Page 56 of Beehive

Unfortunately, Will’s utter lack of Russian language skills complicated our carefully crafted plan. For the few German locals in attendance, language was no barrier. Unfortunately, the majority present, especially those who might be targets for our operation, were Russian speakers.

Will was virtually helpless.

As the evening wore on, Antonov finally excused himself to speak with a colleague.

“Do not wander far,” he said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Will replied.

The moment Antonov disappeared into the crowd, I leaned closer to Will and murmured, “Our friends from the goldfish bowl are here.”

Will didn’t glance around but shifted slightly. “Where?”

“By the window. Beige suits. They haven’t taken their eyes off us all night. I think Boris might have a crush on you.”

“Thanks for that . . . while I was drinking.” Will had to dab his chin with a cocktail napkin. “And here I thought they were simply admirers of fine art.”

It was painful to admit, but the Soviets had outdone themselves with both the renovation of the museum and the art on display. I pretended to be the Neandertal, uneducated in the ways of art and culture, but no living du Pont was truly ignorant of the world’s aesthetic intricacies. In fact, we were each schooled in such things from a very early age. As Will’s eyes widened appreciatively with each new painting or piece we passed, I catalogued the names of artists I remembered from my early studies.

The collection was astounding. How much of it was original to the museum? How much was added after beingliberatedfrom unfortunate owners? Those questions made my heart sick.

We moved through the gallery, pausing at each display just long enough to seem genuinely interested. Pieces looted from Nazi collections were prominently displayed, their placards making no mention of their provenance or the fate of their original owners, though their subject matter often belied the historical ownership.

As we rounded a corner and entered a side gallery, a glass case positioned in the center of the cozy space caught my attention. It was impossible to ignore the case. While there were many paintings of pastoral scenes covering the walls, the case and its inhabitant were the lone display positioned in the center of the room. Museum staff had even positioned a spotlight to shine directly on the piece from the ceiling.

Beneath the glass sat a statue standing no taller than a foot. The piece was carved from a rich, dark wood, appearing a century, possibly several centuries, old. As we’d seen many timesover the past few days, the statue depicted a rabbi seated in a stiff chair that reminded me of a medieval throne. A book lay splayed across his lap.

Unlike the works we had seen in the depos we’d visited, the details of this carving were exquisite. The lines of the rabbi’s beard, the folds of his robe, the intensity of his gaze as he appeared to read—everything about the piece was artfully and expertly done.

It had been crafted by a true master.

The placard affixed to the podium on which it rested read:

“The Keeper of Wisdom. Artist Unknown.”

“No fucking way,” Will exclaimed in an urgent whisper.

I hadn’t really been paying attention, but Will’s sudden outburst made me turn.

His mouth hung open.

I followed his gaze, still not registering anything interesting. “Rescued, or confiscated?”

“Look closer,” Will said, forcing my eyes up to the aged man.

Something pulled at the corners of my mind. The longer I looked, the more it resonated with something deep within me. There was a gravity to it, a sense that it had witnessed more than its slight frame should be able to bear.

“It’s remarkable,” I said, my voice low.

“You could say that.” Will’s brow scrunched, and a look I recognized as annoyance entered his eyes. “The name is even more remarkable.”

I glanced down at the plaque.

A lightbulb flared in my mind.

“Holy shit,” I said loudly enough to turn a few nearby heads.

“Quiet,” Will chided. “Do you think this is—”

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