AftershocksFourteen: DadaistSchmidt’s face was a picture of surprise when he opened the hall door to his modest third-floor room at the Santa Anita Hotel and found himself facing two uniformed LAPD officers, warrant in hand. His face turned purple when he saw MacGyver and Laura were with the police. Mac had wondered if he would put up a fight, but one look at Officer Wyatt was enough to intimidate any sane person of ordinary size. Mac suspected the man had played pro football before joining the police force.
Or from the look of him, he might’ve juggled railroad cars. I wonder if Schmidt’s a racist as well as a Nazi? It’s gotta rankle.As they had expected, there was no sign of the Rembrandt, but Schmidt hadn’t even attempted to hide the other two paintings. His gun was lying in plain sight on the bedside table, far out of reach even if he’d decided to use it; and there had been plenty of time to check and confirm that he had no permit for it.
Wyatt would not allow Laura or Mac into the room until he and his partner, Rosenthal, had checked the premises. Cody was nowhere to be found, and Schmidt scowled and clammed up when asked about him. Laura examined the paintings with a cool, professional demeanor.
“Are you certain of the identification, Dr. Sandburg?” Wyatt asked formally.
“Absolutely. This is the Renoir that was extorted from the Phoenix Foundation by this man and his confederates; and this is the replica Monet.”
Schmidt had sunk into a chair, his shoulders set with stubborn hauteur as the arrest was proceeding; now he shot to his feet. “The
what?!”
MacGyver smirked at him. “This one’s a ringer, Rolf. The real Monet never left the Phoenix vault. We figured the prize paintings were gonna get targeted . . . and our restoration expert comes from a long line of art forgers.”
Gordie had grumbled at length about the amount of time the forgery project had taken from his restoration work, but he had never managed to be convincing. He hadn’t been able to hide his delight at the opportunity to exercise a skill that rarely got much serious practice – at least, not officially.
Schmidt was staring at the ersatz Monet. “It can’t be . . . ”
“Deal with it, buddy. It is. You swallowed a fake and never even knew the difference.”
“Both fakes . . . ”
“Well, no,” Mac said breezily. “The Renoir’s the real thing. Made us pretty nervous, letting it out of our sight, even with the GPS tracker.”
“ ‘Tracker’?”
“Yup. Ruth Collins is safe, by the way – this little exercise was just a handy way of rounding up the rest of you guys.”
“The Rembrandt – that is a fake too?” Schmidt looked ashen.
“Sure is. The original hasn’t even been cleaned yet – Gordie kinda had to guess at what it was gonna look like.”
“And you – you are tracking that one, also?”
“Yup,” MacGyver said airily. “The Professor took that one, didn’t he? Claimed the best for himself? You do know it’s worth more than all the others put together, right?” Mac had no idea of the Rembrandt’s actual value, but he saw the old man’s eyes tighten and hoped he had hit a nerve. He flashed an annoying, condescending grin. “You’re lucky he let you keep these two.”
“
Lucky . . . ” Schmidt was still staring at the paintings.
“So where’s Cody? Did he go off with the Professor?”
Schmidt’s thin lips pressed tightly together, and the lines in his weathered face grew deeper as if he had drawn an opaque veil of obstinacy over his features.
Mac pressed on as if he hadn’t noticed. “Back in the warehouse, Cody called you ‘
Obersturmführer’ – that’s an SS rank. Were you in the SS?”
The only answer, a stubborn silence, surprised no-one.
“You’re not going to get him to admit to it, even if he was,” Zak said blandly. “Not when admission is tantamount to confessing to war crimes.” He walked up to Schmidt and leaned in close, his black eyes hawk-bright above his aquiline nose. “And I’m betting you were never SS, or anything so glamourous. It’s easy enough to brag to an idol-worshipping boy or a pack of gullible American bigots – but the truth? Usually very humdrum.” Zak straightened up. “We’ll find out in time. Someone will know you. Someone will remember.”
“You’re very sure of that,
Jew,” Schmidt replied. His lips twisted in contempt. “But you are young.”
“Not so young.” Zak smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. “And I have met many victims of people like you. Their memories are longer than you swine ever seem to imagine or expect.”
Schmidt sighed; and for once the look on his face was sincere. “There are not so many left. We are all dying out – the heroes, the villains, the witnesses, the bystanders. If I ever had any victims, soon I will join them. My heart is not so good these days.”
Mac broke in. “Was it ever?”
Schmidt eyed him sidelong, but did not reply.
Zak snorted. “I suppose you’ll deny that you were even a Nazi?” He grinned mirthlessly. “We’ll see what that grandson of yours has to say, of course. One wonders how deep family loyalty truly goes – particularly since you’ve already cost him his career
and he’s facing a fine long prison sentence. Plenty of time to think things over.”
At that, Schmidt settled back into his chair, glowering. Zak stood over him, his head cocked to one side consideringly. “It’s the fear of recognition that always haunts you, isn’t it? Never entirely banished from the mind, no matter how many years pass – it’s always there, waiting at the foot of your bed when you go to sleep and again when you wake up. Stalking you at odd moments, leaping out from the newspapers when you read about the arrest of one of your former comrades.”
Zak turned his back on Schmidt and walked over to the window. The room was at the back of the hotel, overlooking an alleyway; the view was partially obscured by a grid of thick metal bars outside the window, intended to keep thieves from entering the hotel via the fire escape. The Mossad agent stared out through the barred window. “And worse, of course – there’s what can happen once you’ve been recognised. Ever since we took Eichmann, none of you have been able to sleep quite so soundly.”
“Not since you murdered him,” Schmidt spat.
“Murdered?” Zak replied. “He was tried and executed for war crimes.” He settled into a chair by the window and studied Schmidt with a wolfish expression. “So. Who was it that you thought might recognise you? Ruth Collins? Is that why you tried to kill her?”
“Kill her?” Schmidt’s face settled into a bland smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jew.”
“Wait a minute,” MacGyver said. “You expect us to believe you didn’t know about that? You were tryin’ to get the paintings as ransom for her!”
Schmidt shrugged. “So? Herr Hunter and his gang of God-besotted idiots went a little crazy. I had nothing to do with that.”
“And you only know about them because – let’s see . . . ” Zak leaned back in his chair, tilting it onto its back legs. “You all like to go hunting together, perhaps? Or visit art galleries?”
“You will be able to prove nothing.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mac said. “Your hunt came up empty-handed. Ruth Collins is safe, and Hunter and his buddies are all in jail.” He felt a bright inner glow seeing Schmidt’s face darken at the news. “And you can bet that they’ve already started pointing fingers at each other. And at you, and your grandson. So you might as well get a jump on them. How’d you meet them?”
The old man glared. “There is nothing you can prove! Yes, I knew them. We met at a swap meet. I had a few keepsakes from the war – and I needed money more than I needed momentos. They paid very well for my . . . souvenirs.”
“And they fawned on you and kissed your ass.” Zak let his chair tilt forward with a sharp snap as the front legs hit the floor again. “You must have been a glorious hero to them – a real live Nazi for them to adore! So either you lied to them, or you are lying to us, or perhaps both. Can you even remember what the truth is any more?”
Mac broke in. “Was Ryan one of them already? Or did he just get involved when your name turned up in the Brandenburg files?”
He saw the superior smirk crawl across Schmidt’s face like a foul mask as the old man settled back in his chair, folding his arms. “You will be able to prove nothing.”
Mac found himself grinning like a wolf. “Yeah? Don’t pin your hopes on Dexter wipin’ the files. We were on to him from the start.”
And once we’ve got our hands on the Professor, I bet Dexter oughta be able to learn a few things from that quarter.The remark hit home. Schmidt’s face went nearly as white as his hair. He glanced over towards the bedside table, where he’d left his gun, but his view was blocked by Officer Rosenthal, who was following the discussion with an expression of morbid disgust. On Schmidt’s other side, the old man was walled in by the massive form of Officer Wyatt, who was waiting with apparently infinite and impassive patience.
The old man’s stiff shoulders seemed to crumble. He turned and stared desperately at the paintings again. “Those
verdammten files . . .
no!”
MacGyver glanced over at Laura, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes.
Zak had leaned back in his chair again, a glint in his eye. “You should have let go of it while you could, you know. If you weren’t in on the murder attempts or the kidnapping, why the hell did you jump in with the ransom demand? I can believe you’re that stupid, but greedy as well?”
Schimdt glared at him sullenly. “The Professor thought it was our best opportunity to get the paintings back.”
“ ‘
Back’ !?” Laura broke in. “What are you talking about? Those are looted artworks from the war – ”
“They are
my paintings! They have been mine since the war.” His eyes lit up with a sudden gleam of cunning. “And if you have given me a fake, then
you are the thieves!”
“We can guess how you got them,” Laura blurted. Her face was ashen with fury.
Schmidt glowered at her. “The previous owners have been dead many years now. The pictures are mine.” He folded his arms again, a solid wall of conviction. “Prove that they are not.”
“If they’re yours, how did they end up in the Phoenix Collection?” Laura burst out. “How did Frau Brandenburg get hold of them?”
Schmidt’s face suddenly turned black with rage. “That
verdammte Miststück – it was her! She blackmailed me!”
Mac’s mind was racing. “That’s it – that’s how Frau Brandenburg got the misfit paintings in her collection – she
extorted them.” He looked from Laura to Schmidt, the light dawning. “She musta recognised you, tracked you down when she started to assemble her files for the new Reich.”
Schmidt threw up his hands. “Those damned paintings! I always knew they were worth a fortune, but how to sell them? I did not know. For years I had a fortune in my hands that I could not use. Finally I asked my friend the Professor; he knew Frau Brandenburg, and he tried to sell them to her.” He glared at Zak. “
She identified me, somehow – I never knew how she did it. But she and her pig of a grandson came to my house and threatened me. All I had to offer was the paintings. She took them and said she’d be back when she had a better use for me.”
Zak smirked. “So if you were not a Nazi, what did she have to threaten you with?”
Schmidt’s eyes narrowed and his thin lips pressed tightly together again.
Mac broke in again. “Okay, fine. We’ll get back to that later.”
“But then where did she get the Rembrandt?” Laura asked. She was staring at the Renoir as if the nonchalant café patrons knew something, and might tell her if she pleaded hard enough.
“She must have blackmailed someone else – ” Zak began.
“The Professor!” Mac stood up and leaned over Schmidt. “Okay, Rolf, time to share. What’s your connection to the Professor? Who is he, anyway?”
The old man turned his stubborn gaze to meet Mac’s. “I think perhaps that will be something we can discuss in time,
nicht wahr?”
“Not much time. He’s got the Rembrandt, right? That means Pete’s got
him.”
“You are very sure about that.”
The sudden harsh jangle of the telephone fractured the taut atmosphere of the room. Laura started at the sound.
Zak was the closest to the phone, but he made no move to pick it up; instead, he glanced at Wyatt and MacGyver and raised an eyebrow.
Wyatt frowned and gestured to Schmidt. “Answer it.”
MacGyver felt his hackles rise as Schmidt walked over and picked up the phone. “Yes?”
It took Mac a moment before he worked out why he felt so uneasy: Schmidt was holding the phone, standing by the window where his tall form presented a distinct silhouette, backlit by the lights in the hotel room against the darkness outside. Mac realised it in the instant that he heard the crash as the bullet struck the glass and pierced it, followed immediately by the unmistakable, unforgettable, sickeningly solid thud of the bullet hitting Schmidt’s body. As the popping sound of the shot finally reverberated through the room, the second bullet rang the same sequence, this time ending in the horrific sound of the bullet missing Schmidt as he fell to the floor, ripping through empty air to bury itself in the far wall.
Wyatt and Rosenthal dived towards Schmidt as he collapsed like a discarded puppet; Laura simply ducked, throwing herself to the floor.
Although he’d been closest to the window when the first shot was fired, Zak didn’t leap to the falling body of the old man. His Beretta had appeared in his hand as if teleported there, and he sprang to the largest window, the one that allowed access to the fire escape. He had already yanked the window open and was working the catch that held the grid of metal bars outside the window, intended to keep thieves from entering the hotel via the fire escape. If he had heard the sound of the bullets passing by him, he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to them.
Zak hardly glanced at MacGyver as Mac ran towards the window; he shoved the grille open and stepped aside, as smoothly as if they had partnered each other for years, giving Mac a clear shot to vault out onto the fire escape without slowing down.
Mac glanced across the alleyway as he threw himself down the metal steps. The shooter had climbed the fire escape on the building across the alley from Schmidt’s hotel, and was now down at the bottom platform, clambering over the rail, hampered by the rifle he carried. It was Cody – Mac knew him the moment he saw the dim figure in its black clothing. Cody dropped to the ground, slung the rifle over his back and started to run.
Mac’s brain hadn’t had time to register how high up he’d been before he reached the lowest flight on the fire escape. He launched himself from the steps before he actually reached the bottom platform, grabbing the rail with both hands and swinging himself over, dropping the rest of the way to street level. By the time he’d rolled out of the fall and scrambled to his feet, Cody was almost to the end of the alley where it debouched into the street, but he was still in sight and Mac saw which way he turned.
MacGyver rounded the corner at full pelt and tore up the street after Cody, his long legs eating up the distance. He was already gaining on the kid, and Cody knew it: he had glanced over his shoulder twice already as the sound of pursuing feet drew nearer, each time losing a bit more ground. He was still encumbered by the rifle; after the second backward glance, he threw it away and put on a burst of speed.
Mac ran past it without pausing, barely glancing at it. It was an SKS carbine – probably Chinese-made, with its stock painted a dull black – common as dirt and almost as cheap. The cops would collect it when they followed, although it probably wouldn’t yield up any information; it was too easy to eradicate the identifying marks. Cody wouldn’t have dumped it so readily otherwise. By itself, the rifle wasn’t going to be much use.
He needed to bring Cody down, and he was gaining on him.
He ran harder, his feet hardly touching the pavement. Cody looked back again, and this time he actually met Mac’s eyes; Mac saw the flash of recognition in them. With that flash, the spark of fear in Cody’s expression went out. There was a flicker of a sneer instead.
Cody ducked into the mouth of another alleyway. A moment later, as he approached, Mac heard the pounding of Cody’s booted feet stop.
Just how dumb does he think I am?
Plenty, MacGyver. How many fights have I thrown to him so far?The alley was a patchwork of shadows, the looming bulk of dumpsters and garbage cans flanking an irregular space, with only a stray finger of light from the streetlights reaching in past the mouth to sparkle on the broken glass that littered the uneven pavement. Mac’s senses were still keyed up; even as he rounded the corner, he had a clear hold on just where the sound of Cody’s feet had been right before it had ceased. He knew where Cody was and how to draw him out. Mac ran forward, not needing to peer around himself into the shadows.
Cody didn’t even wait for MacGyver to pass the corner of the dumpster where he was crouching; he jumped out as Mac was passing. His knife was in his hand, the blade catching a glitter of reflected light.
Mac twisted sideways as Cody sprang. When Cody reached for him, he wasn’t there.
When Cody spun around to find him, he wasn’t where he should have been. But Mac’s leg was hooked around Cody’s ankle, and the glass-strewn pavement was coming up to meet him. Then Mac’s fingers were locked around the wrist of the hand that held the knife; the sudden yank stopped Cody’s fall before the glass shredded him, and another twist somehow impossibly levered him into the air. He was spinning, sprawling, slamming into the side of the dumpster where he’d been crouching only a moment before. His knife flew out of his hand and was gone into the darkness.
Cody scrambled back to his feet and threw himself onto MacGyver again with a roar of fury. Mac met his charge coolly, blocking one wildly-aimed blow and ducking out of the way of the next – almost; the edge of Cody’s fist scraped against Mac’s head. The glancing blow wouldn’t have amounted to much, but Cody had caught him right on the spot where Buck had clipped him with the rifle barrel earlier that afternoon.
Mac yelped and pulled back, and Cody felt a wild flare of sudden hot confidence and tried to press his advantage. He charged directly into the hammerblow of a right cross.
He didn’t notice the glass when he hit the pavement and lay stunned.
When the police cruiser pulled up a few minutes later, Mac was still shaking the sting out of his fingers and wiping the blood off his face from where the cut on his scalp had reopened. He glanced up as Wyatt emerged from the car and loomed over him.
“Glad you could make it. I got a pick-up for you.”
Not sure if it counts as recycling or garbage.Wyatt studied Cody for a moment, watching as the skinhead started to pull himself to his hands and knees. The officer reached down and picked up Cody by the scruff of the jacket.
“Might want to be careful there, son . . . didn’t your mama ever tell you not to go crawlin’ where there’s broken glass?”
“F*ck you, n*gger . . . ”
Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “That ain’t no way to talk. I sure hope you don’t talk to your mama like that.”
Mac had to admire Wyatt’s apparently unflappable patience as the officer handcuffed Cody and read him his rights, never missing a beat in the face of a nonstop deluge of racist epithets and bloodthirsty threats. Wyatt even loaded Cody into the back of the police cruiser with apparent gentleness – a feat made physically possible by the officer’s imposing size. Nothing could have made it emotionally easy.
The officer glanced at Zak, who had finally caught up with Mac just after the police car had arrived. Zak handed him Cody’s knife, which he’d retrieved from the alley. Zak had wrapped a handkerchief loosely around the hilt; under the streetlights, the swastika peeped out from the folds of cloth.
“Schmidt – is he . . .?”
Wyatt shook his head. “ ’Fraid not. It’ll be a murder charge for our young friend here.” The officer’s mouth twisted in a sardonic expression. “Another ‘incident’ of white-on-white violence, and you just
know that his buddies are goin’ to blame it all on the Jews and the niggers.” He saw Mac’s face. “You don’t like hearin’ me use that word, do you?”
“Better you than me. I guess.”
Wyatt flashed a grin, the white teeth a startling contrast in his dark face. “It ain’t what I call myself when I look in the mirror.”
“Good to hear that.”
Wyatt nodded absently, turning his attention to the arrival of another police cruiser. A brief exchange, and the new arrival headed off to collect the discarded rifle. The officer turned back to MacGyver.
“That young friend of yours – Rafael Alvarado – he the one who drew those suspect sketches? Including the one of the skinhead here?”
“Yup, that was him.”
“Well, tell him from me that he’s good. Real good. I wish our regular sketch artist was half as good.”
Mac grinned. “I’ll do that. Of course – it would mean a lot more if you told him yourself.”
Wyatt shook his head. “You Phoenix folks have given me enough paperwork to fill the rest of my night. I’m goin’ home to sleep when I finally get done with it.”
“I didn’t mean tonight,” Mac answered. “You know where the Challengers Club is? Rafé always shows up for the basketball game on Friday afternoon. Think you could drop in about that time?”
Another grin like a flashbulb in the darkness. “I’ll keep it in mind. ‘Long as I don’t have to play myself. I suck at basketball. Always did.”
They all looked up at the screech of a braking vehicle; the white Phoenix tech van had pulled up in front of the opening to the alleyway. Addie was driving – she had mastered the art of driving on the right early in her stay in the US, although she still complained about the rear-view mirror being on the wrong side.
Willis bailed out of the front seat almost before the van had stopped and ran to where MacGyver was standing. “Mac –
Mac! Are you all right?!” He was staring wildly at Mac’s face.
Mac put a hand up to the half-forgotten cut; the blood was drying already, but it had crusted in his hair and run down his face. He must look like a mess. “I’m fine, Willis. Lighten up. Any word from Pete? Have they got the Professor?”
Willis looked drawn and unhappy. “If you’re done here, Mac, Pete wants us to meet him. Bad news.”
The police cars were drawn up in an empty parking lot behind a Thai restaurant, their headlights washing over a collection of dumpsters and scattered litter. The GPS unit was still working, but the signal only led to this dead end, where the abandoned frame from the forged Rembrandt now outlined an empty trash can.
MacGyver stood over the wreckage, shaking his head. “Aw,
man.”
“How did he
know?” Pete demanded of no-one in particular. “Could there have been a leak?”
“He probably didn’t know,” Laura said heavily. “It’s a common practice in art theft – cutting the paintings out of their frames makes them easier to transport. Most of the weight and bulk is the frame and the stretcher. It’s a terrible thing to do to a painting, but it happens all the time.”
Mac ran an exploring hand along the inside of the massive gilded frame, where the painting had been cut out of the heavy carved wood with a razor-sharp knife. “Do you think he knows he’s got a fake?”
“I doubt it. He wouldn’t have taken the painting if he’d known.” Laura looked at Mac with haunted eyes. “What do we do next?”
Mac put an arm around her. “We’ve got Cody under wraps, and Hunter and his crew – we’ll track him down.”
I sure hope that’s what comes next.
What happened next was that the trail went cold.
Cody sat in his cell, clammed up like a stuck bench vise. He insisted he’d never actually met the Professor in person, had only talked to him on the phone, and wouldn’t tell us anything even if he did know. I don’t think it was personal loyalty: I think it made him feel like a hero, in some sick, twisted way. As far as he was concerned, he was a soldier who’d been captured by the enemy. It was his duty to keep his mouth shut. I wouldn’t’ve been surprised to hear that he’d been reciting his name, imaginary rank, and non-existent serial number to the cops when they questioned him.
There weren’t any leads at his house, either. His mom couldn’t even believe that he was a thug turned assassin. His room at home was full of guns and ammo and Nazi memorabilia, the cops linked him to several armed robberies, and she still kept insisting he was just a history buff. And a ‘good boy’. If she’d known who the Professor was, she’d’ve turned him in to the cops in a heartbeat, to take the heat off her boy.
As for Hunter – he wouldn’t talk to a lawyer at all, wouldn’t defend himself, and kept insisting that the DA had no right to try him under ‘God’s law’, whatever that was. Then the deputy DA started swapping Bible quotations with him during their chats, and suddenly Hunter started singing like a canary.
Except a canary’s song isn’t ugly and hateful.
And Hunter knew plenty about Schmidt . . . except a lot of it was a pack of lies . . . and not a thing about the Professor.
Dead end.
