Page 64 of The Devil Wears Orange
Rashid starts a slideshow, and a 1930s photo of a very rigid-looking man, with a large mustache obscuring his mouth, splashes on the screen. It’s the same image we had pulled from the safe. Next up is a painting.
“Some of his work was smuggled out of Germany by his friends,” continues Rashid.
“Why smuggled?” I ask.
“He was Jewish,” Jack answers. “They smuggled works of art before the Nazis got their hands on them.”
“To destroy them?”
“They wouldn’t destroy these. Sonnenberg’s paintings were too valuable, but they did burn lesser-known works of art and many books. The destruction of the Jewish culture began in 1930s Germany before the war,” Jack says, and it sounds like he’s giving a lecture. “At first, paintings weren’t physically stolen from the walls of Jewish homes. Authorities stripped Jewish art dealers of their professional accreditation, forcing them to sell their gallery’s assets in a climate when it would be sold for a bargain. Until recently, these forced sales weren’t viewed as thefts at all, even though they were committed under Nazi coercion.”
Rashid forwards through to other paintings and says, “The first two paintings have already been retrieved. They were sold on the black market several years ago when Interpol intercepted, and they now are on display at the Guggenheim in New York with the blessing of the family. These next paintings have never been found,” Rashid continues as more paintings fly by on the screen in front of us.
“It’s like finding a needle in a haystack, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Depends. Some try to sell on the black market, like the Prince mentioned, and are discovered. Others turn up in an attic by the family members of the deceased. It’s rare, but you never know when or where these will be retrieved.”
“If ever,” says Rashid. “Sometimes intelligence is received that can lead to the recovery of works of art.” He flips to another painting, this time a self-portrait of the artist himself.
“Oh my God,” Jack stands, moves in front of the slide; his silhouette distorts the portrait. “This? You’re saying you’ve found this?”
I look from the shock on Jack’s face to delight in Rashid’s. “What is it?”
“This self-portrait is the only one in existence. It disappeared.”
“Stolen by the Nazis,” Rashid adds. “Sonnenberg was sent to a concentration camp where he died. His family has been trying desperately to retrieve his artwork ever since.” Rashid steps forward, the light from the projector reflects off his face. He turns to the next photograph – a recent photo of a heavy-set man emerging from a limo and surrounded by personal bodyguards. The following picture has the same man exiting a European bank.
“This is Hector Banning, a very wealthy businessman in Luxembourg. He owns several high-profile businesses – shipping, banking, portfolio management.”
The next set of images show Hector shaking the hands of various prominent European political figures.
“He’s well connected, I see,” I say. “Am I the only one not following where this is leading?”
“Seems our Prince hasn’t finished yet, but I’m sure it will lead to something fascinating,” Jack says.
“Oh, it will fascinate you, Professor. I believe he has the Sonnenberg self-portrait among other works of art. Krushek. Malone. He keeps a large cache of stolen art hidden in his private quarters. My source tells me he now holds the largest private collection of stolen work.”
Jack arches his brows. “Source?”
Rashid remains silent.
“Is he being watched by Interpol?” asks Jack.
“Fortunately for us, no. As Charlotte noted, he’s well-connected and keeps his distance, so no one suspects him.”
“Like someone we know,” I interject, eyes on Rashid.
“Yes, what does your cache of stolen art look like?” Jack asks.
“Let’s concentrate on Banning, shall we?” says Rashid.
“You mentioned it’s fortunate for us that Interpol isn’t aware of Banning. Why is that?” says Jack.
“It will be easier for us to steal the paintings back, of course.”
I laugh at Jack’s incredulous expression. “Don’t look so worried, Jack. He’s only kidding.”
With an intense stare aimed at Rashid, Jack says, “I’m afraid he’s not, Charlotte.”
