The Chrysalis (22 page)

“I don't have them,” Mara answered truthfully; they were in a temporary storage locker at the airport.

Michael pulled his fingers from hers and clutched her wrist instead. “What do you mean you don't have them?” The sudden sharpness in his voice revealed how much of an act it had been for him to play the caring, decent Michael.

“They're in a safe-deposit box.” She tried to wrench her arm free, but his grip tightened.

“Then let's go get them.” He dragged her toward the door. Her arm began to bruise under the pressure of his fingers.

“Just let me get my bag. It has the key in it.”

“All right,” he conceded.

As Mara bent down to pick up her bag, Michael let go of her arm for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, she ran out the door. She sprinted toward the elevator, pressing the Down button over and over in an attempt to speed its arrival. A door slammed. Without turning around to confirm what she already knew, she ran to the stairwell. Flying down the ten flights, Mara reached the lobby just seconds before Michael got off the elevator. She bolted through the lobby, nearly running over several of her neighbors, and heard Michael yell her name.

She hurled herself in front of the first available cab, opened the car door, and was climbing in when Michael grabbed her. With one leg already in the cab, she struggled to escape from him and get into the cab fully. “Start driving!” she ordered the cabbie.

Without even turning around, he answered in a thick accent, “I can't get involved in this, miss. Sorry. Please get out of the cab.”

“Please,” she begged, as she fought to pry Michael's hand off her arm. “Please. He's my ex-husband, and he's trying to hurt me.”

The cabbie turned around to witness Michael trying to drag her out of the car. “Okay, miss, okay. We'll go.”

With the door open and Michael grasping on to her arm, the cab started to peel away. Michael ran alongside the cab, still gripping her, until it picked up speed. Once his clutch slackened and he dropped off, Mara slammed the door shut. She did not even dare to turn back.

“Where are we going, miss?” the cabbie asked, after Mara thanked him over and over.

Mara started to give him Sophia's address but then stopped herself. Not only would Michael think to look for her there, but Sophia was also unlikely to welcome her. And she could not run to Lillian, as she felt certain that was where Michael would turn next. So she directed the cabbie to the first hiding place that came to mind, the anonymous business hotel across the street from Severin.

         

Alone in a tiny hotel room, Mara paced back and forth. She had dialed every number she had for Lillian but never got an answer. Mara was afraid to leave any messages.

Finally, on Mara's second time through the list of numbers, Lillian picked up the phone. By now, Mara was in a feverish state. “Lillian, where have you been? I've been out of my mind with worry,” she exclaimed.

Lillian was perplexed. “Whatever for, Mara? Can't a woman get some sleep after a twenty-four-hour transatlantic turnaround?”

Mara's voice hardened. “Lillian, Michael knows. He was waiting for me at my apartment when I got back.”

“What do you mean ‘he knows'?” Lillian's voice rang with alarm.

“He knows that I've found Edward's documents and that I've been on the trail of
The Chrysalis
's real provenance as well as those of the other paintings. I discussed our proposal with him, but he has no intention of restituting the paintings. In fact, he wants to destroy Edward's documents.”

“Well, then, our plan isn't going quite as we hoped.” Lillian's calm struck Mara as cavalier given the circumstances. “I guess you'll have to resort to the alternative. Approach Harlan; see if he'll reach out and use his contact at Beazley's to resolve this privately. Perhaps his contact can deal with Michael. Then, with Beazley's, make use of the history we've re-created. Ensure that the paintings get returned, at least
The Chrysalis.
Do you think you can still do that and keep my name out of it?”

Mara was loath to answer but knew she must tell Lillian all of it. Lillian did not seem to appreciate the gravity of her situation—specifically, the threat Michael posed. In fact, she seemed almost callously concerned only about her reputation and perhaps Beazley's. “I'll try, Lillian, but Michael realizes that you've been helping me.”

The line was silent. When Lillian's voice came back on, it seethed and crackled. “You didn't tell him, did you? You promised you wouldn't.”

“No, of course not.” Mara was hurt by the accusation. She had put herself on the line in ways she couldn't even believe to rectify wrongs she didn't perpetrate, and Lillian—who, despite her help, risked very little—dared to accuse Mara of betrayal. Exhausted and defensive, she shared with Lillian the details of Michael's angry visit. “So you see why I'm concerned? If he can't find me, I think he's going to come to you, hoping that you'll give him the documents.”

“I'll be fine,” Lillian assured Mara. “My apartment building is like Fort Knox. I'll leave explicit instructions with my doormen not to let anyone up. Will that suffice?”

“Yeah. But I don't want you to be accessible to Michael at work tomorrow. Maybe you think I'm overreacting, Lillian, but please stay away from him. At least until I work this out.”

“I won't go in. How's that? Not until this is all resolved.”

Mara relaxed. “Thank you. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

To Mara's relief, Lillian's usual haughty tone resurfaced. “Mara, don't overestimate yourself. I chose to be part of this. You didn't drag me into it.”

Mara smiled at Lillian's insult. “Then I stand corrected.”

“Please call me only after you've made your decision about proceeding and you've executed it. Then I'll do my part at Beazley's.” The women agreed and exchanged curt goodbyes.

Mara fell back onto the bed, her posture slack for the first time since the flight. For a moment, she almost imagined that it was all a bad dream.

Mara awakened in the dawn, before her wake-up call. She paced the room, reviewing her strategy over and over again, practicing her speech for Harlan, even allowing herself to think about the ramifications to her. She felt the butterflies begin their dance, looping and fluttering against the walls of her stomach. She had come too far to turn back, and even if she could, for the first time, she truly knew that she no longer wanted to sacrifice her sense of justice, or her right to devise her own goals, on the altar of success—or her father's expectations. She was ready.

twenty-nine

AMSTERDAM, 1943

T
HE GROUP WALKS THE LENGTH OF THE TRAIN TO REACH
the private railway car, with the senior official at the helm and the heavily laden Baums and junior officer in tow. The Amsterdam station teems with travelers, but the jumpy crowd parts at the presence of the decorated officer.

The distance, which Erich had walked so often, so easily before the occupation, seems interminable to him now. There are no other yellow stars at the station, and he knows that the other travelers stare at the sight of the Nazi occupiers helping Jews onto a train. Especially when Jews no longer ride on regular passenger trains but on trains of a very different sort.

Erich looks back at the trailing Cornelia, who had insisted on changing into a fussy silk dress and an ermine-trimmed jacket. She wants their daughter to see them looking well when they disembark in Milan, but her ensemble slows their pace through the station. He chose to dress more solemnly—more shrewdly, to his way of thinking—in an unobtrusive gray suit, plain black coat, and fedora. He did not want the extra attention beyond that garnered by their yellow stars.

Erich heaves a sigh of relief when the officers usher them out of sight and into their private car. It is indeed as luxurious as the men had touted. Heavy damask fabric covers the tufted banquettes, a marble-tiled private lavatory is at their disposal, and sumptuous ruby curtains frame the window.

After stowing the couple's suitcases, parcels, and trunk on the racks above and the seats beside them, the officers bid them a safe journey, tap their heels, and salute them with a “Heil Hitler” before exiting the compartment. The whistle cries out, and the train begins its slow departure, click by click down the track. Though their car begins to lurch and sway, the couple remains standing, still frozen with incredulity at the blessing of their situation. Only when the train pulls away from the Amsterdam station do they lower themselves down into the banquettes on either side of the car.

Cornelia asks with hesitation, “Should we keep our coats on?”

Erich knows why she inquires. The reichskommissar's rules mandate the display of the Star of David, and removal of their coats will hide the stars. Not familiar with the laws of the occupied countries they will pass through, he says, “I think it's the wisest course, dearest.” He pats the inner pocket of his coat, the one holding their precious Seyss-Inquart letter of protection. “Plus, I want to keep this close by….”

She nods in understanding.

         

The whistle announces their arrival in Berlin after a journey quiet with nerves and expectations. As the train pulls into the otherwise silent, dark station, Erich and Cornelia sit stock-still, facing each other, waiting wordlessly to pass through the dreaded city. He can hear the low rumble of passengers boarding, but the process seems to take longer than at the other stops. As he takes the envelope out of his inner coat pocket, he looks out the window, straining to see the source of the delay between the billows of steam.

In the dim light of a station lamppost, Erich makes out a sweeper standing on the platform. The man is alone in the now-desolate station. The two men make eye contact for a brief moment before the sweeper hastily retreats into the shadows.

With a sudden slam, the door to the compartment opens. The couple springs to their feet to greet the soldiers as Erich readies his letter of protection.

thirty

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

A
SHORT HOUR LATER, MARA SLIPPED INTO THE BACK ENTRANCE
of Severin, passing her identity card through the screening device and waving to the security guards still on duty from the night shift. She slid into a waiting elevator and hit the top button on the panel for Harlan's floor.

Mara steadied her flapping and wafting nerves as the elevator completed its ride. She exited into the vacant reception area for the partners, distinguished by its mahogany paneling and beige leather furniture, decadent sprays of freshly cut exotic flowers, and understated modern paintings. Mara had spent so much of her career aiming for these rich heights, but now she was repulsed by their display of life-sapping greed.

Mara worked her way down the maze of hallways to Harlan's corner office. She found herself at his door without his secretary present.

Mara steeled herself, knocked, and waited for the grunt of admission, but nothing emerged.

Harlan always beat the other partners in to work; he should be in his office. So Mara tapped again. This time, she received a guttural utterance of surprise. “Huh? Who is it?”

“Mara Coyne,” she announced through the closed door.

A long pause ensued, and then, much to her astonishment, she heard a greeting. “Well, come on in.”

Pushing open the door, she found Harlan in his usual position. Mara began to apologize. “I'm so sorry to disturb you—” But he interrupted before she could finish. “Mara, you're just the person I wanted to see.”

She was too shocked to do more than stammer “R-really?”

“Really. Do I have some good news for you!” he exclaimed, in the closest thing to a giddy voice she had ever heard from him.

Mara had no idea how to react, but Harlan's disposition was so unprecedented that she felt more than just a twinge of fear. “What is it?” she asked. His joviality had to be a trap of some sort.

“I just heard from my man at Beazley's. It seems as though your
Chrysalis
case has resolved itself to our client's satisfaction.”

“What?” Mara was flabbergasted. How could the scenario have resolved to Beazley's satisfaction? If the judge had issued an opinion, Harlan would have heard about it first, not Beazley's. So it could not yet be that Beazley's had won on summary judgment, for which Mara said a silent prayer of thanks. Knowing all that she did, Mara could never forgive herself if Justice Weir adopted
DeClerck
based on her
Baum
arguments and made it nearly impossible for Holocaust survivors to recoup property.

“Yes.
The Chrysalis
was stolen from the Beazley's warehouse early last evening.” He grinned like a fat cat, as if this statement explained everything.

“Stolen?” Mara was altogether mystified.

“Yes, stolen.” Harlan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply in an attempt to control his irritation. “Mara, the insurance money will allow our client to settle this matter between the contenders. Presumably, the current owner and Hilda Baum will each get a piece. Beazley's discussed it with the current owner last night as well as with Hilda Baum. It seems as though they'll be able to reach some amicable agreement to dismiss the case. The client didn't offer details, and I didn't ask. It's enough that they're thrilled with the outcome. And with us.”

She was still confused. “Beazley's worked all this out with Hilda Baum last night?”

“Yes, late last night. They can communicate without us as long as no outside lawyers are present.”

Mara tried to make sense of this and wondered whether Lillian had heard the news through her Beazley's grapevine. All the while, Harlan stared at her, waiting for her jubilation. She stammered, “O-our client told you this?”

“Not in so many words, but Philip didn't need to. I understood how it would play out.”

Mara's heart leaped to her throat. She was afraid to ask but knew she had to. “Philip?”

“Yes, Philip Robichaux. He's my contact at Beazley's as well as an old friend. Have you met him?”

Time stopped for Mara. Harlan continued talking, but she couldn't hear a word. She considered Philip's ties to her boss. Did Harlan know the truth? Did he already understand that the Nazis had stolen
The Chrysalis
and that Beazley's had purchased it from the Nazi henchman Kurt Strasser? Was he aware that Philip and Michael knew this and were complicit in hiding the truth? And that there were many more paintings like
The Chrysalis
? She couldn't reveal her findings to him. She knew he would not come to her aid. But she wished she knew for certain the extent of his involvement.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard him continue. “And as I said, Mara, I wasn't one hundred percent sure you'd rise to the test, but you took a dog and turned it into a winner. Ruthlessly, too.” He laughed, a macabre cackle.

Then he bestowed the golden ring upon her. “So, I'll be backing you next month during the partnership review.” Was this a bribe for her silence? His face seemed devoid of artifice.

The moment had come for Mara to acknowledge Harlan's gift, to convince him of her ignorance and loyalty. She should have felt honored, but the most she could muster were a few listless words of gratitude before she left his office.

         

Mara headed back down toward her office. It would be pretty easy to slip back into line, to let go of everything she'd uncovered. She could assume the mantle of partner, finally feel rewarded and successful. Perhaps she could get a bigger apartment or take a vacation. There would be other men. Mara knew that she could play along with whatever game she was tricked into and that no one would ever question her integrity or legal skill. But something had happened during her covert work with Lillian. A long-suppressed desire for moral strength had finally emerged, and Mara would no longer ignore its importance.

Just as the elevator doors were about to close behind her, a hand slipped into the crack, and the doors bounced back open. It was Sophia. The women stared at each other, and then, as the doors began to slide closed, Sophia stepped in.

Sophia broke the silence first. “How've you been?” she asked with genuine concern.

Mara stared at the floor numbers above the door; she couldn't afford to connect with Sophia right now. So when she answered, her tone was cooler than she felt. “I've been better.”

Sophia scanned the elevator panel. “You're heading back from Harlan's office awfully early. I thought he didn't see people before Marianne got in at nine.”

“He doesn't.” Mara didn't see the point in explaining the scene that had just transpired. It was easier to pretend her visit hadn't happened.

“Oh, Mara, please don't tell me you were heading up there to see him privately on this
Baum
case.”

“I was.”

Sophia reached forward and hit all the buttons on the way to the associates' floor. “Mara, what're you doing? You're trashing years of hard work. I don't understand what has happened to your sense of priorities. Thank God he wouldn't see you yet. You still have a chance to walk away from all this and to resume your own work.”

“Sophia, what do you care?” Mara answered angrily. “You made it very clear that you want nothing to do with all this.”

Over the ring of the elevator door opening to an empty floor, Sophia shouted, “Mara, I care about you, even though you're right—I don't want to jeopardize the hard work and the time and money I've invested in realizing my dreams. Neither do I want to stand by and watch you hurt yourself. But it seems as though I'm witnessing that anyway.” An irrepressible question rose in her throat. “Are you going to go up there again later to tell him about the documents you took?”

Mara took a deep breath. The goals and passions that drove Sophia hadn't entirely lost their shine. Nor had any of her feelings for Sophia and their friendship diminished. But she needed to detach from her friend in order to finish the task at hand. And she had to trust that there was a way, when this was all over, to forge a new relationship. “Yes, about the documents and all the other schemes I've uncovered since you and I last spoke.”

Sophia crossed her arms and moved to the front corner of the elevator. “I suppose there's nothing I can do to stop you.”

“No, there isn't.”

The elevator doors opened again, and Sophia stepped out. “Then, I guess I'll leave you to it.” She began to walk away, then turned back. “I'm really sorry, Mara.”