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in storage, several that could please Ricci and yet were too mediocre to display in the Hermitage. As curator, he had complete autonomy when it came to trading minor or duplicate items.
    Kirvov grinned. "Agreed. I have your Hitler. You will have my Jesus Christ."
    Five minutes later, Ricci had his icon—small, glittering, a silver-plated frame holding a miniature painted head of Jesus, his robe a golden metal finish—and the ship's steward was thrilled.
    Showing the steward to the door, Kirvov stopped him for a moment. "Just one more thing. The name of the gallery in West Berlin where you purchased the painting?"
    Ricci's face was briefly blank. "I don't remember now. Somewhere near downtown Berlin. Let me—" He tried to think, with no apparent success, and shrugged his shoulders. "Never mind. It's on the receipt I mailed home. I'll remember to send it on to you the minute I get back there."
    "Please do remember."
    After Giorgio Ricci had left for his ship, Kirvov was once more alone in his office. He started slowly back to his desk, picked up the Hitler oil, studied it, and beamed.
    For an idea had struck him as he had been showing the ship's steward out, the perfect unusual means to publicize and popularize his first major exhibit at the Hermitage. It was clearly defined in his mind now. He would segregate one hall on the top floor and label it THE ART OF THE FASCIST MURDERER ADOLF HITLER. From the four walls he would hang blowups of photographs of the Nazi devastation of war-torn Leningrad, Stalingrad, and the fall of Berlin, as well as the naked corpses of innocent people that greeted the Allied liberators in Auschwitz, Dachau, and the Warsaw ghetto. Then, as ironic counterpoints to this savagery, Kirvov would hang the fifteen pieces of Hitler's early art he already had in his possession. Once more the Russian public would be reminded that the German dictator had been an animal and a violent schizophrenic.
    Yes, this latest oil, along with the other Hitler art he had on loan, would be the springboard to his first great success as curator of the Hermitage.
    But then, studying the ponderous oil of the dark building, Kirvov had one concern. Millions would see it and accept it as Hitler's, yet there might be one among them who would question its authenticity. Kirvov knew that he must be certain that this oil was by Hitler, and if possible learn what kind of building it portrayed and its location as well.
    How to authenticate it immediately? At once, Kirvov remembered a recent article he had read by Professor Otto Blaubach, the East German government minister who was an eminent historian of the Third Reich and the Führer's life. If anyone could tell him about this painting, it would be Blaubach. Kirvov riffled through his desk calendar and saw the notations he had made on it. Next week he was to go with his wife and son to Sochi on the Black Sea for their annual vacation. In a way, that made it easier. He would send them ahead while he spent a week in East Berlin to see Blaubach. After that he would join the family at their vacation resort.
    Perfect.
    Nicholas Kirvov had never been happier. Then he would be ready for his spectacular exhibit here in the Hermitage.
    A great time ahead. But first he must go to East Berlin.
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    I n West Los Angeles, Rex Foster parked his compact red Chevrolet sports coupe in his reserved slot at the rear of his small office building on San Vicente Boulevard. After going through the usual contortions to get his lanky six-foot frame out of the cramped driver's seat, he ambled up the narrow walk that ran along the side of his building to the front door.
    On the door was a gray plaque with gold and black lettering that read: FOSTER ASSOCIATES—ARCHITECTS.
    The door, as usual, was unlocked, meaning his staff of three was already there and probably at work. They were always in at nine-thirty in the morning, and Foster tried to arrive promptly at ten o'clock. The reception room was