Free Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) by J Robert Kennedy

just
happened, though the shivers racing up and down his spine suggested his
subconscious was terrified of what it might be. He hung up the receiver and
looked about, it suddenly feeling as if he were being watched.
    Stay
where you are.
    That
meant someone was coming.
    But who?
    And what
was their motivation?
    It
suddenly occurred to him that they might think he had the portrait, and
they wanted it returned. It wouldn’t be the first time the idea had been
floated that his grandfather had actually stolen the portrait and died before he
could profit from his actions.
    It was
an accusation that enraged him every time it was suggested.
    A knock
on the front doors of the museum startled him and his heart leapt into his
throat as he slowly rose. The museum was closed at this time, the hours clearly
marked out front. It had to be them, but if it was, it meant they had been
waiting nearby for his call.
    He
glanced at the postmark.
    Two days
ago. Rome.
    So they
could have been waiting all day today and yesterday.
    They
might be mad you didn’t open it this morning.
    He pushed
his chair back, fear gripping him at the thought of upsetting them any further.
He exited his office and strode through the small gallery, unlocking the front
door. Holding his breath, he pulled open the heavy door and his eyes opened
wide.
    Nobody
was there.
    He
leaned out and looked to the left and right. There were plenty of people on the
street, though none seemed like they had just knocked, and none paid him any
mind. He was about to close the door when something caught his attention.
    A small
box sat by the other half of the door.
    And by
its shape, he knew immediately what it was.
    He
eagerly grabbed it, looking again for whoever had left it, then stepped back
inside, bolting the door and rushing toward the workshop in the back. Placing
the box on a workbench, he sliced it open and pulled out a small crate,
handcrafted some time ago by the looks of it, exactly the size he would expect
the self-portrait to be.
    Carefully
prying it open, he lifted the contents out of the wood crate then gently
removed the brown paper that wrapped it, brittle and dry, it so old he could
picture his grandfather packaging it so long ago.
    He fell
into his chair, tears filling his eyes as he gazed upon what was revealed.
    The red
chalk drawing of the master himself.
    He gazed
up at the heavens, tears rolling down his cheeks, then down at the picture of
his grandfather that hung on the wall nearby.
    It’s
home, granddad. It’s home!
     
     

 
     

    Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
October 1 st , 1998
Two weeks after the return
     
    Laura Palmer peered through the microscope, her professor explaining
what to look for. It was disappointing, yet exciting at the same time. She was
only in her third year of university, and her Art History professor had invited
several of the more promising students with her as part of a team to determine
if a drawing recently discovered was indeed genuine.
    And it
wasn’t.
    It was
actually a relief, the self-portrait, in red chalk, heavily degraded from years
of neglect. If it had indeed been the genuine article, it would have been a
travesty what had happened to it.
    But it
was unfortunate as well.
    The
drawing had a storied history, not the least of which was the fact the Nazis
had tried to acquire it, legends apparently surrounding it that it could imbue
great power to anyone who possessed it. Apparently, the curator of the museum
had secreted it away, eventually dying after being brutally tortured for days.
    She
sighed at the thought this man’s efforts would go unrecognized, the drawing
still lost to history.
    She rose
and looked at the current curator, the grandson of the hero who had tried to
save the genuine article.
    “Are you
certain?”
    She
nodded. “It’s very good, but the paper is far too new. It’s a near exact
duplicate when you compare it to the photos you provided, but the paper is all
wrong.”
    The man
dropped into