Page 28 of Maximus

She panted and breathlessly laughed. “You’ve already driven me over the edge of sanity.”

“Tonight was supposed to be our night together.” He dropped his forehead to hers as he spoke.

She nodded a bit. “It still can be.”

“I’m not pressuring you.” He pulled her in for a hug. “I won’t ever do that. Take your time, and I’ll respect any answer you give me. You’re in control of our relationship. You’re the only one who can move us to the next level.”

She looked up at him. Not that he could see her in the almost complete darkness, but he could feel her movements. “Thank you.”

He sighed. “You never have to thank me for being a decent human.”

She laughed. “When you aren’t used to dealing with decent humans, having that privilege is worthy of gratitude. Maybe we should get the scale and find out what we’re dealing with?”

He groaned and dropped his hands to her hips. “I’ve never been one to deviate from the job … for any reason. You’re my exception.”

She reached over, and he heard her patting the wall. The lights flickered on, and she looked up at him. “I like being your exception.” She glanced at the clock. “We have two hours before the delivery is due from Abrasha’s residence.”

“Then we should go find out what is in those frames.” He grabbed the handle of the wheeled platform where she weighed the created artwork and followed her back to the vault. They weighed the frame, and he sent the pictures and dimensions to Con via his computer.

She frowned. “How can you get internet in here?” She lifted her hands and looked around her.

“I don’t, but that email will be sent as soon as we leave. Economy of actions.” He wouldn’t tell her his ugly computersystem could bore through the thickest bunker known to man. He’d developed the capability for POTUS. Guardian was also the recipient of the system due to his loyalties. The mountain they were operating under didn’t have cable access; it didn’t need it. They were on solar energy provided by Doctor Jillian Marshall and an untraceable internet system that worked from under a mile of granite.

“Oh,” Elena said. “Well, are you ready?”

“Let’s do it.” He picked up the switchblade he’d left in the storage room and depressed the indentation with the tip. The area sunk in, and the seam where the paint was slightly different popped open.

“A canvas,” she whispered, and he nodded as he reached for the material. “No, don’t touch it with your hands. Look how old it is. Let me get some gloves to protect the fabric from the oils on our hands.”

He cocked his head to the left. Her brain was exceptional, and he loved how she was occasionally faster than he was in her area of expertise. He watched her jog out of the room before turning his attention to the canvas rolled loosely and placed in the padded compartment in the frame. If the other frames also had a painting … why smuggle art into Russia? Unless …

Elena came back in, handed him a set of gloves, and put her gloves on. She also placed a felt padded board on the floor. “Use this to unroll the canvas on, and please be careful.” Her tone was hushed, and he could tell she wanted to be the one to unfurl the painting.

“You do it,” he said, and she glanced up at him.

“Really?”

“You’re trained in this.”

“Okay.” She licked her lips and used her fingertips to touch the very edges of the canvas. She carefully slid the painting out ofthe container and placed it on the felt. Carefully she loosened the roll. “Oh, God.” Her hands shook. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a Chagall.” He recognized the signature on the work but not the painting itself.

“I don’t recognize the painting.” She leaned back and looked at him. “There were so many paintings stolen during World War II. We’ll have to search the provenance of this painting.”

“That’s logical. If these are stolen artworks, he’d keep them here and wouldn’t let you see them. You’d report them once you figured out the provenance.”

“I would. Max, some paintings have been rolled in these frames for over two or three years. The damage it could be doing is insane. We have to get them all out.” She stared at the other frames.

“No.” He shook his head. “We have evidence of what these are, and he’ll pay for these crimes, too. We’ll get them out in two weeks. Any damage that occurs in that time will be minimal, if at all, right?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Can you shut that frame?”

He inspected the mechanism and pushed the flap down. It fit seamlessly, and there was no determinable damage. “It doesn’t even look like it’s been opened.”

She put her hand on his chest and pleaded, “We can retrieve all the paintings. I’m not an expert at restoration. These canvases must be stretched carefully and reattached to a frame in the proper humidity and under careful supervision. Max, these paintings arehistoryand could have been stolen almost a hundred years ago. Those families deserve closure, they deserve to know that the paintings still exist and have a say as to what happens to them.” She put her hand on his arm. “Please, can you get these out of Russia and to someone who can care for them properly? Someone who will return them to the people they were stolen from?”

In his mind, the risks of moving the paintings and drawing attention to what Guardian was doing in Russia weighed against the historical and sentimental value of the paintings. He could get them out if Guardian were willing to save them. “If we can determine they were stolen, I can contact my agency for help.”

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