The Burning Gates Read Online Free Page A

leaned forward, his face half in shadow. ‘It is a curious fact. On the one hand we collectors crave exposure for the works we buy, and on the other, we hide them away, for decades, sometimes for centuries.’
    ‘You said there were more paintings?’
    ‘Absolutely. If the information is correct, we are talking about a unique collection of some of the great masters – Chagall, Matisse, Picasso, Nolde . . .’
    ‘And your client is aware of this?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ Kasabian peered into his glass.
    ‘Can you explain how such a collection of masterpieces might arrive here?’
    ‘Well, for that we have to go back to the Second World War. Just before it, in fact. In 1936 Adolf Hitler ordered a purge of modern art from German museums. Hitler, as you may know, was himself something of an amateur painter, but very traditional. He detested the avant-garde. He saw the development of modernist forms such as Expressionism as degrading to the German spirit.’ Kasabian shrugged. ‘He was a small man with very conservative views. He didn’t like change. He associated this new art with Jewish interference in German life. So he confiscated thousands of pieces and arranged for them to be displayed publicly with the idea of ridiculing them and the artists who produced them, many of them Jews, of course. Degenerate Art, as he called it, threatened to corrupt the minds of all good people; it filled them with images that were impure and unclean.’
    ‘He was ahead of his time,’ said Makana. ‘I can think of a few people around today who would agree with him.’
    ‘Yes, indeed. There is not that much of a gap between Hitler’s views and those of our religious purists.’ Kasabian sipped his drink.
    ‘I may be missing something but I still don’t see the connection with the here and now.’
    ‘I’m coming to that. When the Nazis realised they were losing the war they started to move artworks out of Germany for safekeeping. A number of them have never resurfaced.’
    ‘Not even on the black market?’
    ‘Not even there.’
    ‘So how did they wind up here?’
    ‘We can only speculate on that, but if you like I can give you my personal hypothesis.’
    ‘Please.’ Makana reached for a cigarette and lit one.
    ‘We all remember the First Gulf War of 1991. Well, when Saddam’s forces invaded Kuwait his soldiers behaved like barbarians. They ransacked and they robbed, including a number of private art collections. None of us had any real idea what they might have contained, but we suspected that some great works were hidden there.’ In Kasabian’s measured tones Kuwait City sounded like a modern-day Aladdin’s cave. ‘In a few months some curious works began appearing on the world market. Some of these, it was suspected, came from the private vaults of Kuwaitis now in exile. Little information was forthcoming because owners are not always keen to explain how they came by certain works.’
    ‘And you think that’s how this collection wound up here?’
    ‘It’s the only explanation, in my opinion.’
    Makana recalled the time. The year the Americans had expelled Saddam from Kuwait was the year he had fled from Khartoum. The sight of US forces gathering in Saudi Arabia had outraged pious souls in the region who saw sacrilege in the presence of infidels on holy soil, even if they were there to defend it. Makana was struggling against his own version of religious zealotry at the time, so he had little sympathy. Not that he was a supporter of the American-led aggression. He recalled the images of the road to Baghdad littered with blackened vehicles of the retreating Iraqi forces. They seemed to deserve one another, the Americans and their unruly puppet.
    ‘That was more than a decade ago. Why has it taken so long for these paintings to surface?’
    ‘These things are rarely straightforward.’ Kasabian got up to refresh his drink. ‘It may not be a coincidence that the Americans are once more knocking on Saddam’s door,