"It must have been another full hour before I ventured forth from my secluded vantage to inspect the scene. They had taken everything. I searched every corner of the simple structure in hopes of finding some lead to follow. Hours later, I found a manifest in handwritten German among the scattered papers littering the floor. It detailed everything that had been moved into the tower over the past 3 years, everything that I had seen being carted away in a mere hour. I wept as I read through the list. Evan, the contents of those crates made the collection in this room look like a show of freshman projects at a third rate art college. My portrait was on the list.

"It took me twenty years to find it within the Soviet Union. It was in storage in the Hermitage along with all the other items on the German manifest."

"Where is it now?" I asked.

"In 1985 it was given by General Secretary Gorbachev to the Government of Italy along with several other pieces as a political offering. The Italians keep them leased out to various galleries around the world, though the dolts have it listed as doubtfully attributed to Vermeer."

"Won't they sell it to you?"

"No. I've made a generous offer each year for the past three years. They refused every time. I even left the last offer open, letting them put in whatever figure they wished, and still, they were not interested. I never thought men could be so unreasonable," he said angrily.

I could see that the idea of his money not being able to buy something was poignantly irritating to him. "Is that not contradictory to what you said about wealth sweetening life? After all, you said this is your passion, what keeps you going," I said, baiting him.

"That's where you're mistaken, my friend. It is precisely my wealth that will bring the portrait back into my possession."

"How's that?"

"I'm going to contract someone to steal it. My life will be sweetened, and the vehicle is still money, there are no two ways about it. Never underestimate the potential of kinetic money," he said laughing.

"How much would it cost to have it stolen?"

"I would go as high as two million American dollars."

"That's a lot of money," I said, trying to match his cool demeanor.

"That depends on your frame of reference," he said, fixing his eyes on me. "It's a reasonable price for a part of your own identity. You'd do the same thing in my place. It's just as you told my wife at dinner, you'd like to go back to Istanbul if you had the money. Do you remember saying that?"

"Of course I remember, and I would go back if I had the money. I'd go back to Bulgaria as well. I understand what you're saying, what I don't get is your point."