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Episode One took place at the Altaussee Salt Mine in the Styria region of Austria.

Apparently, the Nazis knew what they were doing, as salt mines have stable temperatures and low humidity, perfect for preserving works of art.

Hitler’s plan was to steal all the great works of art in Jewish hands and create his grand museum in Linz after he won the war.

So sorry that didn’t work out for you, Adolf.

I read that the Altaussee Salt Mine held one of the largest caches of Nazi loot, including pieces owned by the Rothschilds—and the much less notable Bernheims. The Monuments Men discovered the mine and the hidden artworks.

I remember there was a film with that title a while back, but I never saw it and don’t know anything about them.

I call Jonathan to see if either he or the conference has more information.

“The Monuments Men were amazing,” he tells me. “A bunch of dedicated risk-takers whose mission was to protect and recover art stolen by the Nazis. There’s a movie about them and lots of books. If you want to check them out, I can give you some titles.”

“Maybe I’ll be able to do that in some other lifetime, but as I’m on this sole-survivor quest, that’s the part of the story I’m focused on. What else do you know about the mine?”

“Is this worth your time?” he asks. “What do you expect to get out of it?”

I glance over at Party . “Probably nothing, but it’s all so strange…”

“I know the Conference was involved in getting compensation for other pieces in the flood, but that’s about it. Way before my time.”

“Nothing else?”

“Let’s see…” he says. “If I remember correctly, the Monuments Men discovered the mine sometime in 1945 based on tips from locals. Something about Austrian miners who got suspicious.”

“That’s somewhat heartening.”

“I suppose. That whole better-late-than-never crap.” He sighs. “The mine was apparently a labyrinth of underground rooms connected by tunnels, all of which flooded in some kind of freak hurricane. That’s about all I’ve got—and of course, that Party on the Seine was in the waterproof container.”

“Do you think the Conference’s databases might offer me a lead?”

“I doubt we have anything beyond what you’ve already found out. The disaster piece was never a focus for us.”

“But you’re the one who told me about the whole sole-survivor thing.”

“I was told about it, in confidence, by a woman who used to volunteer here.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“She died about a year and a half ago. Right after we first learned about Party and the earthquake. A Holocaust survivor. Ninety-two, and still sharp till the end.”

“How did she know?”

“Something about an uncle or a cousin who was in the Monuments Men, or who worked with them. She blurted it out when we first discovered that Party was the only painting to come through the earthquake. Then she made me promise I’d never mention it to anyone.”

“But you told me.”

“Because I was as freaked at the third occurrence as she was at the second.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“No idea. I actually forgot all about it until the Columbia fire.”

“It’s like Party can save herself, or maybe even make things happen,” I say. When I hear how phantasmic this sounds, I wish I could take it back.

“It’s weird all right, but not that weird. Are you seriously thinking Party has supernatural powers?”

“Of course not. I’m just spinning possibilities.”

“And that’s possible?”

“No,” I declare with conviction. “Absolutely not. It’s just some kind of wild outlier.”

ON MY WAY home from work the next day, I stop at the neighborhood Korean restaurant and order a poke bowl to go. Wyatt is working late, and I’m relishing the idea of a quiet night alone with Party . Even the crowd in the small foyer pressing in on me from all sides doesn’t dampen my mood.

A woman about my age in a puffer coat complains, “You’d think with all the takeout business they do, they’d try to make the experience more pleasant—for us and their staff.”

“True.”

The harried man behind the front stand lifts a bag and calls out, “Fred!”

A teenage boy grabs it from him and lopes out the door.

The woman lets out a powerful poof of breath. “He came in after me. Fucking annoying.”

I glance at her, thinking that she’s clearly not looking forward to her evening. “Long day?” I ask.

“Got that right. You?”

“Not as bad as some,” I tell her.

“Tamara!”

I squeeze my way to the stand and take the proffered bag, glad to be leaving, even if it’s freezing cold out there.

“Damn,” the woman says, and follows me. “You came in after me too. This is bullshit. I’m out of here.” Which is curious, as you have to pay when you place your order. She falls in next to me. “Why can’t anyone do their job anymore?”

I nod, sorry for having engaged her in conversation, and pick up speed.

“I’m Emily,” she says, increasing her pace to keep up with me. “Nice to meet you, Tamara.”

For a moment, I’m alarmed that she knows my name. But of course she heard it in the restaurant. I don’t respond. Maybe she’ll go away.

“I heard there’s someone in this neighborhood who’s got a multimillion-dollar Impressionist painting stashed in her apartment,” Emily says conversationally. “Know anything about it?”

I continue walking, although I’m not sure how I’m able to.

Party . She knows about Party . Shit, shit, shit.

Blood roars in my ears. This wasn’t some random meeting.

Good ol’ Emily followed me into the restaurant.

Which is why her order hadn’t been called.

She wasn’t there for food. She was there for me.

“Also heard the person lives at Tremont245. Familiar with that building?”

I stop. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, so please leave me alone.”

“I hate to report on a story without getting comments from all the major players. Balance is my primary objective, and it’s much fairer to everyone involved.”

A reporter. A goddamned reporter. I just about sprint around the corner onto Tremont and burst through the door of my building, certain Emily is going to follow me into the lobby. I rush up to the concierge desk and call out, “Pease don’t let her come in, Chris. I don’t know who she is.”

Chris looks at me, around the empty lobby, back at me.

I lean against the wall, try to catch my breath. “Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s nothing. I made a mistake.”

He hesitates. “Are you sure you’re all right, Tamara? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No. Thanks. I’m fine. Really, I am.” I stumble to the elevator. Just fine.