A thriller that spans centuries and continents THE CHRYSALIS tracks an artistic masterpiece that falls prey to the worst of human desires—and a heroic attorney's struggle to right the wrongs of its history.
Mara Coyne has sweat blood and tears to reach the pinnacle at her prominent New York law firm, and now the client that will guarantee her partnership has fallen into her lap. The prestigious Beazley's auction house is about to auction a lost master work of Dutch painting, THE CHRYSALIS, in a sale destined for fame and fortune. Standing in the way, however, is the shocking claim that the painting belongs not to Beazley's, but to Hilda Baum, the daughter of a Dutch collector whose collection—and life—was pillaged by the Nazis.
It is Mara's job to prove that the painting is Beazley's, no matter how terrifying and heartbreaking Baum's story is. And she does, using the ruthless calculation that earned her the job. Her firm couldn't be happier, nor could Michael Roarke, the client with whom she's begun an ill-advised affair. But the same skills that make her a brilliant investigator also make her suspicious, and bit by bit the terror of the Baum case turns to evidence: evidence that it might be far more than hearbreaking, it might be true. Mara is plunged into a harrowing maze of questions about Beazley's history, her own integrity, and the true character of a man with whom she has fallen in love.
Underscoring the main plot are two storylines that track THE CHRYSALIS from its creation to the hands of the auction house, including a series of vignettes showing the brutal efficiency of the Nazi art thieves, and the way they systematically destroyed the man whose collection they coveted. Also woven throughout is the story of the painting's creation: a romance springing from the underground Catholicism of 17th century Holland and the forbidden love between artist and subject that sends it on an orphan's journey through the centuries.
The train bound for milan snakes into the berlin station, sending billows of steam high into the station's skeletal rafters. Its whistle pierces the night once and then recedes. Silence reclaims the cavernous space, broken now and then only by the slow, steady scraping of a sweeper's broom.
The sweeper has learned not to stare openly at the horrors that pass through the station. He knows to keep his own counsel and inhabit the shadows. Yet he watches, head bowed, from beneath the brim of his cap.
Track by track, click by click, the train comes to a stop. In the last car, a couple sits facing each other. They wait without moving, framed like portraits by the window's ruby curtains. Their incandescence defies the heavy, quiet darkness, and the sweeper slows his pace.
He considers the woman first. A station lamppost throws her proud profile into bold relief against the dark cabin corners. The low light catches the folds of her silk persimmon dress and the ermine trim of her traveling jacket and cloche hat. He shakes his head at the decadence of her clothes and calculates the loaves of bread her ensemble could fetch on the black market. Then the sweeper shifts his attention to the man, whose overall deportment seems more respectful of a wartime journey than the woman's. He has a naturally engaging round face, but he is dressed somberly in a charcoal suit, simple black overcoat, and fedora. His right hand clutches a worn brown envelope so tightly his knuckles shine white, and the jagged points of a yellow star peer out from his coat. The sweeper supposes that both must understand the precariousness of their travel.
Suddenly, the door to the compartment swings open with a jolt, and the man and the woman spring to their feet. The sweeper steps back into the safety of the shadows.
Flaxen boy-soldiers swarm around the couple. Their black uniforms gleam with gold buttons, and every jacket boasts the slash of red swastikas. The sweeper knows that these are not the usual station militia, and he jumps when their gloved hands cut across the compartment to take the man's tickets.
Then the boy-soldiers part to let a decorated officer come forward.
The official leans closer to address the couple. He hands over a document with a fountain pen and demands the man's signature; the officer wants the man to surrender something. Lowering his eyes, the traveler shakes his head. Instead, the man relinquishes his precious envelope, his hand trembling as he presents it to the officer.
The officer holds the envelope up to the cabin light, then slashes it open and scrutinizes the letter within. He stuffs the letter back into its envelope and returns it to the man. The officer and his soldiers pivot and depart, shutting the cabin door sharply behind them.
The train whistle cries out again, and the couple returns to their seats. A cautious smile curls on the corner of the man's mouth, but the sweeper turns away in despair. He has seen the boy-soldiers hard at work. He knows that when the train pulls away from the station, the last car will remain.
From the Hardcover edition.
Reviews
Steve Berry, author of The Alexandria Link...
"Quick, sure images, tight storytelling, solid suspense. A tense and vivid tale."
Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of The Mephisto Club...
"Fascinating history and assured storytelling make The Chrysalis one of those rare thrillers that both entertain and intrigue. This is a terrific debut!"
Katherine Neville, New York Times bestselling author of The Eight...
"Flemish art, Nazi skullduggery, and American money--in The Chrysalis, Heather Terrell follows the path of a famous painting through an important period of history that must not be forgotten, and interweaves the stories of three centuries into a dark cocoon of intrigue and suspense."
Javier Sierra, New York Times bestselling author of The Secret Supper...
"Only someone who feels a real love for art and the power of justice could have written a book like this."
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