The Seventh Secret (5 page)

"I hope so," said Ricci nervously. He kept glancing at the door, obviously conscious that the verdict would soon be in. Then, as if to fill the passage of time, he asked, -Do you know anything of Hitler's own tastes, not as a painter but as a collector?"

Kirvov wrinkled his fleshy nose. "Hitler was devoid of any true artistic taste. When he became chancellor of Germany, he tried to wipe out all modern and avant-garde painters and paintings. He called them degenerates. He despised Picasso and Kandinsky. He liked classical art, anything derived from Greek-Nordic art. He called modern eroticism in paintings 'pig art,' al-though he admired healthy and innocent classical nudes. A dull and mediocre man, our artistic Hitler. Still he is elusive and mysterious as a person and it amuses me to collect his art."

For ten minutes, Kirvov discussed German art under Hitler, and then there was a knock on the door. Kirvov jumped up, opened the door, took the oil back from his secretary along with a note.

Sitting, Kirvov laid down the painting and read the note. He nodded to himself and took in his guest once more. "As I expected," said Kirvov. "My expert out there believes this might be a Hitler. Of course, he can't be positive with such a brief examination. He would need more time to study it. At any rate, I think you can rest assured that my associate and I believe it is probably authentic."

Kirvov stood up to return the canvas to his visitor.

The cruise steward also rose. "I appreciate this. I want to thank you, and pay you whatever you—"

Kirvov smiled. "No charge. On the house. In fact, I appreciate the opportunity to have been able to see an unknown Hitler painting." He started to hand over the canvas to Ricci. "You will be pleased to add this to your Hitler collection."

Ricci did not take the painting. "I have no Hitler collection. To be honest, I have no interest in Hitler's art at all."

"But then why did you . . ." He stared at his guest. "You want to sell it? Is that it?"

"No, not really," said Ricci. "I bought it in order to trade it for something I'd rather have, something else I've been collecting for a few years now."

Kirvov raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What are you collecting?"

"Icons. Old Russian icons. I love them. Actually I've been in Russia before on cruises, and made some contacts, and I have three so far. I'd like more. But I find them rather expensive." He hesitated. "I—I'd let you have this Hitler painting in return for a genuine icon, if you have any to spare."

Kirvov thought about the offer. But not for very long.

He coveted the Hitler painting on his desk. It might be a rarity and would certainly enhance his collection. He had little doubt about its authenticity. As to icons, he had dozens to spare in storage, several that could please Ricci and yet were too mediocre to display in the Hermitage. As curator, he had complete autonomy when it came to trading minor or duplicate items.

Kirvov grinned. "Agreed. I have your Hitler. You will have my Jesus Christ."

Five minutes later, Ricci had his icon—small, glittering, a silver-plated frame holding a miniature painted head of Jesus, his robe a golden metal finish—and the ship's steward was thrilled.

Showing the steward to the door, Kirvov stopped him for a moment. "Just one more thing. The name of the gallery in West Berlin where you purchased the painting?"

Ricci's face was briefly blank. "I don't remember now. Somewhere near downtown Berlin. Let me—" He tried to think, with no apparent success, and shrugged his shoulders. "Never mind. It's on the receipt I mailed home. I'll remember to send it on to you the minute I get back there."

"Please do remember."

After Giorgio Ricci had left for his ship, Kirvov was once more alone in his office. He started slowly back to his desk, picked up the Hitler oil, studied it, and beamed.

For an idea had struck him as he had been showing the ship's steward out, the perfect unusual means to publicize and popularize his first major exhibit at the Hermitage. It was clearly defined in his mind now. He would segregate one hall on the top floor and label it THE ART OF THE FASCIST MURDERER ADOLF HITLER. From the four walls he would hang blowups of photographs of the Nazi devastation of war-torn Leningrad, Stalingrad, and the fall of Berlin, as well as the naked corpses of innocent people that greeted the Allied liberators in Auschwitz, Dachau, and the Warsaw ghetto. Then, as ironic counterpoints to this savagery, Kirvov would hang the fifteen pieces of Hitler's early art he already had in his possession. Once more the Russian public would be reminded that the German dictator had been an animal and a violent schizophrenic.

Yes, this latest oil, along with the other Hitler art he had on loan, would be the springboard to his first great success as curator of the Hermitage.

But then, studying the ponderous oil of the dark building, Kirvov had one concern. Millions would see it and accept it as Hitler's, yet there might be one among them who would question its authenticity. Kirvov knew that he must be certain that this oil was by Hitler, and if possible learn what kind of building it portrayed and its location as well.

How to authenticate it immediately? At once, Kirvov remembered a recent article he had read by Professor Otto Blaubach, the East German government minister who was an eminent historian of the Third Reich and the Führer's life. If anyone could tell him about this painting, it would be Blaubach. Kirvov riffled through his desk calendar and saw the notations he had made on it. Next week he was to go with his wife and son to Sochi on the Black Sea for their annual vacation. In a way, that made it easier. He would send them ahead while he spent a week in East Berlin to see Blaubach. After that he would join the family at their vacation resort.

Perfect.

Nicholas Kirvov had never been happier. Then he would be ready for his spectacular exhibit here in the Hermitage.

A great time ahead. But first he must go to East Berlin.

I
n West Los Angeles, Rex Foster parked his compact red Chevrolet sports coupe in his reserved slot at the rear of his small office building on San Vicente Boulevard. After going through the usual contortions to get his lanky six-foot frame out of the cramped driver's seat, he ambled up the narrow walk that ran along the side of his building to the front door.

On the door was a gray plaque with gold and black lettering that read: FOSTER ASSOCIATES—ARCHITECTS.

The door, as usual, was unlocked, meaning his staff of three was already there and probably at work. They were always in at nine-thirty in the morning, and Foster tried to arrive promptly at ten o'clock. The reception room was momentarily empty, which told Foster that his receptionist-bookkeeper-secretary, Irene Myers, was most likely in his office preparing his coffee in the small kitchen.

Down the unadorned corridor there were three offices, the first occupied by his draftsman, Frank Nishimura, the second by his production man, Don Graham. The last and largest, his own office, was an airy room that had a wooden drafting table at one end and his oversized waxed pine desk, with a cluster of chairs ringing it, at the other.

Sure enough, in his office, Foster found Irene Myers at his desk, setting down his mug of hot black coffee and spreading out the morning's Los Angeles Times for him.

"Good morning, Mr. Foster," Irene greeted him cheer-fully. She was a short, shapely brunette, invariably ebullient.

"Hi, Irene," he said, rarely talkative in the morning until he'd had his first cup of coffee.

She hesitated. "I'd hoped to clean up your desk a little before that lady comes."

"Lady?" he said blankly.

"
The Los Angeles
magazine reporter, Joan Sawyer. At ten-fifteen. She's doing a story on Southern California's leading architects. She'll be here in ten or fifteen minutes."

"I forgot," Foster groaned. "Okay, skip the desk. It looks clean enough. Just let me have my coffee before she gets here."

He waited for Irene to pass him and leave the office, and then he went behind his desk and settled down with his steaming coffee and the morning paper.

Sipping contentedly, he reflected for a moment on the blonde he'd had dinner with at Matteo's in Westwood last night. A young actress, maybe twenty-four, Cindy Something-or-other whom he had met at a large cocktail party. Impressed by her breasts and buttocks, he had invited her to dinner. A mistake. Too dumb and uninformed, but better in bed later, where she had proved to be innovative, acrobatic, and a squealer. Actually, enjoyable enough for an encore at midnight. However, he had been relieved when he had finally driven her back to her apartment at two in the morning. He had promised himself no repeat. He had more Important things on his mind.

Drinking the coffee, mellowing, he lit his first pipeful of the morning and began to leaf through the
Los Angeles Times
, as was his custom before beginning the day. Terrible world, he thought, scanning the headlines and leads, absolutely awful everywhere, and then on page five a smaller headline caught his eye and he began to read the story from Associated Press:

Sir Harrison Ashcroft, the world-renowned author and a member of the Faculty of Modern History at Oxford University, England, was laid to rest in the family plot outside Oxford yesterday morning. Ashcroft had met with a fatal accident in West Berlin while doing the last researches on his definitive biography of Adolf Hitler. A hit-and-run driver...

The ICM button on Foster's telephone winked yellow, and Irene's voice came on. "Mr. Foster, are you free? Miss Sawyer of the
Los Angeles
magazine is here."

He picked up the phone. "Irene, did you know that Dr. Ashcroft was killed in Berlin last week? I just read about it—"

"Killed? No, I didn't know . .

"Unbelievable," Foster said. He paused. "That changes everything. I had an appointment with him a week from Friday in Oxford."

"Yes. I made your plane reservation."

"Now what'll I do?" he asked helplessly. "Well, we'll talk it over after I finish the interview. All right, give me a minute to get my head together, then you can send in Miss Sawyer."

He sat trying to work out his problem. He had been toiling for three years, in his spare time, preparing and laying out an oversized picture book, a coffee-table book entitled
Architecture of the 1000-Year Third Reich
. It was an idea that fascinated him, reproducing photographs of all the buildings constructed in Europe during Adolf Hitler's reign (many of them had been reduced to rubble but old photographs existed), as well as of models or designs of buildings that Hitler had planned and hoped to have built after he had won the war. Foster had flown to Germany and, through a onetime U.S. Army buddy stationed in Berlin, had obtained most of what he needed from the archives of Hitler's architect Albert Speer at the Bundesarchiv in Koblenz, and from Speer's wife in Heidelberg, and then he had returned to Los Angeles to lay out his book. He had a good contract with a prestigious publisher in New York, and a firm deadline for delivery. Foster had felt high about the book, not only because it intrigued him but because it would enhance his image in the international architectural community.

At his home in Beverly Hills, reviewing his notes, he had come across the information that Speer had assigned one trusted associate to construct seven special buildings for Hitler. Checking his layout again, Foster found he did not have photographs, let alone the designs, of those seven buildings. Without those graphics, his work would be incomplete, and the publisher was counting on selling the book as the first and only complete book on architecture in Nazi Germany under Hitler. Worst of all, the deadline for delivery of his art book loomed just three months away. His only chance to acquire the seven missing pieces was to learn who Speer's associate had been, but no matter where Foster had searched, he had been unable to learn the name of the associate architect.

Then, by chance, he had discovered that the one historian who knew everything about Hitler was Sir Harrison Ashcroft of Oxford. Foster had promptly written Ashcroft asking if he might see him in Oxford and seek help in a matter concerning Hitler. He hoped personally to go through Ashcroft's architectural files so that the historian would not be imposed upon. Ashcroft had replied with equal promptness that he would be delighted to receive Foster, giving him the day and hour for their meeting. Relieved, Foster had made reservations to fly to England next week. Once he had the name of the associate architect, he planned to fly to Germany and meet with the man if he was alive, or with his family, positive that the man or his heirs would have the seven missing designs.

It was open-and-shut, until this morning. Now it was shut. Ashcroft was dead. Once more, Foster was left in limbo.