June 11
Scott pushed his foot to the floorboard. If he were driving, they’d be at HQ instead of twenty minutes late. Rachel had slowed everything down with her preparations and then the argument over breakfast. Now the general would be furious when Scott got everyone to headquarters later than the seven o’clock appointment. How was he supposed to gain the general’s trust and cooperation when he couldn’t get two people organized enough to show up on time? Scott’s thoughts raced as the jeep inched toward the church and the general.
Scott could think of two men who could have sketched the drawings. The idea that Rachel had Mario Armati or Renaldo Adamo’s sketchbook in her possession had him twisted in all sorts of directions. A corner of his mind admitted it could be someone else’s, but he didn’t think so.
How on earth had she acquired it? From all he’d picked up, she appreciated art more than the average person, but that didn’t explain the book. As he’d studied it into the night, it dawned on him the sketches formed the foundation for a few of the paintings he’d coaxed across the Atlantic for Renaldo’s exhibition. Renaldo had hesitated to send those scenes because he insisted they were his favorites.
Did Rachel’s mother have something to do with that?
And if the paintings were precious to Renaldo, was the journal also valuable to him? If it was, he wouldn’t have parted with it willingly.
Then there was Mario. The man had painted in the modern slashes of color when Scott knew him in Rome. But his style could have evolved since the early twenties. Many painters did over their careers.
The jeep lurched, almost stopping as it sputtered. Scott felt a growl building. “Come on.”
“Cool down, Lieutenant.” Tyler thrummed a beat against the steering wheel. “I’ll get you there in a jiff.”
Scott gritted his teeth and pushed harder against the passenger floorboard. If he had the gas pedal and steering wheel, he’d get them there faster than Tyler moved this morning. “We’ll still be late.”
“You mean, you’ll be late. The general didn’t ask me.”
Scott snorted but kept his mouth shut. In the foul mood he was in, he’d make matters worse. God, help me. All I can think about is that book. How did she get it? He needed to be alert as he headed into the meeting.
Would Rachel lie to him about the book? Was it something she found in Naples or her short stop in Rome? Many soldiers and civilians were collecting items to ship home as presents or keep as souvenirs. So why create a story about her mom?
Any way he looked at it, he couldn’t shake the idea the sketchbook was Renaldo Adamo’s or Mario Armati’s. Renaldo had a distinct flair for capturing the feminine form that was clear in the lines of the featured woman. Add in the fact that Scott would vouch on a stack of Bibles that one sketch was made on Armati’s family property, and it cinched his conclusion. One or both had connected with Rachel’s momma during her year in Italy, if the woman in the drawings was her. Otherwise, there was no good reason for Rachel’s momma to acquire the book. And if that wasn’t what had happened, then Rachel was lying to him about the origins of the book.
He hated that idea.
“Here you are.” Tyler pulled the vehicle to a hard break in front of the church. “I’ll wait.” Tyler leaned back, tipped his helmet over his face, and crossed his arms.
Scott turned to offer Rachel a hand out of the jeep, but she’d already slipped out.
The MPs on either side of the large doors kept their weapons at the ready. One focused on Scott. “Purpose.”
“A meeting with General Tucker.” He gave his name.
The silent one opened the door and slipped inside. A minute later he was back and held the door open. “The general’s waiting.”
Scott waited for Rachel to precede him, then nodded his thanks to the soldier and followed her into the church. The general continued to lean across the impromptu table that held a map. It looked like he hadn’t left all night. “Sir.”
General Tucker looked up. “You’re late.”
“Yes, sir. I apologize, sir.”
“And this is . . . ?”
“Captain Rachel Justice, sir. Photographer with United Press.”
The general examined her closely. “So you’re seeing the front?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve taken photos in Naples and Rome. The action’s moved north, so I accepted an assignment to Lieutenant Lindstrom’s group.”
As the general studied her, Scott had the impression General Tucker didn’t miss anything. In fact, Scott was certain the general formed a quick opinion, one that would be dead on. “Is he keeping you safe?” The general pointed at Scott.
“He’s trying. A bit difficult in a war zone, sir.”
“True. Down to business.” The man transitioned so swiftly, Scott had visions of falling off a bicycle as it lurched to a stop. Hopefully, this time he wouldn’t break his elbow in the process. “You’re the Monuments Man. We’ve got a problem with troops taking art they find. Some of the losses occur in the villages you’ve visited.”
Scott pulled over a chair and eased onto its hard wooden surface. “What’s missing?”
“Small art. Things that disappear in a rucksack. Enough items we’re getting complaints. This village, then that village. Each missing something.” His gray eyes bored through Scott. “It isn’t acceptable, but I can’t take it on. My men must focus on winning this unending war. So you’ll find the culprit. Whoever they are, I will make an example of them. I will not tolerate my soldiers acting in such a manner.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but I need more than a hunch.”
“Start with the local priest. What’s his name?”
A corporal stepped forward and handed the general a piece of paper. “I’ve got it on here, sir.”
General Tucker accepted the paper. “Right. Father Francesco Gentile. The man has waited hours for someone to care about his problem.” The general studied Scott. “That man is you.”
Rachel stepped back into the conversation. “I’ll look for the priest while you continue meeting.” She slipped out of the nave before Scott could stop her. The last thing he needed was something to happen to her.
“She’ll be fine, and I’m glad to have a moment.” The general stepped around his desk and sat on the corner. “You need to find the thief.”
“Sir, I’m supposed to move forward with your men.”
“Then find him quickly. We’ll move forward. Couple days at most.”
“Any other suggestions where to look?”
General Tucker grimaced. “Every soldier could grab something small and tuck it in his rucksack. How’d we know without a search? Many might do it without any idea it’s wrong.”
A thought whispered across Scott’s mind. Had Rachel done that? Picked up the sketchbook as a memento? Now she wanted to know the artist? Who better to ask than the art expert she traveled with?
“You still with me, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out there. Find the art and the journalist. Can’t have anything happen to the press.”
“No, sir.”
“Locate that thief. Now. Dismissed.”
Scott nodded and then hustled after Rachel. Identify a thief? In a sea of soldiers and disillusioned, starving Italians? It was an impossible task. He shook the doubt about the book from his mind. He’d ask Rachel about it at an appropriate moment. Until then he needed to find her and the priest. If he was lucky, she’d be within eyesight when he reached the door. However, after he worked through the crowd separating him from the door, she’d disappeared. All he saw was a sea of soldiers. Some looked energized. As if they couldn’t wait to take the fight to the Germans. Others looked like they’d collapse if they could. Instead, they plodded forward, each step moving them closer to battle.
How could the one woman in the military within twenty kilometers disappear?
Maybe if he looked for a black cassock in the crowd of uniforms, he’d find Rachel. Then he’d accomplish two missions at once. Scott stayed on the top step to see over the heads of those marching past. There. Could that be the priest? Across the court, around the broken fountain, the one with water burbling in a broken mess at the bottom?
Guess there was one way to find out. Follow the robed figure.
The figure turned a corner between a pile of rubble and a still-standing storefront. Scott hurried down the stairs and worked his way through the soldiers. When he reached the corner, the robed man had disappeared. “Come on.”
Now he was no closer to the priest or to Rachel. His success—and by extension the Monuments Men—in the eyes of the general depended on how he did.
“Need a ride?” Tyler pulled the jeep alongside him.
“Have you seen Rachel?”
“Nope.”
“A priest?”
“Nope.” Tyler yawned and crossed his arms. “Why?”
“We’ve got a new assignment. Find an art thief.”
A flicker of some expression flashed on Tyler’s face. “Guess our role’s expanded.”
“Yes.”
“Hop in and let’s find Rachel.”
“I’ll travel by foot. Drive around the perimeter of the village. I’ll walk around the square and intermediate roads. She’s probably shooting photos of the locals.” He hoped. After seeing her art journal, he didn’t know what she was doing.
“Father?” Rachel hurried to catch the man. She’d needed a mission when she woke up, and finding the priest for Scott seemed easy. The man moved. Fast. What gave him such energy and purpose? She had to learn what he knew about art thieves. Her stomach clenched at the idea someone victimized these people and this country by taking what little they had left. Their heritage, their culture, their art. “Padre?”
The man slowed and then turned her direction. “Sì?”
“I’m Rachel Justice. With United Press. In the United States.” That had to be meaningless to him.
“Yes?” The word was heavily accented but beautiful English.
“We’re supposed to, the soldier I’m traveling with and I, the general told us to help you find art thieves.”
“Thieves?”
“Art. Missing.” Rachel groaned. Maybe one word didn’t indicate fluency.
“Ah. An image of the Madonna. Very old. Very precious.”
He did understand! “We want to help.”
“Bene.” He considered her and looked deep into her soul. It wasn’t as uncomfortable an experience as she’d expect. “This way.”
She waved toward the church. “That way.”
“No. Follow me.” The priest picked up the pace without a backward glance. If she wanted to help, he expected her to follow. Where was Scott? He couldn’t be happy she’d disappeared from the church. But when she saw the priest, she couldn’t wait. He was here, headed away, so she’d follow again. Scott would find her. After all, the general told him to keep her safe.
Rachel picked up her speed, glad she’d worn boots and trousers. “Where are we going, Father?”
“The location of the taking.”
Okay, that made sense, but she looked over her shoulder. Now would be a wonderful time for Scott to arrive. Especially since the father led her away from the village toward a row of hills. Away from the main push of soldiers. She’d be fine for a short distance. Keep the village in view, the soldiers within screaming distance.
A rumble followed behind her. She turned to see if she should run away. A shaky laugh escaped when she recognized the American jeep and the face behind the wheel. Tyler Salmon might drive her crazy, but she knew him. She waved and waited as he zipped toward her.
“Scott’s looking for you.”
“And the priest.” Rachel gestured toward the man who had stopped a few yards beyond them. “Let’s collect Scott. The priest wants to take us somewhere.”
The father studied them, a tightness settling around his eyes as he rubbed his face. He waited for the jeep to approach. “Daughter, come with me.”
“After we pick up the soldier charged with protecting art. He will want to come and will know the best way to help.” She hoped. Scott would know the right things to say and do to reassure this man who seemed pressed into himself by age and the weight of war waged all around him. She longed to lift part of the burden from his stooped shoulders.
She turned to Tyler. “Where were you meeting Scott?”
“Around.”
The one-word answer struck her as absurdly obtuse. “Around?”
“Yeah. He headed the direction he thought the father had taken. I was to circle and see if I could find you. Keep moving and we’ll find him. He can’t have walked far.”
Time crept like molasses slinking from its jar as they circled the small village. A couple times Tyler had to stop to wait for troops moving forward. Each time she could think about how far Scott could walk during the delay. At this rate they might not catch him.
“Private, make this jeep move.”
He scowled at her with a look of indifference. “You can’t make me run over somebody.”
“I outrank you.” The words felt ridiculous and petty.
“That’s fine and dandy, but you’ll have to hold your horses. Scott’s a big boy. He’s fine.”
The father muttered in Italian, Rachel only able to interpret occasional words like Dio. As the man prayed, she shielded her eyes and scanned the horizon. To the right she made out the small form of someone walking toward them. “Is that him? Over there?”
Tyler followed her point. “Might as well see.” His mumbling didn’t have the same reverent tone of the priest’s. After skirting holes left by mines and artillery shells and bouncing across the jutted field, Rachel knew she’d break a tooth if he didn’t slow down. Tyler finally pulled alongside the soldier.
Rachel leaned out the side. “Need a lift?”
Sweat rolled down the sides of Scott’s face as he stumbled toward the jeep. “It’s about time I found you.”
“Who found who?” Tyler stared straight ahead, only the raising of a cheek muscle indicating his joke.
“I was headed back to the village.” Scott climbed into the backseat. “Who do you have with you?”
“This is your neighborhood priest. He’s looking for a missing Madonna.”
Scott leaned forward to look at the priest. “Father, I’m Lieutenant Scott Lindstrom with the United States Army’s Monuments Men. I’ve come a long way to assist you.”