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

his chair, deflated. He pulled at his hair as he shook his head.
“It’s not fair! He died for nothing!”
    Laura’s
heart went out to the man. His grandfather, whom he had obviously never met,
had died a horrible death, and the fruits of his labor were still lost.
    “You
know some people still say he stole the portrait? That he got what he
deserved?” He slammed his fist on the arm of his chair, startling Laura. He glanced
up at her then at her professor. “It isn’t fair.”
    Professor
Cindy Osborne nodded. “No, it isn’t. He was a hero. He protected the portrait
from the Nazis. Eventually, one day, it will turn up, and he’ll be recognized
for what he has done.”
    Donati stared
off into the distance, his eyes glassing over, then his eyes flared for a
moment as if something had just occurred to him. He looked at Professor Osborne.
“You are bound by the confidentiality agreement, correct?”
    Osborne bristled,
Laura getting the distinct impression she knew exactly what was about to be
said.
    “Yes.”
The word was drawn out, as if the answer was feared.
    There
was a knock at the door, interrupting them. Laura turned to see an old man
standing there, a shaking cane in his right hand, his left gripping the
doorframe.
    Donati leapt
from his chair. “Mr. Santini!” He rushed over to the old man, his mouth agape,
then turned to the others before giving the man a chance to say anything. “This
is the man who helped my grandfather, who took the portrait to Rome!”
    “Is it
true?” asked the man in English, his voice low yet still filled with vitality.
He froze when he caught sight of the portrait on the worktable. “Is that it?”
His voice was filled with wonder as he shuffled toward it, the excitement in
his eyes clear.
    And it
crushed Laura to see his face when the curator responded.
    “No.
It’s a forgery.”
    The old
man leaned on the table, staring at the portrait then looking about. “Bring an
old man a chair.”
    Laura
leapt forward, dragging a chair toward him then helping him into it.
    “Thank
you, my dear.” He looked up and smiled at her. “Aren’t you a pretty one.”
    She
blushed.
    He patted
her hand. “ You can call me Nicola.”
    She
smiled and squeezed his hand. “Laura.”
    He gave
her hand a trembling kiss then pointed at the remains of the crate that the
portrait had been shipped in. “Did he initial it?”
    Donati’s
eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
    “Did he
initial it? Your grandfather always carved his initials in the bottom of any
crate, that way he’d know if it had been repackaged.” He looked at Donati. “He
wasn’t a very trusting man.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you?”
    Donati
seemed unsure of what to say, but Laura was already examining the pieces of
wood. She grinned, grabbing one of the pieces. “Here it is, VD, Vincenzo Donati!”
    She
handed the piece of wood over to Nicola who examined it himself then nodded,
handing it back. “Interesting. Had it been opened before?”
    Donati
shook his head. “I don’t think so, but it’s hard to tell. I think Grandfather
himself wrapped it.”
    “Wrapped
a forgery.” Nicola grunted, frowning, his knuckles turning white as they
gripped the arms of his chair. “He tricked me, right from the beginning.”
    Laura
knelt down beside him. “Do you have any idea where the genuine portrait is?”
    “I’m not
sure. I removed what I thought was the real drawing from its case so this”—he
motioned toward the disassembled crate—“couldn’t be from what I took.” He
sighed, his chin dropping to his chest. “This forgery was never part of the
plan I knew about.” Nicola looked up at her, tears filling his eyes. “I have no
idea where the original is, but I have a feeling I never had it.”
     
     

 
     

    Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
July 3 rd , 1941
The night before Nicola took the portrait
     
    “He must think it’s the genuine portrait.”
    Vincenzo
Donati nodded, the pit in his stomach at