Page 57 of The Devil Wears Orange
A hint of a smile jumps to Rashid’s face. “Come now, we both know about my vice.”
“That I do, my friend.” Noam laughs, but soon his laughter turns into a harsh cough. His man pours a glass of water, but Noam waves him away and drinks his scotch instead. “Leave us alone,” he orders, and the man vacates the room.
Relief consumes Rashid as he never has become accustomed to other people’s armed men.
Quietness engulfs the room. Finally, Noam says, “I trust the money transfer went smoothly?”
“Yes,” says Rashid, putting the lateness of the payment behind him. Noam has never been prompt, but two months late is unusual.
“Unlike the problem you’ve encountered with oneMistress?” Noam asks with a raised eyebrow.
Rashid keeps his composure, but sucks in a slow breath, waiting for what’s next.
“Yes, Rashid, I know about your deal with Levan. It should come as no surprise that if you work on a deal without my protection, it will fall apart. Levan lives by a different set of dangerous rules, not the kind you’re used to. Unfortunately, his kind is all too common for me, and so I offer you my services. Say the word, and I will take care of him for you.”
Noam has earned a reputation for dealing with problems in a most horrific way, and accepting his help would be signing Levan’s death warrant and make Rashid indebted to him. “He’s my mess to clean up.”
“Very well.” After a pause, Noam says. “You must be wondering why I asked you here. There is a family matter I need help with. My mother’s father was a German shopkeeper in the 1930s. He did well, not too prosperous, but life was fun for my mother. She and her brother enjoyed skiing and school and music, all provided by that little shop. But then…” Noam stareshard into his glass and swigs. “Like many Jewish families, they suffered greatly. Please, will you retrieve something from the top drawer of that corner chest?”
Rashid pulls open a drawer and, grabbing a folder tucked inside, holds it out to Noam.
Noam lifts his hand in protest. “No, that is for you.”
Rashid carries it back to his chair and flips it open to the first page. It’s all in German, but Rashid can identify an address, a name, and a birthdate written alongside a photo of a man taken from the 1940s.
“For too many years now, I have been searching for that man: Armin Holger.”
Rashid pulls out another photograph of a man taken about two decades earlier and compares it to the older picture. The eyes are the same.
“We believe he made his way to Luxembourg after World War II and changed his name to Andrew Banning to hide his identity as the youngest, mid-level ranking officer of the Third Reich. Holger terrorized people in the Jewish Ghetto. Lives were lost, and many families had valuable items stolen – gold, silver, jewels – and art.”
At this, Rashid looks up from his folder, his interest piqued. “Go on,” he says.
“So much art was stolen from many families. The Swiss authorities have recovered some, others were illegally sold, and the families are fighting to get back what is rightfully theirs. But not all the works have been recovered.”
Rashid continues to flip through the pages in the folder. He doesn’t need to read the German detail written alongside the photos to understand what was stolen. One portrait captures his attention, and he scans to the painter’s name in the caption below: Karl Sonnenberg. The painting is a self-portrait of thepost-impressionist artist, and to have that in his possession, even briefly, fills Rashid with desire.
“Karl Sonnenberg was my great uncle, and that portrait was to remain in my family.”
“Are you certain this Holger is now Andrew Banning?”
“Quite certain. He was a self-made multimillionaire.”
Rashid’s eyebrows arch up. “Was?”
“He’s deceased now.”
Rashid closes the folder on his lap, unsure about the point of this exercise.
“He is survived by his son. The father made his money in steel, but eventually, the family business turned to banking through his son. The son now holds everything,” Noam continues.
Understanding now, Rashid reopens the folder, searches through images of Andrew Banning, and flips through many surveillance photos of a man that must be the son. He holds the photo up in Noam’s direction.
“The son, Hector,” Noam confirms. “He’s highly protected and surrounds himself with those he trusts. It is difficult to break the circle, but not so difficult to become part of the circle. You see, he is infatuated with titles – not the Italian or Greek titles. They mean nothing these days. But something like the British Monarchy, or Monaco, or Dubai. He holds a romantic notion about the whole thing. And I’ve discovered his one weakness.”
“Which is?”
“His love for his wife. Nasty business this thing called love. It’ll do us all in.”
