Dordogne, France
April 16
Reynard was a procurer of the unattainable and priceless.
Deep in the bowels of Chateau de Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne, the man, known only as Reynard, sat at his desk, a perch he rarely left. The manor had been built in 1417 by a particularly paranoid and reclusive minister of Charles VII. The inviting sandstone exterior with its soaring towers and whimsical spires masqueraded the labyrinth of tunnels and arcane rooms created by the mad Duke. Reynard, an accomplished acquirer of items of questionable provenance, had found the estate well-suited to his needs. He’d purchased it on the spot.
His office was pristine. The books that lined the walls were categorized and alphabetized and stored behind glass to maintain their appearance and value. In the corner, a full suit of armor of the legendary Polish warriors, the Winged Hussars, stood watch; its polished steel gleamed and the triumphant wings of eagle and ostrich feathers brushed the ceiling. Over the fireplace hung Van Gogh’s View of the Sea at Scheveningen. Stolen in 2002 from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, the painting had never been recovered. Reynard didn’t love the subject of the seascape; he didn’t even particularly like the artist. He did, however, love taking things from people. He was sure it stemmed from some childhood slight. Even as a small child, when the men came to his village of Padina, outside of Belgrade, and took his father, he felt no remorse, no fear. What he felt deep in his marrow was...envy.
The clanging ring of the desk phone had Reynard reaching for the handset, absently noting the appearance of age spots on the back of his hand. He was expecting the call.
“Mademoiselle Brewer. Congratulations on your new position.”
A hoarse chuckle greeted him.
“Thank you, Monsieur Reynard. And forgive my voice. I’m battling a cold. Damned Boston weather. You’d think I’d be used to it. I’ve lived here most of my life.”
“The secret, as in all things, is to wash your hands.”
“Well put.”
“So, to your business.”
“It’s taken me nearly a year to reach you, Monsieur Reynard. I’ve accomplished some of the task on my own. But as I continue my crusade, it has become apparent that I will require assistance.”
“I’ve followed your progress. You’ve acquired the Manet and one of the Rembrandts.”
Reynard suspected there was another painting, possibly two, in her collection as well, but it was irrelevant to the conversation, so he didn’t question when she neglected to mention it.
“Yes, A Lady and Gentleman in Black is in my possession.”
Reynard lifted his brow. “I’m surprised Mijnheer Visser was willing to part with it.”
There was a brief pause Reynard interpreted as surprise at his knowledge of the painting’s whereabouts.
“He was open to negotiation.”
“I find that’s usually the case,” he affirmed. Although Reynard rarely negotiated. He took.
“As for the rest…” she continued.
“This endeavor requires patience,” he answered. “Some of these will be nearly impossible to locate.” Reynard cut off the impending protest. “I said nearly. And there are two, the self-portrait and the Flink that will require more creative tactics.”
“Hence, my call to you.”
“Then, there is the matter of money.” Reynard glanced again at the unremarkable Van Gogh above his mantle, the excitement of this new undertaking making the palate appear even less vibrant.
“Money is not what drives me in this venture,” she insisted.
“So, we are alike in that sense.”
“And your reputation precedes you. I’ve made a good faith deposit to the account information I was given. I will continue to make deposits provided expenses are itemized and results are achieved.”
Reynard was already aware of the funds. “And in a reciprocal show of good faith, I have a package en route to you. My courier acquired the item in Vienna and will be making the delivery to your home in the next 48 hours.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
Reynard sighed. “They won’t all be this…uncomplicated.”