Stealing Teardrops from the Rain: The Forbes Trilogy: Part Two

By Paul Taylor

On a routine assignment, Art Loss Register investigator, William Forbes discovers a famous painting in the possession of a struggling artist. As he back tracks through the provenance a link is discovered to an owner who simply gave it away. As Forbes endeavors to discover why; it appears that Vladimir Chekov, Russia’s president elect holds the secret to the mystery. Forbes’s investigation takes him to Dubai, where a veil of secrecy is drawn ever closer.And then to Bangkok where Forbes discovers the past is not always history

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483466408

Paul Taylor

Author Paul Taylor was born and raised on a gentleman’s farm in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Alabama. Paul has dedicated his life to understanding and communicating the complexities, interrelationships, politics, sciences, economics and global significance manifested in environmental matters. Mr. Taylor has authored two prior book: “Green Gone Wrong” and “Climate of Ecopolitics.” He has a B.S. degree in Biology/Chemistry and a Master of Science degree in Environmental Science from the Tulane University School of Public Health. Paul also has post-graduate environmental training from the University of Alabama Marine Sciences Institute, the University of Maryland, the University of California at Irvine, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and the Tulane University Law School. And, Paul has been a Registered Environmental Assessor in the State of California. Paul is instructor and curricula developer as faculty in Environmental Science Studies at two Los Angeles universities, and at three other colleges campuses in Southern California in recent years. Paul is founder and principal of Paul Taylor Consulting -- Environmental science and energy consultant to institutions, commercial, industrial and governments, with specialty in scientific environmental impact reports, air and water pollution, wetlands and wildlife resources, sustainable energy and land use. Environmental compliance strategist and court expert witness. Mr. Taylor has posted hundreds of influential “Opinion Comments” in The Wall Street Journal concerning environmental issues -- Ecopolitics. Paul was a weekly contributor as the “Los Angeles Ecopolitics Examiner” under contract to Clarion Media from 2009 to 2013. Over the years he has been published in the Los Angeles Times, The Wall Street Journal, San Francisco Chronicle and The Washington Times.

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collections.

Prologue

AT THE BEGINNING OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY, Ambroise Vollard, and Martin Fabiani were acknowledged as the most important art-dealers in Europe.

On a fateful evening in July 1939, Vollard set out from his cottage in Le Tremblay-sur-Mauldre to travel to his Parisian mansion, which held their collection of 10,000 works of art, by artists including Cézanne, Renoir, Picasso, Gauguin, Vincent van Gogh, and the recently acquired Montmartre at Twilight by Camille Pissarro.

Close to Pontchartrain, Vollard’s car skidded and crashed. He lay in the wreckage, until found dead the following morning.

When the Nazi invasion of France began in May 1940, Vollard’s sisters dispatched a few exceptional pieces from the collection to Switzerland, for immediate auction; they then shipped the balance of Vollard’s paintings to the United States on the SS Excalibur. The ship, however, was intercepted by the Royal Navy in Bermuda.

Designated enemy property, the paintings were stored at the National Gallery of Canada for the duration of the war.

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IN JULY 1944, ADOLF HITLER ISSUED A DIRECTIVE regarding provisions for the defense of the Third Reich.

It put the entire civilian population on a war footing, and supplied instructions for the evacuation of foreign workers from the front lines. The order was designed to move them from the advancing Soviet Army in the east.

Specific within the directive, item 6(a) called for Preparations for Moving Prisoners of War. This unpretentious line prolonged the misery of war for hundreds of thousands of Allied POWs, causing them severe hardship, starvation, and death.

From January 1945, approximately 250,000 inmates perished on the so-called, death-marches.

Even in the bloody annals of the Nazi regime, this final act of cruelty was unique in character and scope.

As the death-marches began, rumors abounded, suggesting that they were being moved towards new concentration camps to be killed. It was thought that this was in revenge for the Allied commanders’ deliberate targeting of civilians in Dresden.

The POWs were marched from the east until exhaustion prevailed. Hitler’s thinking was that the POWs could be held hostage to leverage peace deals. His audacious plan was that they would be held at a redoubt in the Alps.

The northern route, took them from East Prussia to Stalag 357 in Fallingbostel.

The central route, started at Stalag Luft 7 at Bankau, and snaked, via Stalag 344 at Lamsdorf, to Stalag VIII-A in Görlitz, before ending at Stalag III-A in Luckenwalde, 30 kilometers south of Berlin.

The southern route from Stalag VIII, not far from Auschwitz, went through Czechoslovakia, toward Stalag XIII-D at Nuremberg and on to Stalag VII-A, at Moosburg in Bavaria.

January and February 1945 were the coldest months of twentieth century Europe, with temperatures as low as –25 °C and even until the middle of March, temperatures were well below 0 °C

As the winter drew to a close, and the cold abated, the German guards became less harsh in their treatment of the POWs.

However, the lightened mood was short lived as the sledges made by the POWs were rendered useless. The travel routes became littered with clothing, some POWs even discarded their greatcoats, praying that the weather did not turn cold again.

As the columns reached the western side of Germany they ran into the advancing Allied armies. For some this brought liberation, but for others it brought a swift and undignified death.

To avoid POWs being lost to the advancing Allies, they were marched toward the Baltic Sea. In desperation, the Nazis began using the POWs as human shields.

Later, it was estimated that the lucky ones had marched only five hundred miles by the time they were liberated, whereas the unlucky had walked almost a thousand.

During the entire death-march era, only two men were ever credited with escaping.

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IN APRIL 1949, BRITAIN’S HIGH COURT OF JUSTICE agreed to release the paintings to Vollard’s sisters, who sold off the remaining paintings on the New York commercial art-gallery market.

Their actions instigated a bitter court battle with Fabiani, in his attempt to reclaim his percentage of the works. Of the original ten thousand pieces he was only ever credited with receiving one painting, which he had to buy at a Swiss auction in 1941, and proclaimed had been stolen by the Nazi’s in 1944.

PART 1

Portraits

Chapter 1

AN OLD MAN IN MILITARY COSTUME (REMBRANDT 1630)

Tempelhof Railyard, Berlin, Germany.

May 2, 1945

APRIL 1945. AFTER SIX DREADFUL YEARS IN WHICH THE Nazi war machine killed over ten million Soviet soldiers, and eleven million civilians, the mighty Red Army reached the banks of the Oder River, fifty-kilometers east of Berlin.

When the battle commenced, one million Soviet Soldiers found a severely weakened Nazi defence, consisting mainly of demoralized and poorly equipped soldiers. Old men of the Volkssturm (Home Guard) and boys of the Hitler Youth stood shoulder to shoulder in a futile attempt to halt the advancing red wave.

With relative ease, the Red Army descended upon Berlin, for what Marshall Zukhov called their final hour of vengeance.

Four weeks later, on the second of May, the Battle of Berlin ended when General der Artillerie Helmuth Weidling, commander of the Berlin Defense Area, unconditionally surrendered the vanquished city to the flamboyant, General Vasily Chuikov.

On the same day, German officers commanding two ragged armies of the Vistula, positioned north of Berlin, surrendered to the British.

On the west, cut off from central Berlin, General Kurt von Tippelskirch, commander of the 21st army, told troops to lay down their weapons to the gum-chewing Americans.

As the three Allied armies converged on the ruined city, Berlin was systematically looted.

While the American military’s paltry role in the stealing of Europe’s treasures mostly involved individuals looting for personal gain, the Soviet plunder of Europe’s art treasures constituted institutionalized revenge.

Turn right. Major Tomas Bersarin sat in the passenger seat of the lead car of a small convoy picking its way through the ruined streets of Berlin.

The black Mercedes 540K staff car had been acquired two weeks previously from a German colonel, who, having had his brains blown out, had no further use of the vehicle.

The crude street-map sat on Bersarin’s knee. His route through the rubble-strewn streets clearly showed their destination, which was considerably more than the car’s meager headlights were currently doing.

Deep, jagged, indiscriminate, spine-jarring pot-holes, and fallen masonry mixed with identifiable pieces of glass from the broken buildings, further hindered their progress.

Bersarin knew they were behind schedule, already the wispy-grey fingers of dawn were creeping above the derelict Berlin skyline.

Behind the black Mercedes, two drab-grey 170V, long-wheelbase, diesel station-wagons, traveled. Each carried four heavily armed Soviet soldiers, all excited to have been seconded to the 43rd Trophy Brigade.

The six-vehicle convoy was completed by three L3000S beige-tarpaulin-covered flatbed Mercedes trucks.

For months, stories and first-hand accounts of looting in Holland, Belgium, Austria and Poland had filtered back to Soviet high command from the millions of displaced refugees fleeing from the conquered countries.

Innocently, indignant owners had lovingly described their personal possessions to caring Russian administrators, who had promised their works of art would be returned after the war.

Armed with this information the administrators detailed an inventory list that was presented to art historians back in Moscow, safe in the knowledge that the pieces would never be returned.

With the massive list of displaced art, looted possessions, and stolen artifacts carefully catalogued, the Soviet government created their own special plan for liberation.

The master list was organized and disseminated into a manageable fifty lists; each detailed a number of works of art that the Soviet Union wanted. Some targeted historical examples looted by Napoleon; others itemized works plundered by Hitler destined for his very own Lintz museum. Other lists focused on German artworks and cultural treasures supposedly held in safe places secured against allied bombing.

In total, the fifty lists detailed some 200,000 works of art, three kilometers of archival material, and three million books.

Each one of the fifty lists was then given to a Trophy Brigade, tasked with extracting the art during the first wave of the Russian assault on Berlin.

The man on the roadside wore a heavy great-coat procured from a dead German soldier. The bullet holes in the side had been crudely repaired, but the dried blood still remained.

He pulled a dirty scarf from his mouth, Copok Tpn, (Forty three,) he said.

The black 540K staff car pulled in beside him.

Bersarin wound down the window. The ragged man thrust his hand inside; Bersarin clasped it.

Comrade Leader! The ragged man immediately noticed how clean Bersarin looked. A good square jaw devoid of any stubble framed a full lipped mouth, and a turned-up nose, slightly freckled. It provided perfect symmetry to grey eyes and chiseled cheek bones. Clean dark hair fell across his forehead.

Comrade. Bersarin said, shaking the man’s filthy hand.

You’re late sir, we were worried, he sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. A week’s stubble covered his jaw. Seven nights sleeping rough had provided him with a cold, which had turned his nose red. But his eyes were still bright.

I’m sorry, the streets held us up.

Yes, I can see, we made a pretty mess of them. The ragged man laughed. His stale breath wafted into the car.

Is it safe? Bersarin asked.

Yes. The ragged man threw back his head and laughed Yes, we have seen inside, and it is safe. He sniffed and coughed again.

Get in.

The ragged man opened the rear door and slid across the seat.

My name is Boris. The rest of the team are waiting at the yard, he sniffed.

The rest of the team comprised of twelve, similarly attired, rough and ready men, four women and three children. Together with the sixteen soldiers from the convoy they made up the 43rd Trophy Brigade.

Not all the members were soldiers, but all were experts. Some of the men and women had specialized knowledge about the art works on their list, the others were expert killers. The children, Bea, Alice, and David had been picked up along the way, and formed the perfect picture of a group of refugees entering Berlin, fleeing the advancing soviet army.

Dawn had well and truly broken now, and the headlights on the Mercedes made no difference to what could be seen as they made the final turn into the damp smelling vastness of the Tempelhof railyard.

Cocooned in green-striped blankets tightly wrapped around their shoulders, three of the women marshalled the trucks inside the warehouse. Headscarves covered most of their faces, but their eyes and fingers showed the way.

The eight soldiers from the Mercedes station-wagons quickly positioned themselves at the gates. Each armed with a PPSh – 41 sub-machine gun.

As the hours whiled away the odd shot rang out from the troops as they picked off any interlopers unlucky enough to be on the streets.

Just after nine-thirty the three children began to distribute rations from the trucks to the members who’d endured meager food rations ever since entering Berlin earlier in the week.

The eldest child, Bea was fifteen years old; her features were typical Eurasian, heart-shaped face, very high and prominent cheek bones and slightly almond-shaped eyes. Bea took to the task with relish co-ordinating the distribution. The two younger children dashed across the cold unyielding yard.

Over there, she pointed to a handsome blonde soldier struggling with a large painting. Alice confidently walked over. When first asked, Alice had said she was twelve. The brigade had found her wondering along the road, she was more than happy to accept their security. Now she offered a can of hot tea to the blonde Russian. Tea Sir?

Thank-you little princess, I like your shoes. She wore odd boots which had been procured from the roadside, on their trek into the city.

Thank you sir, she replied with pride, That painting looks dull she pulled a face, as if she had just detected a bad smell.

"It is Montmartre at Twilight," Osip Landau shouted.

He should have got there earlier, when it was sunny. Alice shouted back.

Osip felt it was pointless explaining to her that Pissarro had completed fourteen versions of the same view.

You’re right little princess, it’s rubbish, the soldier whispered. Happy that she had performed her task well and earned praise, she skipped back to Bea.

David was a stern-faced eight year old, although he was adamant he had a birthday coming up soon. He surveyed the men with a detached grimace, which hinted that he wanted to join them, if only they’d let him. The soviet soldiers had all fallen for his obvious boyish charm. They had fashioned a football out of rags, and would encourage his shooting practice at every opportunity.

He marched up to two of the hardest looking soldiers, and offered them a biscuit. The big trooper broke the biscuit in half and shared it with the loveable boy. Both men and boy gave a mock salute, and David marched back to the trolley.

That’s Josef and Erik, he said to Bea, They’re my soldier friends.

Bea thought that they weren’t much older than herself.

The three art experts were advising the men on which paintings and boxes needed to be loaded next.

Two troopers exchanged a glance as they picked up an abomination of colour.

Good choice, you’re learning, said Osip Landau a diminutive art-expert from Moscow. His rotund body was topped off with a balding bullet of a head, which always seemed to have a beads of perspiration sprouting from it.

I don’t get it, said Lubo, a blonde haired soldier, with massive biceps.

What’s it supposed to be? Boris, sniffing loudly asked Osip.

Is it an abstract? asked Lubo.

No, it’s a man drinking. Look there’s a cup. Boris answered, but a series of hacking coughs punctuated his answer.

It’s rubbish; is that a cat? asked Lubo.

The small fifty-something art-expert wiped his forehead, and put on his wire-rimmed spectacles, It’s not really an abstract, it is what the Nazis class as degenerative art, since the invasion they forced Jewish collectors to sell to German dealers at rock bottom prices. Hitler believed that all abstract work was a corruption on the German people. Osip wiped his head, This work is called ‘Half past three’, by the poet Marc Chagall. Osip Landau took off his spectacles. His eyes blinked rapidly.

He must have been drunk, Boris sneezed again.

Or asleep. Both men laughed.

Not the dream of one people but of all humanity. Osip said as he wondered off, happy that he had been able to quote the artist.

The two troopers shook their heads in dis-belief, as they carefully pushed the painting into a slot in the crate. Worthless shit, said Lubo.

"Him or the painting? Boris answered. Both men laughed again.

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AT TEN O’CLOCK THE FIRST OF THE TRUCKS RUMBLED out of the Tempelhof railyard loaded with crates filled with works of art destined for Moscow.

The most direct route would have been to drive directly to Warsaw, then load the treasure on a train for Minsk, change at Smolensk, then on to Moscow. But the different railway gauges between Germany, Poland and Russia would have meant two transfers. The first leg would have been a 356 mile truck journey east. So the route the convoy was following took the six vehicles south through Dresden and on to Prague, where the treasure would be loaded onto a direct train to Moscow.

The three children had been squeezed into the back of the staff car. A middle aged woman named Golda, and the small elderly Chagall expert, Osip Landau had been given a seat in-between two well-armed soldiers in the rear of each of the station wagons.

One muscle bound killer had taken up an uncomfortable perch in the rear of each of the trucks. And, after much deliberation, the other art-expert, David Krychek, had been squeezed in-between the driver and his mate, in the third truck. In all, Twenty-two adults and three children were now heading south.

The rest of Trophy Brigade 43 were going deeper into the city, to meet up with Trophy Brigade 50.

After two hours travelling south along more rough pot-holed roads, it was un-clear who had the most arduous mission.

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THE MIDDAY SUN EXPOSED A STRANGE EERIE silhouette over the city. The destruction of Dresden, although complete was comparable to that of many other German cities, with the tonnage of bombs dropped. However, ideal weather conditions, wooden-framed buildings, and breakthroughs linking the cellars of connecting buildings, and the lack of preparation for the effects of air-raids, made the attack particularly devastating.

For these reasons the loss of life in Dresden during the February raids was higher than any other bombing raids during World War II.

The honking of the horn from truck two alerted everyone to the problem. The Mercedes pulled over. Bersarin walked past the two station-wagons and the first truck. The sun felt hot on his neck.

The driver and mate were already out of the truck, and lifting the bonnet.

Something has broken. The driver explained.

What? Bersarin remained calm.

Don’t worry Erik will fix it, he’s a magician, the driver reported.

Well, Erik, take out your wand, we need to get moving quickly, Bersarin arched his eyebrows. Erik looked into the engine.

Along the side of the road, the others started clapping and cheering; urging Erik to mend the truck.

After ten minutes Erik came from beneath the bonnet and raised his hand. Okay Josef, turn her over.

A long whine came from the engine, followed by a coughing and spluttering. Josef tried the starter again. The whine was weaker.

Okay, let me use the handle, Erik waved.

Josef jumped down from the cab. Erik engaged the starting handle.

I need you back in the cab, idiot! Erik waited for Josef to get back in. Now listen you baboon, I don’t want to lose my hand. Put your foot on the accelerator.

Okay Mr. Magician, Josef quipped.

Pull out the choke and depress the accelerator to prime the engine.

Okay I’m not an idiot, Josef responded.

Make sure that the handbrake’s on and you’re in neutral. Erik cautioned.

Done.

Switch on, Erik inserted the hand-crank into the drive shaft. Carefully he cupped it in his large hand. Careful not to grip with his thumb. Erik was aware that if the engine did catch, you could break your thumb if you were gripping.

Erik cranked the handle smartly. Always prepared to pull his hand away when the engine started. Nothing. He cranked the handle again.

Nothing. Then a dog barked.

Squeeze lightly, squeeze the accelerator, Erik encouraged.

Josef floored the pedal. The engine coughed, and stuttered, and fell silent.

In the silence, the sound of a motorcycle could be heard in the distance. Another dog took up the barking conversation.

Boris, the sniffing soldier came to Bersarin’s shoulder, his eyes were focused on the sound of the motorcycle. We should be going Sir.

I’m aware of that Boris, Bersarin replied calmly. But we can’t just leave them here. A noisy car engine hummed in the distance, the odds of being discovered were shortening. Erik came from under the bonnet, his face streaked with grease. I need to clean the carburetor again.

How long will that take? Bersarin rubbed his smooth jaw.

Ten minutes, Erik’s eyes pleaded.

Bersarin thought about the number of paintings that were packed onto the truck. He debated setting fire to it. The dogs continued to bark.

Please Major; I can do this, just give me ten minutes.

Bersarin made his decision, We have to continue, when you get the truck going, catch us up. If you can’t start it in thirty minutes. You’ll have to torch it.

If the carburetor is cracked, I’ll blow the truck up myself. I’ll know within ten minutes. Erik answered.

Good luck to you. Bersarin clapped him on the back, it was as if he’d stamped their death warrant.

What about the paintings Sir? Josef asked.

Oil, canvas and wood. They’ll burn, just make sure it’s total, we can’t risk the Germans figuring out what we are doing, Bersarin held their gaze.

Don’t worry sir. Erik stuck his head under the bonnet again.

What about us? Josef asked quietly.

Don’t get caught. Bersarin raised his eyebrows.

The engines fired up in a sarcastic first time rev from the rest of the convoy. The black Mercedes eased away, and bumped around debris in the road.

Truck number three’s driver waved and smiled as they drove past the stricken truck. Josef raised his thumb as a sign of insult.

A minute down the bumpy road, Bersarin saw two bundles of rags come alive at the road side and stretch out boney hands. The driver began to slow.

Keep going, we’ve lost enough time already.

As the second station wagon drove past the two old women, it slowed to allow a bundle of food to be thrown to them. As the driver pulled out into the middle of the road, a motorcycle courier came around the corner.

Through his goggles he glanced at the cars and trucks. The driver in truck three waved, and the courier waved a gloved hand back, a moment later he was 100 meters down the road in the opposite direction.

That won’t go un-noticed. Get off the main road, we can’t risk a patrol stopping us, Bersarin instructed.

The explosion was loud enough for them all to hear. Over the dead skyline a plume of smoke rose tumbling over itself to reach the blue summer sky.

Bersarin watched the smoke, Looks like the carb was cracked.

Should we wait for them to catch us? the driver asked.

Bersarin shook his head reservedly, No, that motorcycle courier saw us, within the next hour every patrol will be on the look-out for us. Erik and Josef are on their own, drive on. He turned, not wanting to see the driver’s face.

For the next hour, the five vehicles slowly passed through the broken skeletal remains of a once beautiful and vibrant city. Twisted metal ruins cast grotesque shadows over the rubble that housed the dreams of the dead. A pack of dogs, oblivious to the devastation and desolation fought to tug something edible from a collapsed building. Afraid that they may see what it was, Bersarin told the children, Cover your eyes.

Of almost thirty-thousand houses in the inner city of Dresden, twenty-five thousand were totally destroyed.

An area of fifteen square kilometers was completely devastated, now only rumble remained. In all, the city was more than three-hundred square kilometers all of which was nothing more than a graveyard, which after three months still exuded the stench of death.

Chapter 2

MONA LISA (LEONARDO DA VINCI 1504)

Real Club Náutico de Valencia, Valencia, Spain.

May 13. 2013

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. VLADIMIR CHEKOV.

The man widely tipped to become Russia’s next president stood to a stirring round of applause. Fingers spread and palms up, with a smile as wide as a Cheshire cat, Chekov gently encouraged the crowd to calm down, but in reality, as with all politicians, he adored the adulation.

Before entering politics, Chekov had been CEO of the Russian Gas and Oil giant, Sibnet; and this year Sibnet were sponsoring the Russian entry in the America’s cup series.

The assembled guests ranged from other team sponsors, to the yachtsmen themselves. All were powerful men, some in the boardroom, and some in the spotlight of the World’s sporting arenas.

Tomorrow, practice would begin, but tonight the crews were being treated by their sponsors.

From his University days, Vladimir Chekov had always been enthralled by the premise of racing, ‘One winner, no second, victor and vanquished,’ sport had always excited him. He owned an extensive collection of racing memorabilia and very exclusive sports cars at his private residence.

The great Prussian militarist, Clausewitz said, to truly win, one must not only be victorious but one must also inflict the maximum damage on ones opponent to demoralize him.

The Russian crew roared with laughter. Glasses were held high; and mock threats and rude gestures were lightheartedly exchanged between the teams. Chekov continued to deliver a speech full of praise and motivation for the skill and courage of the crews. The night continued to be a great success.

Long after the meal, but just before the first of the midnight vodka toasts, Chekov impressed the Russian team by demonstrating a feat of memory, by recounting all their names.

Now at 01.00am, after the last of the midnight vodka toasts, as the men staggered from the dining room Chekov shouted, pointing to each in turn.

Mr. Navigator, Strategist, Mainsheet Grinder, Mainsheet Trimmer, Downwind Trimmer, Port and Starboard Grinders, the main Mast-man, Mid-bowman, Bowman, Pitman, Upwind Trimmer and Traveler, go to you beds.

Suitably impressed the crew disappeared to their beds.

Since the end of the Cold War, the title ‘The most powerful man in the world’ has been the standard appendage for the President of the United States.

Now, if the world press was to be believed, that title would soon belong to the leader of America’s vanquished Cold War rival, the President of Russia.

Chekov was the bookies favourite to beat Vladimir Putin, and that meant the stock exchange was already getting into bed with the International Banks and investors who were backing Chekov for President.

With the election less than ten months away, Chekov’s investors believed their man would carry the title, from 2014 for the entire term in office.

Obama’s performance of late, over Syria, suggested he was uncomfortable in his role. No such doubts surrounded Chekov, he was a man of action.

The man destine to be President of Russia would command the oil and gas contained beneath its soil. The man destined to be President of Russia would be the man destined to rule the World.

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Valencia, Spain. The morning after.

SHE CUT THROUGH THE WATER AT ALMOST 12 KNOTS. Her sleek design honed by 102 years of history.

The America’s Cup is one of the world’s oldest sporting competitions, which the U.S. had totally dominated up until the last 20 years. Since then Australia, New Zealand and even Switzerland had all won.

Now the yacht clubs of each nation carry the corporate sponsorship and use the latest technological know-how that the mother country can provide to propel their yachts even faster through the swirling blue waters of the World’s oceans.

The Mona Lisa was an 80 foot J/133 series, her brilliant white hull cut through the waves like an arrow, she was narrow in the beam with a huge sail area which allowed her to reach and maintain speeds in excess of 15 knots.

Her mast was 110 feet high and the full length vibrated each time she crashed into the wall of water that every new wave threw up into her bow.

The spray from the impact was sent stinging into the faces of the crew, as the boat hesitated momentarily and then with a whoosh of exhilaration was heading for the next one.

At a weight of 55,000 lbs she was built for racing, and carried a crew of seventeen, all with specific tasks for maximizing the coordination, communication and speed to afford the best results.

The Cup course in Valencia is short and very spectator friendly from shore.

This morning though only a few people were watching the spectacle of a racing yacht skimming over the waves. The spectators were the hard core, borne of sailing families. Come early for the best position in plenty of time for the first practice.

The Mona Lisa’s Skipper came from the coastal town of Sochi, an experienced racer in his early thirties. He stood at the helm like a rock, his shoulder muscles straining to hold the boat straight against the unforgiving power of the sea.

Next to him, and taking the place of the Tactician was their guest of honour, the Russian oligarch Vladimir Chekov.

An imposing man he looked much younger than his sixty years of age. Chekov liked to think he was still fit, and in the constraints of a business suit he still looked lean and able. But today the demands that the boat placed upon his body told him he was growing old and going soft. He held onto the cockpit rail for dear life as yet another magnificent wave was destroyed by the progress of the racing yacht.

The night before he had dined with the crew, and was proud to have remembered all their names and positions. Now as another hail of droplets crashed into his exposed face he could remember nothing.

The men on deck were moving with a precision he found mesmerizing, but each time he took his eyes from the horizon, the feeling of nausea overwhelmed him. The black woolen hat clamped firmly over his shaven head was already soaked, and the dampness mingled with his sweat.

The Skipper was explaining why two men were adjusting the Boom and Runner, his balance and poise whilst talking was simply magical.

It’s to control the backstay, he said effortlessly, his voice carried above the crash of the boat as it scythed through the fluid strength of the ocean.

But all Chekov could accept was the bone jarring crash as Mona Lisa tore through another wave. Emerging on the crest she shook the water from her deck like a graceful swan, and then tore down the gully, streaming like an arrow to its target.

Chekov nodded in mock understanding of the captain’s commentary, the smile etched onto his frozen face. Out here on the sea, the elements of wind and water had conspired to produce a formidable cauldron. Chekov longed to be back on shore, where the warming sun was soothing the spectators in the mellow morning.

When the boat exploded the spectators saw the flash and felt the blast ripple through their bodies, in an instant the boat was transformed into a kaleidoscope of pieces spiraling and tumbling through the air. As the velocity of the shockwave lessened, and as the mist and smoke dissipated, the once beautiful boat had become just a jumble of pieces of jetsam floating on the water. The spectators on the shore looked on in abject horror.

The large sail had been torn to shreds and floated, burning uselessly across the sky. Hoisted aloft by a relentless wind.

As the ringing in their ears subsided, the spectators started to scream, pointing toward the wreck, turning to each other for reassurance. A feeling of helplessness descended, their blood ran cold in the warm morning sunshine.

The spectators had come from near and far, the closest lived in Valencia, the furthest from Wellington, New Zealand; all had thought it would be a day they would remember as being the first day of practice for the Americas cup.

Now they would all remember their experience as the day that Vladimir Chekov was assassinated.

Chapter 3

THE KISS (GUSTAV KLIMT 1908)

Hillhouse church cemetery, Hamilton, Scotland.

October 2010

AS HE ENTERED THE CEMETERY, THE COLD WIND chilled the tears as they glided down the cheeks of William Forbes.

For the past five weeks he’d stayed in a room, in the town’s Public House, drinking their whisky and breaking their hearts with his story.

The woman I loved was killed in an explosion, in Hong Kong.

The locals had felt his sorrow.

She was beautiful. She was a very complex lady.

Aren’t they all? The locals echoed back.

She’d conned a rich man out of some money.

Was he English? a severe Scot with bushy grey-eyebrows and soured memories had asked, but Forbes continued his drunken monolog unabated.

A very rich and powerful man. And he killed her!

The assembled locals fell silent for a few seconds, then the barman, who’d heard the story many times before asked, You were a soldier, weren’t you?

Forbes choked back the tears, and straightened his body, Yes. Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, 94 to 97, my father’s regiment.

Very good. The locals raised their glasses, and cheered approvingly.

Did you kill this man? One asked.

Was he English? The severe man whispered.

A frightening smile spread over Forbes’s face. No, I didn’t kill him. I did something worse. He knocked back another whisky; and instantly came out of his memory.

Well, we’ll be sorry to see you go. The barman lamented.

He’d told the locals that he needed to be close to her for just a little while longer; he’d told himself he could leave at any time, but the truth was he couldn’t. Not without returning to the church once more.

The car, sent from London was parked by the lychgate, the traditional covered gateway by which all funeral processions pass, the driver, under strict instructions, sat patiently at the wheel.

The oak tree by the gate was now devoid of almost all its leaves. Like Forbes, it stood skeletal and alone. The wind cut through his black suit, and hugged his bones.

William Forbes trudged toward the grave, last night’s whisky making every step an adventure.

On top of the headstone, exactly where he’d left it, sat her antique ivory Toucan-billed hair-grip. No wind would dare dislodge it, he picked it up and slid it into his pocket. As he blew her one last kiss, Forbes read the inscription on the headstone.

In loving memory of

Agnes Monroe

Beloved daughter of Hugh and Caroline

Who can restrain a heart-felt tear?

And fail to weep for one so dear?

None but god, who gave us breath

And now compels us ‘Submit to death’

Tis hard but patience must endure

And soothe the wound it cannot cure

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Sometime later.

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR WAS LOUD AND CONFIDENT.

Are you decent sir? The voice imitated the knock, but with a South Wales accent. The male voice was baritone, confident and clear, non-threating but enquiring.

William Forbes hurriedly returned the antique ivory Toucan-billed hair-grip to the bottom of his leather hold-all.

The door opened without waiting for an answer and the male nurse entered the clean sterile room. He observed Forbes standing by the bed, hands shoved deep inside his bag, the guilty look on his face was priceless. The nurse gave an indignant look

There, that’s confidence for you, bag packed already. The man’s dark hair and close set eyes were also typical Welsh, as was his rugby player physique.

Nearly.

Would you like some help sir? The voice was softer now.

No, Forbes’s response was blunt, and dismissive.

I understood you were booked in for another two days? Have I got that wrong? He noticed how Forbes had filled out over his time at the clinic.

Forbes ignored the comment. I have an appointment with Doctor Hall, today.

Ah yes, see what he has to say will you sir?

That’s the idea.

Wait until you’ve seen the Doctor before un-packing again. Good idea sir.

Forbes held the man’s stare, he quickly assimilated the threat.

Can I get you a drink, coffee, tea? I can’t offer anything stronger sorry.

The moment was defused, Forbes relaxed. Tea will be fine thanks.

Very good sir, and with that his body was negotiating the door like a rugby player avoiding a tackle.

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MANY PEOPLE INVOLVED IN TRAUMATIC EVENTS, experience a brief period of difficulty adjusting. But with time and healthy coping methods, such traumatic reactions usually get better, Doctor Hall was a painfully thin academic of a man. His small balding head was perched on a long scrawny neck which protruded over an over-large olive-green shirt. He reminded Forbes of a tortoise stretching for lettuce.

William Forbes sat in the spotlessly clean consulting room on a well-worn institutional-green fabric sofa. The curtains were also in the same calming colour. A new pine coffee table separated the two men. Doctor Hall sat on a light-brown leather chair which sighed every-time he moved his scrawny buttocks.

Without a reaction from Forbes, the good doctor continued … But in some cases symptoms can get worse or last for months or even years. Sometimes they can completely disrupt your life. Doctor Hall stopped talking to observe Forbes; concerned that his patient was not interacting. It was a bad sign. At least he’d put on some of the weight he’d lost.

Which do you think applies to you?

Forbes moved his head, as if he were waking from a deep sleep.

Which what? He rubbed his fleshy clean-shaven jowls.

Are you getting better or are you getting worse?

You’ve told me I have post-traumatic stress disorder. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.

You were coping?