Ransom on the Rhone

By Stephen G. Yanoff

The theft of a priceless Gobelin tapestry drags insurance investigator, Adam Gold, into the murky and violent world of international artnapping - and a life or death struggle with the Corsican mafia.

In an effort to retrieve the tapesty, Gold will also become embroiled in the recovery of artwork stolen by the Nazis during World War II.

A deadly confrontation will ensue, culminating in a startling and unforgettable climax.

Like no other author in his genre, Yanoff reinvents the clever mystery with each new novel. RANSOM ON THE RHONE is a literate, plausible, suspenseful tale that keeps you turning pages well past bedtime. The book is well written and exciting from start to finish, with a slick final twist... wickedly clever!

Renegade Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496964434

Stephen G. Yanoff

Stephen G. Yanoff is a 20-year veteran of the insurance industry and an acknowledged expert in the field of high risk insurance placement. He holds a bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral degree from the Texas A & M University System. In addition to GONE BEFORE GLORY, he is the author of two other highly acclaimed history books, THE SECOND MOURNING and TURBULENT TIMES. All three histories have won numerous awards for “Best U.S. History Book of the Year.” Dr. Yanoff has also written several award-winning mystery novels, including THE GRACELAND GANG, THE PIRATE PATH, DEVIL’S COVE, RANSOM ON THE RHONE, A RUN FOR THE MONEY, and CAPONE ISLAND. A native of Long Island, New York, he currently lives in Austin, Texas, with his wife, two daughters, and an ever-growing family. For more information about the author or his books, readers can go to: www.stephengyanoff.com

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© 2015 Stephen G. Yanoff. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  02/12/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6441-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6442-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6443-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015900659

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

This book is dedicated to Barbara and Max Talbott

and

Helena and Lee Bomblatus

Great friends and great travel companions.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, I’d like to thank my lovely wife, Patricia, for listening to my first, second, and third drafts! The woman is a saint. I’d also like to thank my family members, Hazel Yanoff, Glenn and Grace Yanoff, Rachel and Adam Zell, Rebecca Yanoff, Ronald and Kristine Yanoff, Janice and Larry Baum.

Another big thank you to my dear friends, Peter Barlin, Susan Marquess, Molly and Stanley Naftolin, Gary and Jaime Rubenstein, Ardie and John Stopp, Pat and Lee Cutrone.

A special thank you to Vicki Kaufman of Blue Heron Design Studio for her help in designing the book cover.

Every author also needs a loyal fan club, and mine includes Eric Bomblatus, Ken Evans, Kevin Evans, Felicity Fromholz, Kellie Hogan, Barbara and Roy Minton, Melinda Perez, Terri Schexnayder, Rich Walker, Larry Wood, Leigh Ann Woodward, and Jenny Young.

Finally, a special pat on the head, to Baker and Romy, my faithful and loyal companions.

"A robber is more high-toned than what a pirate is—

as a general thing. In most countries they’re awful

high up in nobility—dukes and such."

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

Mark Twain

CHAPTER ONE

While it was hardly the crime of the century, it was still a major art heist, still an unsolved crime, and still the most heartbreaking event to ever occur in the haunting, windswept village of Viviers, France.

The Nazi occupation had been horrible, but the theft of the Gobelin tapestries from St. Vincent’s Cathedral had been more traumatic – more sacrilegious.

A crime against God Himself.

St. Vincent’s, the smallest cathedral in France, had at one time contained six tapestries, 17th century masterpieces, representing scenes from the Bible. They were created by the Gobelins, a family of French dyers who, in the middle of the 15th century, established themselves in Paris, on the banks of the Bievre River.

One evening, in 1974, thieves entered the church and stole three of the tapestries. Two were recovered in Italy, but the third was never found, and to this day, the Catholics of Viviers prayed for its safe return.

In all likelihood, the thieves entered the church in a group, posing as parishioners or tourists. They hid, waited until nightfall, and then went to work. Being professionals, they ignored the candlesticks, the 20th century art, and the communion chalice. This bunch had its sight set on something specific: the priceless Gobelin tapestries that would fetch millions on the black market.

The hard part was cutting them down without making too much noise or damaging the fragile embroidery. They had to work as a team, and they had to work quickly. Easier said than done, considering that each tapestry measured 23 feet square and weighed over 140 pounds.

Oddly enough, there were no alarms, no motion detectors, and no security guards on the premises. Like most churches, St. Vincent’s still relied on the fear of excommunication and the fear of God for protection.

A costly mistake in modern, secular France.

Seated at her desk with her elbows propped on a pile of claim files, Irene Kaminski, the president of the Anchor Insurance Company, glanced at the distant shape of the new World Trade Center. A smile almost, but not quite, cracked her stern countenance as she studied the breathtaking beauty of the structure. As if on cue, she turned her head and looked straight toward the man that was sitting across from her. Have you ever handled a fine art claim? she asked.

Adam Gold, her lead investigator, snorted indelicately. Once or twice. Why do you ask?

We’re starting to see more claims.

Bad economy. Artwork is an easy target.

Too easy.

Irene Kaminski knew that there were no reliable statistics on stolen art, since few countries had the motivation or the manpower to compile them. Still, from her sources at Interpol, she knew that the numbers were staggering. In any given year, Interpol received roughly 2,000 reports of stolen artwork, mostly from places of worship in Italy, France, and Russia. A huge number compared to the two or three hundred robberies that occurred in museums and art galleries.

She also knew that the United States was home to the world’s largest art market, which meant that a lot of stolen art ended up at the big auction houses in New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles. Each one of those cities had its share of deep-pocketed dealers and collectors who would jump at the chance to purchase a Gobelin tapestry, but as far as she was concerned, the missing masterpiece was still in Europe.

Her face grew taut with distaste as she studied her image in the window. This afternoon, she’d been too preoccupied to worry about her appearance. Instead of fussing with her long, blonde hair, she’d pulled it up into a ponytail, and she had dispensed with makeup altogether. I look like shit, she whispered to herself. I could use a vacation.

You and me both.

Unfortunately, we’ve got work to do.

Surprised by her businesslike tone, Gold shot her a curious look. Does this have something to do with that tapestry?

Looking down, she said softly, I received a bulletin from Interpol. The missing Gobelin has resurfaced.

After forty years?

Better late than never.

Gold nodded. What does that have to do with us?

Plenty. We wrote part of the coverage. She watched him for a reaction, and when he made no comment, she said, A five million dollar umbrella.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Gold let out a long sigh. I’ll bet some heads rolled on that one.

I’m sure they did.

Glad I wasn’t around.

Way before your time.

Thank goodness for small favors.

She folded her hands under her chin and leaned back in her chair. Did you know that we never closed our file? True fact. We paid the claim, but reserved the right to subrogate.

Subrogation referred to circumstances in which an insurance company tried to recoup expenses for a claim it paid out in the event another party should have been held responsible for paying a portion of the loss.

It dawned on Gold that they were spending an awful lot of time talking about a 40-year-old claim. There was something wrong with this picture, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. His face remained neutral despite the fact that he was irritated by Kaminski’s ability to read his thoughts.

You’re wondering why we’re having this discussion, she said.

Lucky guess.

"In Europe, almost all lawsuits must be started within a legally determined time period. After that, prosecutors are prevented from filing a case. However, if a criminal is on the run, he or she can be convicted in absentia."

Gold shifted in his chair. What’s your point?

"If a criminal is convicted in absentia, there would be no statute of limitations. She looked solemnly at Gold and said, Precisely what happened forty years ago. A French court convicted the entire gang that stole the Gobelin tapestries. If found, they can be arrested and brought to trial."

Who knows if they’re even alive.

They’re still around, and they’ve got a new ringleader.

Gold looked at her with a skeptical frown and asked, How do you know that?

She contacted the French authorities. She’s holding the tapestry for ransom, demanding two million euros for its safe return. If she doesn’t get the money, she’s going to toss the tapestry into the Rhone.

"She?"

Welcome to the 21st century.

Gold’s smile was flat and tight. Great to be here. Isn’t the Rhone the river that runs through France?

You got it.

Nice touch. He sipped from his coffee cup, thinking. Very theatrical.

Kaminski bit her nails, an old childhood habit absently resurrected whenever she was under stress. I hate theatrics.

Gold watched her intently, not quite sure how this little game was supposed to proceed. With each passing second he grew more irritated, wondering where exactly he came in. You never answered my question. What does this have to do with us? We’ve already paid the claim.

Cutting straight to the chase, she said, The French have requested our help.

Are you serious?

Kaminski found the question a little strange since she was not known for her sense of humor. Quite serious. The request came directly from the Minister of Culture. Would you like to see the communiqué?

Gold’s voice was cool, his expression unmoved. No, I’ll take your word for it. He cocked his head a bit to the side and said, Why do they need our help?

We’re the only ones with a complete file. Nobody else has the original claim report, photographs of the crime scene, or the appraisals provided by the church. She tapped her finger on her lips a few times and then leaned forward, pushing a file across her desk. I’d like you to deliver this in person.

Raising a conspiratorial eyebrow, Gold said, Why not mail the file?

Surely you jest. Have you been to the post office lately?

I was referring to Fed Ex.

She waved off the suggestion and stood up. I need someone on the ground. Someone I can trust. There’s much to be gained if we play our cards right.

Gold searched her eyes for a moment and then said, Am I missing something?

A great deal. She folded her arms across her chest and starred into space for a moment. Have you seen our quarterly report?

I skimmed through it.

Did you learn anything?

Actuaries love charts.

She made a face. We are not having a good year. No growth, mounting claims, poor return on our investments. Our stock price is flat. Investors are worried. Our board is starting to ask some tough questions. For a moment, she stood there, nervously rubbing the palms of her hands on the sides of her legs, looking beyond and behind him – as if she hadn’t the faintest idea how to solve the problem. We could use some good publicity. The kind you get by solving a major case.

You want me to work with the French authorities?

That’s the idea.

The French are arrogant and stubborn. What makes you think they’ll accept my help?

They’ll have to if they want the file.

You’ve got it all figured out.

That’s what they pay me for.

So we’re going through all this trouble just to get some good press?

The silence was deafening, and after a long awkward moment Kaminski shook her head. You’re missing the big picture. We’re a publicly held company. We have a responsibility to serve the public and protect their interests. The Gobelin tapestry belongs to the French, but we all benefit from its existence. Every one of us. We can’t just wring our hands, hoping for its safe return. That’s not what we’re about. She walked over to the window and looked outside. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a magnificent statute in New York Harbor. The Statue of Liberty. Did you know that it was designed by a Frenchman?

Gold nodded. Gustave Eiffel.

Actually, it was designed by Frederick Bartholdi. Eiffel designed and built the frame work – which holds the copper sheeting in place. In any case, they were both French.

Good for them.

Did you know that the statue was a gift from the people of France?

Everyone knows that.

But just think of that, Adam. Millions of French citizens scrimping and saving, collecting pennies, nickels, and dimes to buy America a gift. My God, what a lovely gesture. She paused, just long enough to let out a long, theatrical sigh. How can we turn on backs on them when they need our help? I don’t know about you, but I could never live with myself.

Gold mulled that over for a moment and then burst out laughing. You’re something else, Irene.

What’s so funny?

You missed your calling. You should have been an actress.

Kaminski frowned, What is that supposed to mean?

Do you think I was born yesterday?

Excuse me?

Stow the sob story about civic responsibility. You have a good heart, but when it comes to business, you’re one tough cookie. There’s something you’re not telling me.

You’re too suspicious.

That’s what they pay me for.

Well, I’m paying you to follow orders, and I’m ordering you to help the French.

No problem, boss. I’d just like to know why.

Kaminski didn’t bother to hide her displeasure. Must you know everything?

Everything that might get me killed.

She suppressed a smile. Do you think I would ask you to risk your life for a rug?

There’s only one way to find out. He casually tucked the claim folder under his arm and stood. I have no choice but to ply you with alcohol until you tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Shall we, madame?

She glanced at her watch. Three o’clock in the afternoon?

Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

CHAPTER TWO

Irene Kaminski had learned to speak English in her native Austria, which is why she spoke with a slight accent and why she was puzzled by some of the words that Americans used. In her view, English was a crazy language. There was no egg in eggplant, no ham in hamburger, and no apple or pine in a pineapple. Happy Hour was another odd term, since nobody at the Yankee Clipper Bar looked happy, despite the two-for-one drinks and free hor d'oeuvres.

When Kaminski mentioned the contradictions, Gold pointed out that English muffins weren’t invented in England or French fries in France. Speaking of France, he said slyly, "why don’t we celebrate our joie de vivre with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot?"

She smiled at him. You’re a sneaky rascal.

"Ah, but one with good taste, oui, madame?"

I’d be happy with a cold beer.

Gold made a face. Beer is so…bourgeois. He ordered a bottle of champagne, and told the waiter to bring a bucket of ice. You deserve the best.

I always knew you were overpaid.

A person like me can never be paid too much.

Did you win Lotto?

I wish.

Why the splurge?

Expense account.

She laughed dutifully, and then glanced around at the dining room, where a waitress was setting tables. Do you eat here a lot?

Mainly lunch.

How’s the food?

Pricey, but good. He lowered his voice and said, You need to get out more.

Tell me about it.

I’d rather tell you about Madame Clicquot.

Who?

"The woman that our champagne is named after. Parlez-vous francais?"

"Oui, je parle francais."

"If you recall, vueve is the word for widow. Madame Clicquot became a widow at the age of twenty-seven, but she did not end up in the poor house. Not by a long shot. After her husband died, she took over his wine business, and before long she became known as the ‘Grand Dame of Champagne.’ A remarkable accomplishment, wouldn’t you say?"

Cream rises to the top.

So do bubbles, Gold joked. "La chere femme single-handedly revolutionized the mass production of champagne, and for this we should be grateful. He went on to explain that Madame Clicquot invented the riddling rack, a device that made disgorgement efficient and economic. In the early 19th century, she designed a wooden desk with circular holes. The design allowed the bottles to be stored upside down. Every so often the bottles would be shaken and rotated, allowing the spent yeast and wine sediments to settle at the bottom. When the process was completed, they would throw out the gunk, add a dose of sweetened wine, and store the champagne in a cool, dark place. As they say, necessity is the mother of invention."

So it seems.

The waiter appeared and made a big show of popping the cork. Gold waited for him to finish filling their glasses before lifting his glass in a toast. To Madame Clicquot.

They clinked glasses. To us, and to a safe and pleasant trip to France.

Following the toast was an awkward pause in which they both tried to think of a safe topic. Neither wanted to get down to business just yet, lest they put a damper on enjoying a perfectly good bottle of champagne. I haven’t been to France in twenty-five years, Gold said abruptly. Not since my honeymoon.

Did you go to Paris?

London, Paris, and Rome. A week in each city.

Lovely.

A wedding gift from my parents.

Nice gift.

Although Gold had to conceal a few things about his past, he was determined to be honest with Kaminski about everything else. I was a babe in the woods, he confessed. Too young to fully appreciate the culture and history. I did enjoy the food, though.

Which city was your favorite?

I didn’t really have a favorite, but I felt the most at home in London.

Because they spoke English?

I suppose so. He thought it over, and then said, Some Brit once said that American and England are two nations divided by a common language.

Do you speak French?

Only enough to get me into trouble.

You should get a translator.

Catherine Deneuve would do nicely.

An electronic translator. She took a sip of champagne to hide her smile. You can pick one up on John Street.

I’d rather pick up Catherine Deneuve.

I think the champagne is going to your head.

I told you I had good taste. He refilled her glass. "By the way, how do you like the Veuve Clicquot?

I like it very much, she said, smiling again. Are you trying to get me drunk?

That’s the general idea.

Laughing, she drained her glass and poured herself another round. Be careful what you wish for, she whispered. The bubbles go straight to my head. I might turn into a coyote.

"A coyote?"

An older woman who prefers young men!

Gold chuckled. I think you mean a cougar.

A cougar?

Coyotes are scavengers. Cougars stalk their prey.

She took a long sip, studying him through the bubbles in her glass. You’re a pretty smart fellow. Nice looking, too. If you weren’t married, I might hit you.

You might hit on me.

Whatever.

The champagne was having the effect he’d hoped it would. Her smile came more readily as they continued to make small talk, and her eyes no longer had a guarded look. They spent the next half-hour talking about nothing and everything, and when she was finally tipsy, Gold leaned across the table and patted her hand. Are you ready to get down to business?

She hesitated, and then nodded. Yes, she said simply. I guess I am.

Gold settled back in the padded leather seat and looked into her big, blue eyes. "Why are we spending