Portrait of a Young Man

By M. E. Eadie

The Pariser Platz Irregulars, a new independent secret service is formed. However, their newest asset, Nastya Pavlova, an intelligence prodigy, is being held back from entering the field. Marley's and Trubel's assignment is to get Nastya ready. To do this Nastya needs to confront the loss of her brother Erik in a Kayaking accident. In the process of accomplishing this, they unearth a secret message left in the flower beds that surround Nastya's ski-chalet home. It is a message, that when deciphered will reveal a history of war, of greed, of betrayal and stolen art treasures, but Nastya is not the only one with things to resolve.

Marley has his own ghosts to deal with. Following him from his tours in Afghanistan is the murder of a woman named Kahidja which refuses to leave him. Marley, finds out f that Kahidja also had a daughter named Ameera. He discovers that she is being hunted by her father, the infamous terrorist Abdul Ibrahim Al-Nasser.

Where history repeats itself, the past and present come crashing together in a fatal showdown at Nastya's family's chalet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adambooks
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224234288

M. E. Eadie

Michael lives on an island in the Ottawa River with his six children and wife. Formerly a visual artist, he has turned his attentions to writing. The cover of "A Thousand Kisses Deep," is his own art work.He binds, by hand, his hard cover books. In his opinion it adds to the emotional value of the book.He invites any conversations on the matter of art.

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Portrait of a Young Man

(Book two in the Pariser Platz Irregular series)

By

M. E. EADIE

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY: ADAM BOOKS (Smashwords Edition)

Portrait of a Young Man

Copyright 2022 by M. E. Eadie

Licence Notes

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Table Of Contents

Chapter One: Portrait of a Young Man

Chapter Two: Cabins

Chapter Three: Past and Future

Chapter Four: Provenance

Chapter Five: The gun still rattles

Chapter Six: The egg

Chapter Seven: Payment

Chapter Eight: Cheater

Chapter Nine: Plans

Chapter Ten: Morals

Chapter Eleven: Invasion

Chapter Twelve: Tournament

Chapter Thirteen: Message

Chapter Fourteen: Raphael for Faberge

Chapter Fifteen: Nastya’s Decision

Chapter Sixteen: Pontiac

Chapter Seventeen: Feelings

Chapter Eighteen: To the River

Chapter Nineteen: Al-Nasser

Chapter Twenty: River Ghost

Chapter Twenty-One: Visitors

Chapter Twenty-Two: Guests

Chapter Twenty-Three: Sacrifice

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Fall

Chapter Twenty-Five: For Kacper

Chapter One: Portrait of a Young Man

Anatoli Pavlov’s job was to guard the Governor General’s retreat from the allies. His orders were clear and concise, exactly what he expected coming from the Germans. He was to keep Hans Frank and his stolen treasures safe, at all costs. As a good soldier in The Heer of the Wehrmacht, he would have obeyed these orders, but he was not. His real identity was as a partisan in the Home Army, the Polski Ruch Oporu. The German soldier, whose uniform he now wore was dead, strangled and dumped somewhere in the woods. His greater orders, from the Home Army was to make sure that he got in front of Frank and stopped the convoy. The idea was to plug up the road going through the forest. They would then ambush the convoy and that would be the end of Hans Frank. Death to another tyrant. That had been the plan, but when he found out about the magnitude of the treasure being transported, he became wary. The convoy was carrying some of the finest art works pilfered by the Nazi’s during their reign of terror, and Anatoli knew that treasure, untold wealth and desperate men could courted disaster.

The idea would have worked, had things gone to plan. However, the Captain, for some reason made a last-minute change in the driving roster, and now he was stuck, halfway back in the convoy, one vehicle behind Hans Frank’s staff car. There was no way he was going to be able to stop the entire convoy. The illumination from his head lights bounced off the tail gate of the truck in front of him as they hit another bump. The road hadn’t been repaired in awhile making the going slow. Up ahead the dark forest loomed welcoming them like a nightmare from one of the Grimm brother’s tales. They were behind schedule, so late that the slight glow of predawn was beginning to rise behind the forest, enough that he could make out the details of some of the trees that overhung the road. To stop Frank, he had to get ahead of him.

He reached for the luger he kept beneath the padding of the seat, lifted it, and shot the other soldier in the truck’s cab in the face. The soldier, in a spray of blood and brains, flopped up against the side of the cab and crumpled. His head, now hanging out the window, wobbled as they hit another bump. Killing had become so second nature to Anatoli that it was as natural as breathing. The hesitancy in the beginning and its companion morality was now long gone. He revved the truck’s engine into a quicker revolution and muscled the gears. The truck tilted to the side as he passed the vehicle in front of him. He nearly flipped his own truck, but this put him directly behind the staff car. He pounded on his horn. Maybe he could still get them to stop. He hammered the horn and it blared, but instead of pulling over, like he hoped, the staff car accelerated and left him behind. Maybe they would still be able to get Frank. At the prearranged spot in the forest, he cranked the wheel of the truck so that it swerved sideways, nearly tipping as it came to a rest blocking the road. The convoy was halted. Anatoli ducked down and the shooting started. It didn’t take long to kill the drivers and guards. He waited until someone pounded on his side of the truck. He opened it.

Kacper was standing there grinning, black smeared all over his face, his machine gun cradled against his hip. Shooting is over, but the rat got away.

I tried to get in front of him, complained Anatoli.

I saw. Well, somebody will get him. Come on, let’s see the treasure.

There were dead German soldiers everywhere. Kacper reached up and pulled one out of the way as he scrambled up into the back of the truck. Kacper began to flip through a pile of paintings stored in a box. Here, at his fingertips, which were still stained with blood, were the paintings of the masters. He shook his head sadly.

Maybe we should just burn them.

Burn them? asked Anatoli, not a little startled.

What are we going to do with them? asked Kacper sadly, I mean, the Soviets are going to do the same as the Germans. They’re going to grab them and store them away, maybe sell them. I mean, look at us. We are the perpetual losers. We are the ones that charge tanks on the backs of horses. How stupid was that?

It was brave, began Anatoli but he felt Kacper grabbing him by the front of his German uniform and thrusting his scarred face into his. Kacper’s white eyes glared out of the dark of his face.

It was stupidity. We call ourselves The Polski Ruch Oporu, but there is no Home Army, because there is no home. The Germans came, we lost, the Soviets are coming, and we will lose. I don’t know if there will ever be a free Poland. Kacper held a grave internal dialogue, then finally he gave a nod to himself. I’m not going to burn these paintings. That would cause me too much pain and I am too full of it. You know what I’m going to do?

What?

I’m going to let the men take what they want, leave the rest. Then we will just leave them. Let the Soviet’s have it all.

Anatoli thought about what Kacper had just said and rubbed his head. I don’t think most of them would know the difference between a Picasso and a kid’s finger painting.

Kacper shrugged. Still, I’m going to let them decide. I’m going to let them decide, whether they want to grab a painting and run for it or fight the Soviets. He dumped a green sack at Anatoli’s feet. I’m going to tell the men. What you should do is get out of that stinking uniform and into some nice smelling farm clothes. He thrust a bag of clothes into Anatoli’s arms.

Anatoli changed out of his blood splattered uniform. He felt it. He felt the change. The end of the war was coming, or was it the end of their lives? He couldn’t tell, but it was the end of something.

Once he was changed, he brushed himself off. It felt nice to be in civilian clothes again. And then he thought. Had it been just up to him, he would have joined Kacper and continued to fight the Soviets, but he wasn’t alone, not anymore. There was Katerina, brown eyed, beautiful Katerina. To him, she was life, while everything about him seemed to be death. She was the one hope he had, and to foster that hope, he needed money, something he had little of.

He began to flip through the paintings. In the growing light he was able to make out the details on the canvases. He supposed any would have done, but he kept flipping until one painting stopped him. It was a painting of a young man, early 15th century. It reached out to him. While most portraits in that time frame were commissioned to portray a person’s wealth and status, this one had none of those highlights. It was simply a young man, in plain clothes, some furs or something draped over his shoulder. He was wearing a floppy hat that covered the right side of his head. It was his gaze that stopped Anatoli, the open gaze of a young man before life had the chance to scar and carve the deep lines of sorrow into his face. He wouldn’t say that the young man was innocent, but there was a pleasing look on the face and this entranced him.

You like that one? asked Kacper. I thought you would. If I were you, I would take it and run.

Whose is it?

The painter? I think it’s Raphael. Some say it’s a self portrait, but there’s no way of proving it. Take it. There was now a layer of exhaustion to Kacper’s sad voice, a cultured man forced into brutality.

Are you sure about this?

Kacper shrugged. If you don’t take it, someone else will. Just promise me one thing.

What?

Don’t do what most of these idiots will do. Don’t sell it on the street for chicken scratch. Take it home, take it to Katerina and hide it away. Hide it and when the time is right, use it to get out of here.

Will you take one?

Kacper shook his head sadly. No, I’ll fight the Soviets like I fought the Germans, until they kill me. I have nothing left in this world. Go ahead, take it and get out of here.

Anatoli Pavlov picked up the painting. It was an oil on panel and measured some 72 cm by 56 cm. It wasn’t too big, yet it wasn’t too small. He already had an idea how to hide it. He wrapped it up in an old burlap bag.

Thank you. I will not forget you.

Kacper shrugged. The best thing that you could do, if you could do it, is to forget everything. Go somewhere where the soil is not soaked in blood and begin again. Do widzenia, my friend, Do widzenia.

Chapter Two: Cabins

The first night at the ski hill, Marley Vuorensyrja slept the sleep of the dead, but the second night was a different matter altogether. It wasn’t because he was sharing the little cabin with anyone; he slept alone. It was because his nightmares had caught up with him.

It was a strange torment. He dreamt of Kahidja again, no, that wasn’t right, because in his dream he was Kahidja. She was going out. It was a strange ritual, he looked into the mirror, checked her makeup and then covered everything up with the voluminous dark blue burqa. Marley checked her purse, making sure there was enough money.

Strange, thought Marley a bit confused. If he was Kahidja, wouldn’t he know what she was intending to do? But it wasn’t like that. It was as though he was sharing her body, just along for the ride, and it was a ride he didn’t want to take, because he felt that this trip was one way. Marley wanted out; he didn’t need to see this. He howled and raged, but apparently Kahidja’s body wasn’t listening.

She was ready to leave the orphanage compound, but there was somebody else in the room with her. A young woman, maybe early teens. There was something strange about the girl. Then he realised it was her eyes; one part of the iris, in both eyes, was a different colour from the rest. He had seen heterochromia, but he had never seen partial heterochromia before.

Marley watched Kahidja’s arms extend to pull the young woman into her embrace. They were crying. Marley was crying. The young woman was shown where the rest of the money was kept. Marley thrust a letter into the young woman’s hand, turned and left the room.

Marley walked and he immediately realised Kahidja’s mistake. She had worn her shoes that made a clicking sound each time she stepped.

A truck pulled up beside her and slowed. A forty-calibre gun was mounted to the back. The driver, dressed in black, waved at her demanding that she stops.

Kahidja complied. The man in the truck must have been close to fifty. He demanded to know why she was on the street without a chaperone, without a man from her family to accompany her.

Marley felt Kahidja gesticulating with her hands that she had no family. Her family had been killed in the war, she explained.

Then the man demanded her purse. Reluctant to hand it over, she backed up. The man, now outside the truck and on the street, was yelling at her and gesticulating towards her feet, demanding she take her shoes off.

Marley felt the panic building in Kahidja as she turned to flee. He wanted to tell her that running right now was the worst thing she could do. He tried to possess her muscles, to whisper into her mind, to command her not to do what she was about to do, but he couldn’t.

Marley felt the bullet hit her in the back, its impact knocking her down onto the sidewalk. Then another shot echoed on the street, and he saw nothing, nothing, except the different coloured eyes of the young woman she had left behind.

***

Marley climbed out of the hell of his nightmare. Then he realised something. Kahidja was sending him a message. Somehow, she was reaching out to him from beyond the grave. Maybe the girl was still alive. It was obvious to him that she wanted him to do something about the young woman. Did she want him to find her? He would have to call Carlisle. Maybe he would know something about the girl.

He rubbed the back of his head with his hand. The muscles in his body hurt all over, and strangely enough, he was grateful for that. He rolled over, propped his torso into an upright position and swung his legs over the edge of his spartan bed. He had no complaints with the accommodations. It felt like summer camp, but the problem was that Trubel Fink had turned it into a boot camp. He had thought that Legault, the Canadian Ambassador in Berlin, and member of The Pariser Platz Irregulars, code named ‘C’ had given them a relaxing assignment. They were to help Nastya become field ready. The problem was Trubel had a different understanding of relaxation.

When he found out that he would be helping around the ski hill, he thought about Adirondack chairs, drinks down at the dock and lazy floats on the lake. Of course, Trubel had to ruin the dream by suggesting the ski hill hosts a triathlon and that they should, of course, participate in it. Marley had hope when Nastya told Trubel that the ski hill was several kilometres away from a paved road, but Trubel, in a force of unstoppable nature, suggested they simply use mountain bikes. The run would, of course, be up and down the ski hill.

Marley rubbed his aching knees, speaking to them like children who had lost their will to continue. However, he had a plan. If he woke up early enough, he would be able to catch Rick, Nastya’s father, as he went about engaging in the seemingly endless tasks that needed to be accomplished. That would be his excuse to slough off training.

At first, he had thought the training would be limited to occasionally going for a swim, a leisurely bike ride and hiking. While that was true, it was the repetitiveness of these activities that demoralised him. Sometimes they would do all three activities, twice a day. To him, Nastya and Trubel were insane.

He slapped his belly, or where his belly should have been and felt muscle. Well, he had to admit, this rigorous regime was having results, even if it was killing him.

A shadow flickered outside the little window in the cabin. His muscles clenched with the dreaded sensation of threat. Fighting down his desire to reach for his gun, he took a couple of deep breaths trying to tell himself, there was no threat here, that everything was all right.

Someone knocked at the door.

Moment, said Marley pulling a shirt on. He reached for the latch on the cabin’s door and hesitated, perhaps he should get his gun, then a familiar voice on the other side of the thick wood planks spoke.

You mentioned, you wanted to catch Rick before he left?

It was Nastya’s mother, Steffi, and her cheerful voice made Marley relax.

Yes, yes. Come on in, said Marley hopping into his pants.

The door swung in. Steffi was only a few years older than he was, but she looked about ten years younger. In her hands she held a cup of coffee and a croissant. She handed them to him. I know how you hate continental breakfasts, but if you want to catch Rick, you’ll have to get a move on. There was a humorous lilt to her voice. I heard the girls moving about. They were talking about going for a twenty-kilometre run.

That was like a splash of ice-cold water in Marley’s face. He took the thermal coffee mug and stuffed the croissant in