Peter’S Pall: A Novel

By Robert Lockwood

The story balanced two major issuesthe Museum of Restituted Art and the Hampton Classic. Accordingly, information was liberally secured from the related sources: those pertaining to the equestrian world and to the immense amounts of literature and numbers of organizations seeking resolutions of ownership of looted art.

The Hampton Classic, this having been its forty-first year, continues to involve founding members who modestly revere its evolution as if ones own favored child and who shrink only from promoting and individually acknowledging themselves over the hundreds of other committed equestrians that have elevated the horse show to such international prominence.

No such anonymity attaches to the individuals, institutions, and organizations struggling for justice regarding Nazi-looted art. Theirs is to make known to all potential claimants that they stand ready to storm the gates to rightful recovery of their legacies.

Regrettably, the United States of America, home to many such claimants, has not been able to properly reconfigure the mosaic of conflicting interests that hinder justice. Despite well-meaning conferences, laws, and even institutionalized governmental efforts, America stands well behind modern Germany, for example, as an inviting beacon.

Even the early Washington Conference of 1998 would plead, but neither demand nor ever enforce laws, rules, and regulations compelling museums to provide a fair and just solution to Nazi-era claimants. The 1970 UNESCO baseline principles find no receptivity here. The FBIs own National Stolen Art File (NSAF) is largely ignored by holders of Nazi assets. Vacuous files, such as that of the Nazi-Era Provenance Internet Portal (NEPIP), intended to be the sine qua nonregistry, gives the viewer a feeling of entertainment without a punch line. The ethical guidelines of the American Association of Museums (AAM) reads more like a childish time-out lecture than a serious behavioral code.

What then is there to acknowledge? In a wordfailure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543423044

Robert Lockwood

Robert Lockwood, a reformed Washington lobbyist, represented many Fortune 500 companies and institutions on matters of taxation, international trade, and defense.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Acorns

I guess life has to be shattered to be really lived. What was it that I learned as a student in France? Ah, right. Tout passé, tout casse, tout lasse.¹ Everything passes, everything perishes, everything palls. What a simple lesson of life. The family, seventy years searching for the rightful heirs to all that Nazi-looted art. My own mother was murdered by neo-Nazi thugs as she closed in on the truth. So much grief, just adding emotional ballast for Dad, more than his battered psyche could take. His heart fatally curdled under the burden of commitment to Pop, promising never to forget the suffering of the Holocaust. The art Grandpop smuggled home as the war ended was the source of this tortuous legacy. Dad’s wives, both killed in the quest. Then I, the third generation—what could I do? I had to sell it to liberate ourselves from this curse.

On January 14, 2014, Peter Rosenthal was en route to Washington’s Reagan National Airport. He agonized over past events, trying to bring cloture to the purpose of his trip. Is it self-fulfillment, fitful repudiation of the legacy, or even revenge? I ended up with nothing, even risked my own fortune and reputation. It’s as if I’ve become a paroxysm of directionless motion, a human centrifuge caged by a thrashing obsession to move forward, struggling against a paralyzing family legend, not a damn legacy as Grandpop tried to dignify it.

He vigorously rubbed his hands together, as if it were some psychosomatic remedy for his frenzied disappointments.

The Cessna-made Citation Sovereign, the executive jet owned by the Rosenthal Development Corporation of New York City, slipped over the high-rise office buildings in Rosslyn and headed down the Potomac.

We’re on our final approach, Peter, a voice near him said. It was Harry Streeter, just two years out of Trinity College and the son of one of Peter’s closest and oldest friends. Harry’s father, Tim, and Peter met when they were at Horace Mann together. Now they socialized in the city of New York, where they both lived, and where they golfed regularly at the Atlantic Golf Club during the summer in the East End of Long Island.

The area is called the Hamptons by newcomers, many of them neurotic about privacy. Communities along the Southampton-East Hampton axis cradled cottages usually well over ten thousand square feet and ringed with menacing hedges sometimes reaching twenty feet. Harry wanted to learn something about international business, and Tim wanted his son to aspire to the immense wealth that only a tiny fraction of the nation ever achieved. Harry’s past two years with Peter had been an education unavailable at even the best business schools.

Thanks, Harry, Peter replied. The pilot sent him back with the information. He knew Peter hated having anything that interfered with his thoughts or sleep, especially the intercom. And Harry liked the third seat in the cockpit, where he spent much time on their flights, regardless of duration.

Peter continued his musings. Bizarre circumstances that left me hanging and alone. Everyone took sides, and all were against me, at first. But I’ve settled with those important to me. Marty, Becky—family first. And the family business reputation is intact. Probably never been better, in fact.

Okay, we made it. We’re leveling off. That crew costs me a lot, but at times like these, they earn their money, he thought. Now passing the National War College on the port side, where Peter always sat, the small jet was shoehorned in between an arriving Delta 757 and a departing American Airlines 737. The plane landed effortlessly, groaning its turbines into reverse as it taxied to the general aviation terminal.

* * *

Nice day for January, the loquacious limo driver said as he worked his way through the late morning traffic. "Congress, they just got back. Those guys know how to vacation. They’re gone from Thanksgiving to yesterday, Monday, January 13, he said emphatically. Next they’ll be off for the Valentine or Presidents’ Day recess in February, then the Easter recess in April for about three weeks. The summer is a wash. Nothing gets done then, and the place shuts down in August until well after Labor Day."

The driver ranted on as they neared the Hill.

Driver, drop us off at the Russell Building, if you would. We’ll just walk over to Hart through the tunnel, Harry said, having studied a map of the senate complex.

Sure thing, but I don’t mind driving up to the horseshoe, the driver replied.

Peter nudged Harry, suggesting he let the driver take them to the horseshoe entrance.

Harry quickly complied. Okay, can we get there through all this traffic?

Yeah, no problem. The Capitol Police must be on alert today. They’re not usually out here in these numbers. Even checkin’ some cars, I noticed.

The cold, damp wind braised their faces as they entered the security check-in line at the Hart Building’s entrance.

I called the office as we got out of the car. The senator’s office will meet us at the security checkpoint, the highly efficient Harry said as they pushed their coats and briefcases, now in the plastic bins, through the imaging machine.

Mr. Rosenthal, here, a female voice said somewhat loudly. I’m from Senator Devon’s office, she added.

They moved toward her, Harry fussing with the two men’s coats and briefcases.

I’m Lynne Baris, Senator Devon’s chief of staff. Nice to see you both, she said, extending her hand first to Peter, who then introduced Harry. She liked what she saw, giving young Harry a second glance, thinking, Nice, probably rich too. Then she said, Please, follow me to our office. We’re on the seventh floor.

They entered an elevator, talking busily about the crowds in the foyer and the immense Calder Black Mountain sculpture that dominated it. Three massive three-inch-thick triangular steel plates were pyramided forty feet upward to resemble a mountain. This one was not easily climbed, which may have characterized the hopes driving so many of the visitors milling around in the atrium.

It’s that time of year. All the special-interest folks getting their demands before their senators as the legislative season reopens. The House is even more frenetic. They’re reelected every two years, so the changes there can be tectonic with so many new members. One-third of the Senate changes every two years. Not that we don’t have our own issues with each new Congress. It’s torture all around, she explained with a chuckle as they reached their floor, exiting into the corridor and walking toward a glass-walled corner office.

They passed the receptionist, a young effacing woman, no doubt one of the legions of local college students hustling future opportunities on the Hill. With her iPhone in hand, she surreptitiously signaled the senator that they were arriving. They passed through an inner administrative office, a depressingly dark room with equally drab government-issue beige paint on the walls. The door to the senator’s office opened as Sue Devon, the first-term senator from New York, moved smartly out.

Peter, great to see you. She greeted him with a welcoming embrace, kissing him just to the right side of his lips—a gesture not unnoticed by both Harry and Lynne, and somewhat of a surprise to Peter, who returned the affection with a peck on her right cheek. She gestured to Lynne that they would be meeting alone as, no doubt, originally planned. The two left the office.

Let’s see. It’s what, at least a year since we last saw each other? Sue said, keeping his hand as she guided him to a small love seat in the sitting area of the office. They sat alongside each other as she continued her small talk. Peter was simply nodding to her comments. Coffee? she asked.

Please, and thanks. I usually fall asleep before the plane takes off, which was the case this morning until we encountered the usual winter turbulence on our final approach, he replied as she filled his cup. Peter added cream and a touch of Splenda sweetener.

The plane. Oh yes, that lovely little jet. What is it, a Cessna? she inquired.

Right. I forgot I flew down with you some time ago. It’s the Sovereign model. Great legs, it can reach Europe without a refuel, he said, suddenly realizing his more recently acquired aviation colloquialism had a double entendre. "I mean distance legs," he added with a laugh and a reflexive glance at Sue’s own attractive lower limbs. She caught his coup d’oeil, smiling inwardly. Peter took his first sip and put the coffee back down on the small coffee table in front of them.

You know, we’ve been close friends now for how long? she asked rhetorically. Then she added, Since our first days at NYU Law.

We even dated for several months in our last year. I had hoped to see more of you after graduation, but you decided to take that comparative international law course in Paris, he replied.

You’re a great liar, you devil, she said teasingly. You were at the École des Hautes Études Commerciales and never even bothered to look me up.

"I assumed you were unavailable, knowing the strong predilection of young Frenchmen for smart and gorgeous American girls. And by the way, I was at Sci Po,² not HEC," he added with a laugh.

She responded in French, knowing Peter’s competence in the French language. Ce sabre dans les deux sens. That saber cuts both ways.

They both laughed.

Well, delighted—honored, really—that you’ll help me out on somewhat of an annoying and lingering issue regarding the legitimacy of managing and trading Nazi-looted art, Peter started. He was thinking, Enough of the small talk. I’m here on business. Sue seems to have another agenda. I wonder what’s up. Knowing her, she’ll get to it.

Actually, Peter, we’re helping each other. I want the 2016 Democratic nomination, and I need the downstate vote. I know you’re a so-called ‘New York Republican.’ That’s good enough for me, and we share much the same views on just about everything except government intervention in managing the economy. Jake Javits and Rocky were always among my favorite politicians, by the way. So the ‘New York Republican’ label doesn’t bother me. Her reference was to Nelson Rockefeller, who was referred to as Rocky by the media and just about everyone else, but rarely to his face.

I’ll always do what I can for you. You know that. And as for my party affiliation, we liberal Republicans are too few in number to scare anyone in this state’s politics.

Or at the national level, I might add. We just don’t find people like John Chaffee, Warren Rudman, Lowell Weicker, and Maggie Smith in these corridors anymore, she added, referring to the late senators from Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Connecticut, and Maine, respectively. New England Republicans still trend toward the iconoclastic when it comes to their party’s agenda.

We pretend to have an ideology. But our constituencies define them and us, especially around election time. The Senate’s a bit luckier. We have six-year terms. But the voters seem to have longer memories these days, helped along by the constantly propagating numbers of extremist groups on both sides of the spectrum. Look what’s happening in the current White House race. Hillary hasn’t even announced yet, and the far left has all but written her off. My colleague Elizabeth Warren is a powerful populist. She’s the heroine of the do-no-wrong constituency—people over their heads in all types of debt, mortgages, student loans, for example. People who will never trust those who are even modestly inclined capitalists and just about all who manage their personal finances well and work hard. Not that the extreme right is much different. The disease of temperamental symbiosis afflicts both sides of our two-party system. I’ll spare you my feelings on that—for the moment at least. I have enough trouble holding my seat in the most conservative region in the state.

So you plan to announce your candidacy?

Let’s save that talk until after the meeting. We’ll be having lunch later. For now, focus on what’s ahead for us with the administration folks I’ve invited over. Her voice suddenly turned officious, much too direct and harsh for parties engaging in, say, a business transaction.

These politicians, they’re always full of themselves until their campaigns humble them. Then they come banging on our doors for jobs after they lose their seats, Peter was thinking. But he said, Thanks. Very simply, we both know that powerful persons and institutions create obstacles for claimants. Right now, most of the Holocaust survivors are dead or much too old or feeble to be activists. Their heirs are frustrated, and they are even aging. The average living survivors are in their nineties—their heirs twenty to twenty-five years younger. Most are Jews, and increasingly, most live in the United States and in New York. We need to review this history to the administration officials—who, I’m sure, know it well, he explained.

The Obama administration has been helpful. The president is not happy with Hillary, by the way, but he’s holding his peace for the moment. I’ve reason to believe he’s pushing Joe into the race. But Joe’s son is dying, brain cancer. Biden’s already lost two children as well as his first wife. He’s a great father and husband and will put his family first. I wish I could say that about Tom. She paused, referring to her estranged husband. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get into my personal problems.

Forget it. We can talk about that later, if you want. Back to the meeting, Peter replied. He was thinking, So there is another agenda in the visit. I can’t imagine what she wants from me on that matter, other than a sympathetic ear. People up here don’t have many truly trustworthy confidantes.

Thanks, Sue added as her desk phone rang. She reached over Peter, taking the extension on his side of the small sofa. She gently twisted herself, nearly facing him, her left breast slightly pressed against his right arm. Please bring them in, Lynne.

Sorry to squash you, she said, laughing as she righted herself, but she was suspecting that Peter rather enjoyed the encounter.

That was a little too obvious. Somehow I have to remind her I don’t involve myself with married women, he thought. Now age forty-two and never married, Peter was an always available and desirable bachelor in his many social circles.

* * *

Peter and Sue were standing as her chief of staff, Lynne Baris, opened the door, allowing two men to pass.

Nice to see you, Senator, said the elder of the two.

Good to see you both, Sue said, shaking the hands of both men. This is Peter Rosenthal, who’s come down from the city—sorry, that’s New York talk for New York City, she quickly added as all laughed.

The two visitors smiled politely, quietly resenting Sue’s unneeded explanation.

Jack O’Neill, Mr. Rosenthal. Good to meet you, said the older man.

Henrik Hansen, the other said simply with a smile.

Please, gentlemen, let’s sit over here. I’m not very good officiating from my desk, or anywhere else for that matter, she said as they politely laughed at her senseless humor. I’m delighted that the administration has seen fit to send over officials of your rank and caliber. It speaks well for the priority the president places on the issue. Could you please explain your official roles to Peter? she asked.

I’m the undersecretary of the treasury for international affairs, Peter, O’Neill started. My responsibilities include supervision of the Office of Foreign Assets Control as well as jurisdiction over various financial crimes and the enforcement duties related to them. We’ve worked with many other agencies in attempts to assist legitimate claimants for the artworks looted during the Nazi era.

I’m Henrik Hansen. I was born in Norway to American diplomats serving there. I head up the Scandinavian desk in the Bureau of European Affairs of which I’m the bureau chief at the State Department. If you’ll allow me one further comment, Hansen said, turning to Sue, who nodded affirmatively, my father and grandfather, who both held this very same job at State, worked closely with your grandparents, Ambassadors Jay and Jane Rosenthal, in the post–World War II formation of our country’s positions on Nazi-confiscated art. My father also cooperated with your mother, Sandra, and shared your family’s grief after her murder by the German gangsters. And I remember your stepmother, Linda Esch Rosenthal, who died when her plane mysteriously crashed in France. Both were ambassadors for cultural affairs and sacrificed their lives for this very issue.

I’m all the more honored to meet you, Henrik, and I thank you for recalling the contributions of my family for the past seventy years. You were most kind to provide that history as a prelude to our talk here today.

Let me add that—that I knew little about Peter’s family and deeply appreciate your narrative, Henrik. I understand that you’re the youngest US foreign service officer to ever hold this important position at state, Sue added.

It’s all a matter of much luck and some very challenging assignments as a young FSO. But thank you, Senator, Hansen replied, using the shortened term for foreign service officer.

He’s just being modest, Senator. Government needs that caliber of person, O’Neill added.

Peter, why don’t you summarize your interest in this meeting, Sue suggested.

"Thank you, Senator, and gentlemen, for this opportunity. We’re all aware of the frustrations claimants face. Our justice system is uncooperative, and the number of cases evidencing that statement is immense. Our community of art collectors, dealers, and institutions—ranging from museums to educational institutions—is more interested in prestige and profit. Efforts, many dating back to the Eisenhower administration, have made little change. And I speak from years of working with my own New York City museum community.

"The best effort we’ve yet to make is still the 1998 Washington Conference on Nazi-confiscated art and the literally hundreds of initiatives at both the international as well as state and regional levels that flowered from it. But increasingly—as you, no doubt, have seen from your official perches—even the best motives for change are unproductive, and the trade in looted art is actually increasing. Moreover, there is no uniform practice among any of the principal states. I refer to us as well as France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and a few others. What progress that has occurred, has been shamelessly token in nature. And the traders have increased in numbers as well as finding, shall we say, creative ways for evading accountability, taxes, customs duties, transparency, and certainly, justice. Why, even states like Monaco and Luxembourg are creating or have created hybrids of the free port systems, where foreign trade zones have now become havens for private sales and exchanges of looted art.

So what I’m suggesting today is that we, the United States, take the lead in formulating a new international agreement on restitution. I have a detailed plan, of which my assistant, Harry Streeter, has a copy for each of you. I am hoping that you can review it or have your staffs review it, and that we meet again in a few months to determine what concrete steps can be taken to fashion a strategy that will have an impact. I recognize that there are other matters on the administration’s menu, which is why I’ve taken this initiative to provide a framework for discussion. I’m quite open to amendments to the concept and wedded only to the principles, not the plan that I’ve drafted. There can be no pride of authorship on a matter like this.

I think Peter’s approach is very wise. And I encourage the Obama administration to acknowledge, de minimus, that something is being done. Neither Peter nor I need nor desire any special attention, either within the government or certainly the media for our efforts. The more important goal is progress, Sue said.

I can speak for the administration in saying that the treasury secretary and even the president will welcome your initiative, Mr. Rosenthal. And certainly, I do, O’Neill said.

I share that sentiment. In my case, my commitment derives from the same source as that of Peter as both our families have given many generations of hard work to finding justice for families and heirs that still live with the lingering nightmare of the Holocaust, Hansen added.

With that conclusion, the usual well-wishes were exchanged, as well as tentative dates to meet again. Harry Streeter was summoned, and he distributed the proposed agreement to the administration officials. To the trained Washington eye, conviviality is a polite way of sidestepping whatever political minefields might lie ahead, until the supposedly neutral bureaucracy would have a chance to study the matter to death. But for a politically inviting topic like that, which Peter laid before the administration’s representatives, and a highly supportive Democratic senator, there just might have been some rather fruitful troughs for all to beneficially sup from.

Chapter 2

Hidden Agendas

Senator Sue Devon, at forty-two, was womanly tall at five feet six inches and a strikingly attractive, fit-looking natural blonde who raised heads wherever she went. Easily a standout among the twenty or so women in the US Senate, her personal attributes included a charisma that made her a media favorite. On the debit side of her character ledger, the whole world—or so it seemed to her—knew her marriage was on the rocks. Being seen with any man, however harmless and pale the relationship, such as that with a constituent or lobbyist, could arouse suspicions. She took care to avoid places where rumors could too easily form. Not that Washington’s restaurateurs were unaware of the occasional compelling needs for discretion among its power players. The best places always had private dining rooms; and they were in highly competitive demand, sometimes by political notables past or some of the hundreds of other actual or wannabe celebrities.

Sue urged they lunch at the Old Angler’s Inn, located just over the district line in Maryland, on MacArthur Boulevard. The place was in perpetual darkness, even on the brightest days; there was available seating on the outside patio when summer’s distracting views of the spirited Potomac could dampen other rendezvous intentions. They arrived in Sue’s car, its New York plates sporting the USS-NY2 logo, coded to mean the junior senator from New York. Like New York City, Los Angeles, and other wellsprings of paroxysmic media coverage, disguises of any type can be readily unmasked. Welcomed by the maître d’ in the dimly lit foyer, they were taken to their table, on which a battery-powered candle allowed the amount of light to be adjusted to the desire of the patrons.

Is this a fun house or restaurant? I can barely see a thing in here, Peter said with a light laugh.

All the more to confuse you, she said, squeezing his hand playfully. Besides, where I work, we make a living keeping people in the dark.

The two laughed. Peter, accustomed to the rowdiness of New York’s restaurants at just about every level of prominence, neglected to muffle his reaction, which caused some chairs to rustle about.

I had suggested earlier in the day that there were troubles at home. I just want to avoid rumors that might be harmful to both of us, Sue started.

I’ve no troubles at home. In fact, I’m not sure I even have a home, Peter replied, again with light humor, at which they both laughed. I won’t ask about it, unless you think there’s something I should know.

There might be. Let’s order first, she said.

Peter nodded diffidently then adjusted his menu so he could get some light from the candle.

Maryland Eastern Shore flounder. Can’t go wrong there, and it’s fresh, he said after a quick glance at the specialties.

That’s one lead I’ll follow, she said. Anything to drink?

I’m routinely nonalcoholic during the day, if that’s okay. Of course, I’d love a good Napa white otherwise.

Let’s stick with Pellegrino sparkling water, she said, as Peter nodded affirmatively.

The waiter arrived, took their rather sparse order, and folded back into some darkened corner of the room.

How do these people find their way round this place? I can barely see your face, Peter asked. Changing the subject, he quickly added, So tell me, what’s the status of your campaign?

I’m definitely running for the presidency, and I’ve communicated that to the Hillary campaign folks. Never heard a word back, and don’t expect to. She’ll never see me or anyone else as a real threat, at least not in New York. She’s so damned arrogant. Let me know she, too, was once a New York senator—and during 9/11, she would emphasize.

But what she isn’t saying is that her efforts to rebuild the city’s devastated financial district corralled some handsome campaign contributions, and no doubt helped her presidential race’s cash drawer, Peter said with a light laugh.

I’ve heard rumors those connections helped get jobs for Chelsea with an equity fund after Stanford, as well as for the Mezvinsky guy who later became her husband, Sue said with a surprising note of cynicism.

I don’t know or care about that. Most good jobs in the city for celebrities’ kids come through private connections, Peter added somewhat dismissively.

He continued, Bill literally took over the state’s Democratic Party when he set up his office in lower Harlem after leaving the White House. His first move was to screw Andy Cuomo out of the gubernatorial race. He and Charlie Rangel decided it was time to run a black guy. Carl McCall’s as talented and decent a guy as you’ll ever find and did a magnificent job as state comptroller. But he was no match for the incumbent. George Pataki had a powerful organization already in place.

I get along well with the governor. Cuomo’s a first-class guy, and I actually thought he might be interested in the 2016 race himself. He can’t seem to shed himself of the Clintons. I heard he’s quietly endorsed Hillary, he added as they both laughed.

At this point, I don’t think he’s publicly endorsed anyone since Hillary hasn’t yet announced. But I have no doubt you’re right and that he’ll get on her bandwagon more openly in time, she said.

Cuomo doesn’t learn. First, Hillary takes the Senate seat that he left HUD to go after. Then he announces for the governor’s race and Bill tells him to get lost—and publicly, you’ll recall. They snubbed him at a state fair where he was expected to tag along with the two of them. In 2008, he commits very early to Hillary, who goes down in flames to Obama. What’s left for the guy when his term is up in Albany? he asked. He had referred to Cuomo’s role in the Clinton cabinet as secretary of Housing and Urban Development, or HUD.

Maybe he’ll run for mayor, she replied, to their mutual laughter. "But getting back to the topic of my campaign, I’ve organized pretty well in the state, especially at this point. Hillary has less support in my area than one might think. She really let the upstate New York region down when she was senator. Our large employers are still federal, state, and local government organizations, like Fort Drum, and that’s going to be in jeopardy with the imminent defense cutbacks now that Iraq and Afghanistan seem to be fading away, at least for us.

"I really need your help, Peter. Fund-raising, of course, but also with the Jewish vote. That cohort is important to me, but they love the Clintons. Bill flubbed in the Middle East, as did Bush, although not as bad as Obama, whose naïveté just stuns the experts. I’m on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. The real pros are the career diplomats, the ones who’ve lived in the region, speak Arabic and Farsi, and know the top guys. In private, many foreign-service retirees and former political appointees have told committee members that the National Security Council and the United Nations delegation staffs, for example, can’t even communicate with the experts. They’re on different planets. Susan Rice and Samantha Power, for example. Rice, as National Security Council director, hardly carries either the academic heft or wisdom of predecessors like Zbigniew Bryzinski or Henry Kissinger. Samantha loves Kissinger’s realpolitik, at least publicly. But in practice, she idealistically believes the entire world needs to adopt American culture, warts and all. They’re solid Obama team members and have reported to Hillary as secretary of state. Even though, as you’ll recall, Obama fired Samantha during the 2008 campaign when she called Hillary a monster."

Do you think the president could get behind your campaign? Peter asked, immediately regretting the rather naive question.

No, I don’t think he’ll make a move until someone’s nominated, at least not overtly. As I said earlier today, my sense and rumors tell me that he would like to see Biden in the race. He’s never been a Hillary fan and, just watch, this e-mail issue is going to explode. Hillary was first lady for eight years, on the Senate Armed Services Committee for eight more, then the secretary of state for four more. The idea that she wasn’t sure how to handle classified information is just nonsense. For twenty years, she held the highest level security clearances.

Getting to the nub of things, how can we help each other? Peter asked. You will certainly get my support along the lines we’ve talked. And I need your help on the issues of today’s meeting with the administration guys.

Let’s talk about that. What do you really need to change this whole existentialist art culture? she asked as their entrees arrived. Two waiters simultaneously placed their dishes in front of them then quickly retreated. The dining room maître d’ does not tolerate wait staff that hesitates or appears to be gathering information from the diners. Some years ago, a cable media intern quietly took a waiter’s job to get leads on hot stories.

Peter continued talking after briefly taking a drink of the sparkling water and tasting the food. "Existentialist is a pithy adjective. The art collector-dealer-museum culture is totally self-serving. The utter disregard for fundamental morality, repudiating the difference between right and wrong would please only Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Stolen art is knowingly traded, adding to the pain of Holocaust victims and their heirs and, in many instances, benefitting Nazi sympathizers. Even more egregious is the number of Americans and Europeans acquiescing to this trade and who understand full well their treacherous behavior.

The plan I left with you, and the guys from Treasury and State, does not have a provision for something I need, Peter said, pausing enough to allow her expected question.

And that is?

I need to be appointed as an ambassador for cultural affairs with plenipotentiary powers to explain, implement, and enforce the agreement that I’ve drafted. That is, I need to represent the full, unwavering commitment of the United States government to its implementation.

"But how do you gain from this? Think about it, he asked rhetorically. The New York Jewish community—the liberal J Street crowd as well as the more conservative pro-Israeli cohorts—are as unified on the issue of Nazi-looted art more than just about anything else that confronts them."

And why does that make me any different from Hillary? she asked rhetorically.

With her answer equally snappy, she added, "In a very substantial way. There is growing pressure on the Clintons to disclose their foundation’s contributors. They may include more