Note: language has been blipped to meet MOL standards. (Yes, I ended up with another character who swears.) If you want the unblipped version, it's on ff.net, right here. --------------------------------------------------------------
AftershocksThree: Art NouveauAnother thing Ruth’s real good at – maybe too good – is leaving you thinking you got the best of her in a deal. I’ve seen her pull it over and over . . . not just on me. It takes a while, sometimes a long while, before you realise that she somehow managed to get exactly what she wanted, and at the same time left you owing her one.
I just wish I could figure out how she does it. Maybe then I wouldn’t fall for it so easily.
We were still carving out an expansion to the facilities for the art restoration project – and Willis and I were still busting our brains on how to guarantee the security of the whole thing – when Ruth buttonholed me and started asking about the Challengers Club. Didn’t they have a job training programme? Any chance there might be some kid with a genuine flair for art who’d be up for an internship? A solid gold opportunity to put in long hours for lousy pay and the chance to get the kind of firsthand experience that’d make anyone else’s resumé look tame. For the right candidate, it could be a one-way ticket into a decent art school and maybe a solid career afterwards.
Well, of course I jumped all over it, even agreed to put in extra time and keep an eye on the interns . . . I was thanking her for giving Rafael the chance to bust out of the projects when it suddenly occurred to me that I was the one who had just done her a favour. And I’d just committed myself to another round of hanging around the art lab.
We’d hit a figurative dead end over the car business – I suppose it beat hitting a real one. It was definitely sabotage, and the pool of possible suspects was only about half the entire city of San Francisco. I didn’t like leaving the matter there, but the art exhibit wrapped up without any further incident – except for an embarrassing column in the tabloids about Ruth Collins and a ‘much younger man’ escaping a citation for reckless driving in an exclusive neighbourhood.
We paid the piper that time, all right. MacGyver poked his head around the doorway of the art restoration lab at Phoenix, anxious and uncertain of what he’d find. He had been called away to Peru, and like most of his trips, he’d been gone longer than originally expected.. The atmosphere in the lab hadn’t been too good when he’d left, and he was worried that the situation could have gotten explosive while he wasn’t around to defuse it.
He spotted Addie Thompson immediately, as usual – the shaggy dead-black hair, the swirling layers of black clothing and the Doc Martens were unmistakable. Lately he’d started seeing more and more kids dressing that way, but Addie pulled off the look with a unique style.
Gordie Thompson had stayed on when the project was extended, and Addie had been retained as well; along with their expertise in restoration, Gordie’s encyclopedic knowledge of entire catalogues of art history had proved invaluable. Addie was almost the same age as the two interns, Rafael Alvarado and Stephanie Carmichael, but she had been working as a restorer for almost five years, and was a natural teacher. Mac was used to seeing her bent over a canvas with either Rafé or Stephanie at her elbow, hanging on every word and pretending that they weren’t having a problem understanding her sometimes heavy accent.
He wasn’t used to seeing
both interns listening in – he wasn’t used to seeing them in the same room for longer than it took one or the other to find an excuse to duck out. MacGyver blinked, but they were still there – Rafael on one side and Stephanie on the other, and Addie in the centre, bent over the shimmering beauty of a Monet harbour scene, wielding a soft cloth dipped in a cleaning solution and talking nonstop.
Mac blinked again. The last time he’d seen Stephanie, she’d been wearing designer slacks and a blouse that had probably cost enough to feed Rafé’s entire family for a month. Now she was wearing scruffy black jeans and a black T-shirt that looked like it had been borrowed from Addie’s apparently infinite stash.
He was still staring with a bemused expression when Laura spotted him, set down her own tools and came over.
“Pretty amazing, huh?”
Mac simply shook his head. “When did
that happen?”
“It’s been like that for the last two weeks. I call it ‘the miracle of Saint Addie’.” Laura smiled at the sight of the slow grin spreading across Mac’s face. “I think it started when she got Rafé and Stephanie all hooked on some band or other, and they started hitting the clubs together.” She saw Mac’s eyes narrow and added hastily, “I don’t think they’re drinking heavily or anything. Dancing, yes. And they’ve been talking music incessantly for two weeks. And then Stephanie started showing up wearing Addie’s clothes. Which are a hell of a lot better suited to the lab work anyway.”
“She probably figures it’ll annoy her family.”
“Have you met her family?” Mac nodded. “Me too. I’d happily annoy them myself.”
Mac wandered over to the canvas Laura had been working on: a portrait of a young man in dark clothing and a fancy-looking hat. She had only just started cleaning it, and the picture was still dusky and blurred with age and accumulated residue. “So how’s the project coming?”
Laura folded her arms around herself and surveyed her work. “We’re coming along fine with the initial cleaning and getting the rough catalogue started. Veronica’s still doing most of the work with the computer records – I’d hoped Rafé or Stephanie would start doing some of that, but neither of them’s been interested.”
“I guess it wasn’t creative enough.”
“Rafé was interested at first, but about a week ago he just dropped it. And Addie did just the same thing – keen to start with, and now she won’t have anything to do with it.”
Overhearing his name, Rafé looked up with a start and saw MacGyver. The nervous expression on his face melted and he grinned and hurried over.
“Mac, how ya doin’, man? How come you gone so long?” He clasped Mac’s arm and punched his shoulder. “ ‘Bout time you come back. You been missin’ all the fun.”
Mac gave a meaningful look over towards the Monet, where Stephanie and Addie were still standing, whispering to each other as they watched Rafé. “Kinda different from when I left. Specially since, last I saw, you and that – how did you put it? – ‘stuck-up princess’ – were getting on about as well as a mismatched set of alley cats.”
Rafé shrugged. “Naw, Steffie’s cool, man. I hate to say it, but you was right – I just hadta give her a little time.” He leaned over and whispered to Mac, “Guess what?”
“What?”
“You won’ believe it. Hell, I didn’t believe it myself.”
“
What?”
“Her mama can’t cook! Can you believe that? All that money, and she done grew up eatin’ cold cereal and microwaved sh*t. Addie’s mama don’ cook too good neither. Nothin’ like mine.”
MacGyver grinned. “Laura says you three have been hitting the clubs together.”
The shift in Rafé’s face was subtle, but Mac knew he hadn’t imagined it. The easy warmth vanished in a moment; the young man’s smile stayed in place, but it had suddenly become a meaningless mask, as obscure as the age-shadowed portrait beside them. “Yeah, well, that was okay. But I ain’t doin’ it no more.” He glanced over to where the other two were watching him; Addie looked pensive and Stephanie was frowning. “Hey, I gotta go. Great havin’ you back, man. Welcome home.”
MacGyver frowned as Rafé hurried away. He turned back to Laura with a questioning look; but she shrugged helplessly. “That’s the other thing. Some days he’s up and cheerful, asking a thousand questions and doodling on anything flat and blank and available – and some days he’s so quiet you’d think he planned on joining a monastery.” She picked up a soft brush and turned back to the painting, frowning at its shadowed depths.
“Any progress finding the rightful owners of the paintings?” Mac peered at the portrait, trying to figure out what the young man was holding – it could have been a book, a brick, or another hat for all he could tell. Or a meatloaf, for that matter.
“Finding the owners?” Laura’s laugh was harsh. “MacGyver, we’re barely getting started identifying the artists! Frau Brandenburg’s records can’t be trusted; the only provenances she had were faked. Any real records she ever had would have been destroyed – and identification of undocumented works is a specialised field, even when there hasn’t been a war disrupting the continuity of the record. I have twenty-four paintings here that we haven’t even attributed yet, except for educated guesses.”
“Huh.” Mac frowned with concentration. “So that’s why, when they were on exhibit up in San Francisco, a bunch of them didn’t even have dates or names or titles? I wondered about that. And the exhibit only showed maybe half the paintings anyway.”
“Yes. They all needed cleaning, and some needed – still need – more restoration than others. Gordie had to focus on the Rubens; Pete insisted that it had to be ready for the exhibition. There was only so much that the rest of us could do in time. Once they’re all cleaned and we’ve had a formal photographic record made, we’ll put together a catalogue and circulate it, inviting input from the rest of the art world. Meanwhile, we’re doing the best job we can of working out the most likely attribution for the different artists.”
“But I don’t get it. Aren’t the paintings signed?”
“Well, not all of them. Prior to 1500, artists rarely signed their works. Even after that – and signatures can be forged, Mac. God,
paintings are forged all the time – and as the art world bids the prices up higher and higher, forgery becomes more profitable. More tempting.”
“Lemme guess – so does theft.”
“You’ve got it. It’s getting to be a bigger business all the time. The real problem – the vulnerability – is that we have pieces here that aren’t officially documented. At least a quarter of these paintings aren’t even in the
catalogues raisonnés for the various artists. “
“The what?”
“The
catalogue raisonné – that’s the official record of all known and acknowledged works of any given artist.”
Mac frowned. “So from the point of view of the official record, these paintings don’t really exist.”
“That’s kind of overstating it, but yes. That’s why Frau Brandenburg was able to take the risk of selling pieces on the open market – in most cases, there was no formal documentation of the paintings at all, let alone any record that they had been looted.”
“But how could they be auctioned if there wasn’t a clear record?”
“Dealers find ‘new’ works all the time – well, not
all the time, but often enough. It’s an incredible boost for a dealer or art historian, especially when it’s a previously unknown work by a major artist.” Laura stared pensively at the painted eyes of the portrait in front of her, as if she was waiting for the long-dead young man to tell her his secrets.
“That’s called a ‘coup’, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Mac looked at Laura thoughtfully. “Pete said the Phoenix Collection was going to make your own reputation – practically every painting here is a coup, isn’t it?”
Laura nodded. There was a shadow behind her eyes that Mac couldn’t account for. “MacGyver . . . you must know, I had intended to back out of the project – I had an offer for a stint in New York, consulting with the acquisitions committee for the Met. Pete and Ruth talked me into staying on. They can be very persuasive. Especially Ruth.”
She glanced uncertainly at MacGyver; he gave her a slow easy smile and was gratified to see her relax slightly and return the smile.
“Oh, yeah. Tell me about it.” Mac turned to study the portrait again. “Back when we first saw the stash of paintings, there was one you said had been ‘reported as destroyed’. That must mean there was a record of it.”
The shadow had returned to cloud Laura’s face, but now she lit up. “Addie,” she called, “let’s show Mac our baby. Can you go bring the Rembrandt portrait out of the vault?”
Addie glanced over. “You want Oldy-Moldy Bucket-‘ead? You’ll hafta to come fetch ‘im with me.”
“Why? Oh, that’s right – Veronica’s not here.”
“No more she in’t, she and Dad both. Someone’s gotta do the second password, and you know Rafé and Steffie can’t. Unless – ” she shot MacGyver a look. “ ’ow ‘bout you come do it, mate?”
“I don’t have a password for the art vault,” Mac replied.
“But you’re the bloke ’oo set it all up, you and that other guy,” Addie protested. “You did all the computer stuff.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t leave myself a back door. Neither did Willis.”
“What – ?” Laura started to ask and then held up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t tell me anything. It’ll just make my eyes glaze, I know it.”
Addie and Stephanie had exchanged uncomfortable glances; now Addie made an elaborate face and stuck her fingers in her ears. “La la, la la la, ain’t listenin’. Total divvy here. Dunno nothin’.”
Laura laughed, shaking her head. “Fine, Addie. Whatever. Let’s go fetch Mr. ‘Oldy-Moldy Bucket-Head’.”
The painting they brought back from the secure, climate-controlled art vault was one that MacGyver dimly remembered having seen hanging in Frau Brandenburg’s study: it showed a grey-bearded man with bushy eyebrows, elegantly dressed, wearing an ancient-style helmet – presumably the inspiration for Addie’s pet name.
“ ’e’s a bit of all right, in’t he? He’ll look better after ‘e’s been cleaned. My dad gets to do that one, the lucky sod,” Addie announced cheerfully.
Mac peered at the painting. It was clouded with age, but Mac was sure it hadn’t been included in the San Francisco exhibit. Even through the veils of accumulated grime that dimmed the power of the painter’s vision, the eyes of the long-dead man seemed to meet MacGyver’s gaze with pride, authority and confidence. Mac felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and looked over at Laura for enlightenment.
“This is another painting that doesn’t exist,” she said, her eyes glowing with an excited brilliance. “It’s the real reason Ruth and Pete were able to talk me into staying on.”
Mac raised an expectant eyebrow and waited.
“Towards the end of the war, with their empire disintegrating around them and their forces on the run, the Reich began to take steps to secure their loot. In Berlin, the collections from several museums were moved into a fortified building called the Flakturm Freidrichstein, to keep the artworks safe from bombing. When Berlin fell to the Russians in 1945, the place was torched.”
“I read about that,” Stephanie broke in. “They never knew who set the fire, but they didn’t even try to put it out. It burned for
days. It was a horrible loss. For the art, I mean. I don’t think anyone died or anything.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Laura continued. “It was an incredible collection – one of the finest in Europe. Over four hundred paintings were lost. For years, the art world hoped that something might turn up – the collection hadn’t been guarded. And with so much looting done during the entire war by every side – including ours – there was some hope, ironically enough, that some items might have been stolen in the days before the fire broke out. But none of them ever turned up.”
Mac cocked his head towards the painting. “Till now?”
Laura took a deep breath and nodded, her eyes afire from within. “Yes. You’re looking at the only known survival of the Flakturm disaster.”
Mac looked at the painting again, and the long-dead subject – probably some military commander from a forgotten war – returned his gaze with calm dignity. “Wow. Any idea who it belongs to?”
“As a matter of fact, this one happens to have been the legitimate property of the Kaiser Freidrich Museum of Fine Art in Berlin. We'll probably be able to repatriate it within the year. Dieter von Schüssel – you remember, the man Ruth set up to be our liaison at the German consulate in San Francisco – is already working on it. And in the meanwhile, we've got a puzzle on our hands.”
MacGyver nodded. “Yeah, no kidding. If this one disappeared from Berlin itself at the end of the war – ” he waved a hand towards the other two canvases on their stands, and the door to the art vault beyond. “What the heck is it doing with the rest of them? Sam Bolinski's family was Polish – I thought Frau Brandenburg's husband mostly served there and in Austria. How did she get her claws on this one?”
Laura had turned pale at the name; now she pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“I don’t suppose she’d maybe shed a little light on the subject?” Mac asked.
“She’s made it quite plain that the only terms under which she will consider cooperating are complete dismissal of all charges with a guarantee that none will be brought in the future, a public apology, and the return of her art collection.”
Mac stood with his mouth agape. “
What?!?”
Addie snorted. “Good thing, innit? We’d be in a twist if she’d asked for anything that wasn’t effin’ mental. She’s a right nutter, that one.”
Laura laughed in spite of herself. “Well said, Addie. I think you’ve summed it up perfectly.” She glanced up at the clock. “I’m going to give Gordie a ring – he’ll be coming in soon, and he said he wanted to work on the Rembrandt today. If he does, we won’t have to lock it up again immediately.”
MacGyver shot a look at Rafé, who had hung back through all the time the portrait had been discussed. The young man looked sullen and preoccupied; when Mac walked over to him, he shuffled his feet and looked ready to bolt. Mac caught at his arm as he tried to move away. “What’s up, Rafé?”
“Nothin’, man! I don’ know what you talkin’ ‘bout.”
“Bull.”
As Rafé tried to shrug Mac’s hand away, they both looked up to see that Addie and Stephanie had drawn close; they looked like they meant business. Stephanie was standing with hands planted on her hips, her face determined.
“Well?”
Now that she was facing him, Mac could read the glaring red letters on Stephanie’s borrowed black T-shirt: ‘go ahead, b*tch about my f*&#ing attitude’. Her blonde hair was growing out of its expensive professional salon cut, and the bangs were beginning to shroud her eyes. Behind her, Addie had crossed her arms and was looking belligerent, her eyes with their raccoon eyeliner fixed on Rafé.
“What?” Rafé asked sullenly.
“Haven’t you told him?”
Rafé shrugged.
Addie broke in. “C’
mon, mate. Stop goin’ off your trolley over it, awright? You
said he was kosher. You said you could trust ‘im if you trusted
anybody.”
Rafé looked back helplessly towards Mac, who raised his eyebrows and looked at him expectantly. “Looks like you’re blown, pal. What’s goin’ on?”
“I can’t believe that they were targeted like that. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.”
MacGyver was pacing back and forth in Pete’s office, gesticulating as he talked. Pete wished he would sit down – his eyes were aching from another long day, and watching Mac rattle around in the office like a pebble in a dice cup was even more tiring – but the younger man was too agitated to settle in one place.
“They’ve been approached four times so far, and the goons have leaned on them more heavily each time. They stopped going to the one club, HalScion, after the second encounter – they switched to the Oh Zone instead, and a couple days later the same two guys showed up there.”
“And each time they’ve gone after Rafael?”
“Yeah. They didn’t even talk directly to Addie and Stephanie at all, not at first.”
Pete half-smiled. “I bet that made the girls pretty mad.”
“Ohhh, yeah. The first time, they just kept asking Rafé about the project, the security and the computers – the second time, they started offering money, and kept upping the offer.”
Mac stopped in front of the bland art print on Pete’s office wall and stared at it without seeing it. “The last time, they made some nasty threats about Rafé’s family, and a few ugly comments about Addie. They didn’t threaten Stephanie, not yet; they seem to have some idea of who she is, which is another worry. But she heard everything they said.” Some half-remembered details clicked into place in MacGyver’s memory; he recognised the print as a Monet, but not a particularly interesting one. “After that, Rafé was afraid to go out at all, or to have anything to do with the computers, or even to be alone in the lab with the paintings. He’s convinced that he’ll be the fall guy if anything happens.”
“Mac, it’s no real surprise that someone’s after the collection,” Pete said in a voice intended to calm. “You and Willis started with the assumption that someone would.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect them to go after the
kids!” Mac waved his hands in outrage. “That’s . . . just . . .
wrong!”
“Is it just because it’s the kids?” Pete asked softly. “Or because they went after Rafael Alvarado?”
Mac sighed and dropped his hands. “Okay, Pete, yeah. It just stinks – that they’d assume he was the weak link.”
“That may not be it.” Pete shook his head. “Mac, you don’t really care what those hoods think. You’re afraid people will assume that, because of his background or his race, Rafael is the most likely to be dishonest – the most corruptible. But they may simply have guessed that he’d be the most vulnerable to pressure. And if it weren’t for you, he might be. He’s got less to lose, but what little he has isn’t very well protected.”
Mac’s eyes narrowed and his jaw set. “Except by me.”
Pete looked at him sharply, but before he could speak, they heard agitated voices outside and the door was flung open. Addie marched into the office, her heavy boots clumping noisily, Stephanie beside her and Rafé behind them.
“Right, then. What’s it all about, hey? Rafé tells you what’s gone down, and if you don’t just do a bunk and he’s left all awash, like!”
“Whoa!” Mac held up his hands and met Addie’s belligerence eye to eye. “Back off, lady. We’re on the same side. How’d you get into this part of the building anyway?” He glanced towards the door and saw Laura looking apologetic and Helen, Pete’s assistant, looking flustered.
“My fault, MacGyver,” Laura called ruefully. “I vouched for them to security . . . it was the only way to prevent a riot in the lab.”
Pete stood up behind his desk, meeting the defensive glares with a calm smile. “Well, Ms. Carmichael, it’s good to see you again. And Ms. Thompson – but I don’t believe I’ve had the opportunity to meet Mr. Alvarado before this.” He held out his hand to a suddenly confused Rafael. “Pete Thornton. Welcome to the inner sanctum of the Phoenix Foundation, where we’re saving the planet, one stack of dull paperwork at a time.” Rafé allowed Pete to shake his hand as Stephanie stifled a sudden giggle. Addie glared at her.
Rafé looked from Pete to MacGyver, and the scowl deepened on his face. “Hang on, man. Don’ you be givin’ me that sh*t.”
Pete looked blandly surprised. “What?”
“That bureaucracy crap. Makin’ out like all Phoenix does is, you know, run programs and save the world and all that sh*t.”
Pete cleared his throat. “Mr. Alvarado, that
is what we do. I might point out that it’s how you come to be here today.”
“Yeah, yeah, right, but that ain’t
all that you do.” Rafé turned a fierce face to MacGyver. “I tol’ you ‘bout those punks, and you go runnin’ off to huddle with Mr. Thornton here. An’ I
know you ain’t just plannin’ on havin’ a nice little chat with the cops, ‘cause they ain’t
nothin’ the cops can do. So whatcha gonna do?”
MacGyver was pretty sure he was fighting a losing battle, but he still had to put the best official face on it that he could. “Why do you think there’s anything we
can do, other than hand it over to the police?”
Rafé exploded. “C’
mon, MacGyver, don’ you try to snow me! Don’t you know folks tells stories? They say you used to be, I dunno, some kinda secret agent, like James Bond or somethin’. ‘Cept ain’t nobody never seen you use a gun. But they say you was in ‘Nam.”
Mac started to reply, but Rafé pressed on, leaning into Mac’s face, his tone of voice climbing as his frustration mounted. “An’ Ray, he seen you in action. He seen you
fight, man. You make out like you just the handyman, the geek. But you way more than that. You think nobody knows?”
Mac hadn’t moved or drawn back as the tirade continued. Now he spoke, very quietly and evenly. “What’s your point, Rafé?”
“My point? I want a piece of that! I wanna help, man!”
“We all do,” Stephanie interjected. “Don’t shut us out.”
MacGyver met Rafael’s eyes unwaveringly. “No
way, Rafé. It’s too dangerous.” Mac’s own dark eyes clouded over. “You have
no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mac . . . ” Rafé made a face. “You seen where I live. You been there. Jus’ walkin’ out my
door is dangerous. Sh*t, I can get my head blown off sittin’ in my own kitchen, man.”
MacGyver gave a considering look at Addie – he’d been in her part of London, and he knew how rough it was. Addie would know what she was getting into, just as Rafé knew. Mac turned a doubtful eye on Stephanie.
She bristled.
“Oh, no. You’re
not going to back out because of me, are you? Because my mom and dad are rich and all that crap? Please, pleeease,
don’t tell me it has to be about that
again!” She wrapped an arm each around Addie and Rafé, pulling them close, and met Mac’s gaze with a proprietary glare. “This is the best thing that
ever happened to me, and I will
not let those creeps screw it up. Please! Just forget about the goddamned
money and all that, okay? Whatever we can do, whatever you need us to do . . . just say the word. We’re there.”
Mac met Pete’s doubtful gaze and raised an eyebrow. “You gonna argue with that?”
They are a saucy lot! Mac's got his hands full with these for sure!
