenburg as a student, during the security training, we were shown a customer loading up a basket with designer Boss and Armani suits, lingering over each section, then walking out through the front doors without paying. The staff, we were told, didn’t look twice, thinking the man was a window dresser. The art of a good removal is to either do it swiftly in that lucky moment when no one is around, or to be insanely obvious and appear nonchalant enough for no one to suspect that you are, in fact, a removal artist. A guard would have been a different matter, but I’ve calculated enough time.
Johann walks back into the room. ‘Stunning detail, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm? Yes. It’s one of my favourites.’
‘You’ve seen the others?’ he says.
‘Yes, of course, although most of the best pieces are in private collections.’
He raises his eyebrows. I walk across the room to look at the rest of the antique furniture on display, draw a breath, and wait for another couple to leave the room. Johann has followed me and I feel the lightness of his breath across the back of my neck.
‘A drink? Thursday evening?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I turn to face him. ‘Why not? How about the bar on the river?’
‘I’ll meet you at half seven. They do food. Perhaps we can book a table.’
‘Good,’ I say, and I turn around, half expecting Hans to enter the gallery room.
Johann walks through into the next room, follows the couple, then stands behind them and nods in the direction of the bureau. I wait again until the room is quiet. I have four minutes before the next guard will walk in and Johann has one exit covered. By then, the job will be done, this stage of it, at least. There’s an elderly man who has walked a few circuits. He seems fascinated by the still life oils on the opposite wall. They’re not to my taste, but he is savouring each one. His posture is bent. I imagine years of work have curved his spine, the weight of a long life shrinking him to this size. He has a kind face and half-moon glasses. He’s alone and I wonder if he has a partner. My family has been absent for so long that I’m defined only by art, my jobs, and by a need to collect things. And to appreciate beauty.
Johann is standing, motionless, by the archway through to the next room. The hunched man turns and walks away. There is no one else in sight, until a school group arrives. I now have exactly two and a half minutes. An extra guard has entered the room, possibly to watch the school party. I wait for the next break. Children are a strange breed, bouncing and giggling, flicking things at one another, ignoring rules. I envy their freedom. You should grow out of this at some point, but some never do.
I need to get the painting out from behind the bureau. I turn towards the exit and wait. The arches above me frame the edges of each room, inviting visitors into a new collection. These rooms are the kind that make you feel scruffy, uninvited, an intruder. The sense of time and of history seeps through the corridors until you’re drawn deeper into the building, a palace of treasures. I shudder when I think of my next move but know I can’t leave until I’ve moved the painting. The room is empty. I walk back to the bureau, checking each entrance again. Johann goes back into the room behind me and watches in silence. I know my time is now a fraction longer, from the timing of the last guard to exit the room. I have five minutes. I’m relying on the cameras remaining dead. I pull out a small electric screwdriver, my most useful tool. It’s silent. I move towards the air ventilation system, unscrew the front panel and leave it in place. The Canaletto painting is four paces away. I pull the painting out from behind the bureau, remove the front panel of the shaft and slide the painting inside. I know it’s an adequate size. I check everything first. It rests against one wall. I notice an envelope taped inside. I assume it’s for me and peel it away, slip it into my inside pocket to read later. I replace the front panel and screw it back into place. This manoeuvre has taken four minutes. I move towards a gold statue, taking care not to rush out. I leave just before the next guard arrives. I walk down the staircase, admiring the surrounding walls and exhibits and will be out of the building before the antique radio auction begins, at which point, the place will be teaming with potential buyers. The new canvas painting will not be noticed by a soul. I sense someone close behind, and turn, but the staircase is empty. I reach the front entrance and leave the building.
Chapter 8
Johann has left the window ajar on the first floor by the air ventilation shaft where the Canaletto is located. I arrive with Johann and Fritz. Fritz rewired the system as I left the building. I wonder whether Fritz and Johann somehow know each other, but I’m not sure why this thought enters my mind. The road is silent. The buildings stand tall against the darkness of the evening. We are alone. The van, a charcoal grey, should not stand out. We leave it around the corner and take a hold-all with a length of rope, a cloth sheet and a screwdriver.
We reach the part of the wall below the open window, and Fritz links the hook to the rope. He throws it up and it latches to the window frame. I’m lighter and more agile, so I climb up first. Fritz follows. Johann stays on the ground. This way, if we’re caught in the building he can’t be linked to the crime. My hands are unusually clammy, making it difficult to grip the rope. I pull one hand up and over the other until I reach the window. I manage to pull myself up towards the frame and, with a hard tug, I’m in. Fritz has almost reached the window. His mop of red hair is tucked safely under a black beanie. Johann surveys the street for signs of life. My heart quickens and gathers pace like a horse readying itself for the beginning of the race, waiting for a gunshot.
I reach down over the window ledge to grab Fritz’s hand and haul him up into the building. After a few more tugs with both hands, he lands next to me. He shakes out his top and stands up. I should unscrew the vent, but he takes the bag, reaches down, unzips it and pulls out the screwdriver. He frees the panel across the ventilation shaft and pulls out the panel painting and I wonder who would have done the job faster. I think he may have been quicker than me by a few seconds, but I decide not to say anything.
I take a step towards the window, signal to Johann that we have removed the painting, and move away out of sight as a couple approaches. He asks them the time. I pulled the rope up and closed the window as we entered the gallery. I can’t afford to make any careless moves. I remember the words in Albert’s last note and my anxiety rises. The voices fade and the footsteps disappear. I press my face against the window, wait until I can see that they have gone, then open it. Fritz has tied the rope around the painting with the death grip of a snake, but it’s not yet safe to lower it down to Johann. My pulse is still higher than it should be and we hear a car approach at street level. Lights fill the room and vanish, snatching away the last shadow by the pillar on the other side of the room. We hold our breath. Fritz is the first to open the window. We lift the painting carefully and push it out sideways. With a manoeuvre like this, there is always a risk of damage, but Fritz has wrapped it in cloth before tying the rope. We slide it down the outside wall until it reaches Johann on the pavement. He unties it and goes straight to the van. I look at Fritz to calm my nerves but there’s still the descent. I go first, gripping the rope tightly on the way down to the street. Fritz wastes no time and is immediately above me. As his feet hit the pavement, I swing the rope out to dislodge the hook but it appears to be wedged in the window. Fritz grabs it from my fingers and yanks it hard. This time, it loosens and drops to the ground a few feet from where we are standing. He has pulled the window shut before his descent. Fritz will lock it properly early tomorrow morning and rewire the cameras. It will look as though the alarms have been turned off ready for opening.
I gather up the rope and we climb into the van. The moon outlines Johann’s silhouette in the front seat. I breathe a sigh as we pull away into the darkness. The street lights are off at this time of night. A police car closes in behind us and I hold my breath. Neither Fritz or Johann move. It pulls out, passes and overtakes us. We avoid the gaze of the officers and I pray they’ll continue on through the street. I don’t usually pray outside the walls of the cathedral.
