My heart thumped ponderously. By their own admission, these men were mercenaries — but they had been decent enough to me. Even kind at times (except Henrik, obviously). Shouldn’t I at least inform them what their target was? What it represented?
Marius touched my arm, and I swallowed. Hard. Then I turned to Bene and motioned for his phone. “I need a closer look, please.”
Roux shook his head firmly. “Sorry, Mina. You already know more than you should.”
“Maybe you know less than you should,” I shot back.
He frowned, then shrugged. “We’ve been hired to extract goods. Whether that’s a painting or a pumpkin, it’s not our business.”
“That’s not any painting.”
“No? Then what is it?” Roux demanded.
I pursed my lips, then whispered as if someone might be eavesdropping. “Van Gogh. ThePainter on the Road to Tarascon.”
“Road to where?”
“Tarascon,” I murmured, staring at the phone.
Bene studied the image again. “Is it super valuable or something?”
I shook my head. “No. Yes. I mean, that’s not the point. This painting has been missing since World War II.”
“Well, I guess someone found it,” Bene muttered, unimpressed.
I shook my head. “It’s calledRaubkunst. War plunder — if it’s the real deal.”
Roux shook his head. “What it is isn’t our business.”
“Well, maybe it should be,” I snipped. “Maybe you should think.”
He glared, but I glared back. When that got me nowhere, I did my best to explain.
“Throughout the war, Nazis confiscated, stole, or ‘bought’ thousands of masterpieces at extortionary prices. Some were recovered. Others were destroyed. Some just disappeared.” I pointed at the image on the phone. “Like that one. It was hidden in a salt mine in Germany with a lot of other art.”
“Were you an art major or something?” Bene asked in the same disapproving tone I might use to ask if he was a mercenary.
“Yes.”
His mouth formed a surprised O. “I thought you were a teacher.”
“I am. I started out as an art teacher, but the school district scaled back the program, and I had to switch to classroom teaching.” Reducing a valuable art program was another crime as far as I was concerned, but I forced myself to get back to the point. “A fire broke out in that salt mine in the last days of the war, and that Van Gogh was reported lost with everything else.”
“But it wasn’t,” Marius murmured, catching on.
“There have been rumors about it being part of a private collection ever since. Anillegalprivate collection,” I said.
“What happens if it’s found?” Bene asked.
“It’s supposed to be returned to its rightful owner or their descendants. Best case, it goes to a museum for the public to enjoy.”
“Supposed to be, huh?” Bene said dubiously.
Roux jutted his chin at Bene to put away his phone. “Well, thanks for informing us. But since we have some planning to do…” He tilted his head toward the door.
My mind spun. Leaving now was the prudent thing to do. But my heart thumped wildly, and not because of a Van Gogh, or even a long-lost Van Gogh.
I knew about that painting — and others like it — because I knew someone who’d worked tirelessly to track plundered artworks. Someone who had died while hot on the trail ofThePainter on the Road to Tarascon.
