Requiem for the Future

Part 12 Galerie Ström

One of Aria’s art galleries. This one is attached to the Ström Vault Hotel. (Created by me with help from Copilot)

This place smells like secrets.

Let’s make sure we leave with a few.

I read somewhere on the internet that art theft ranks just behind drugs and guns on the world’s criminal leaderboard. Art’s the cleanest dirty business there is—legal, but lawless. You can drop seven figures on a painting with less documentation than a used mower off Craigslist. Try that stunt with a house and you’re buried in paperwork. Do it with a Monet and you’re halfway to Monaco.

Hotels, I know. Drag your bags in, flash an ID, swipe a credit card and pray you actually made a reservation. Try it in Vegas and you’ll age a decade in line. Aria? She didn’t check in. She arrived. Walked through the door held open like a throne room entrance, nodded once at the concierge, and slipped into the elevator. No reception desk. No signage. Just a few paintings staring down at you like museum guards.

No key. No buttons inside the elevator. No mercy.

Holy cannoli! We shot up like champagne pressure, and the elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

“I want you to listen today. Don’t interrupt with snarky remarks. The people I’m meeting are twitchy. You’ve got a few minutes to ask questions while I fix my makeup.”

You forgot your luggage, by the way. What’s up with no key, no registration—just a nod from the concierge like you owned the place? And that buttonless elevator? Let’s just say it beats the flophouse in Jersey, where the stairs were held together with prayer and cockroach ambition.

“You are slipping, Matt. You mentioned nothing about cigarettes or bourbon. Luggage will be brought up after a few minutes. I could request a personal butler that would unpack everything for me. Buttonless elevators use digital and facial recognition. The concierge works for me. I own the place.”

I heard her talk about facial recognition and butlers like it was just another Tuesday. Me? I was still marveling at the buttonless elevator, the lack of paperwork, and the way the concierge nodded like God had vetted her.

Jersey had roaches and regret. This place had satin walls and secrets thicker than Swiss chocolate.

She owns the place.

Of course she does.

She owns art galleries.

Next, she’ll own time zones and taste.

Then I heard a ding.

The sound dropped like a pistol cocking in velvet.

The door opened, and in walked the concierge carrying her bags. “Bonjour, Madame Aria. Comment allez-vous?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, excellent.”

“Would you allow me the pleasure of unpacking for you, Madame?”

“Not this time.”

“If you need anything, I am of service anytime.” He nods his head, entering the elevator. As the doors close, “Have a good day, Madame.”

‘Bonjour, Madame.’ His vowels had more stamps than his passport. Why French, when Zurich ran on German? I hadn’t felt this underdressed since sneaking into a gala with a parking stub. He packed charm like it was imported; could’ve unpacked my insecurities while he was at it. The elevator swallowed him whole. And just like that, her luggage had a better day than I did.

“Matt. It’s a game we play. The concierge speaks in a certain language and I answer with that language. Don’t you have a book to read?”

Sure do. Funny thing though, I read it once and I can easily recall what I read. Where was this trick when I was flunking high school algebra? I know the difference between Baroque and Rococo art.

“I’ll give you a choice. Let’s call it a test. You can continue to read and learn or you can observe and be silent. I’m serious. No comments or sighs.”

I’ll make you a deal. I’ll read the book until you are ready to meet your contact.

There it was, Chapter Four: Noir & Rococo. Like oil and vinegar. Or gasoline and a match. I’m teasing Aria. Chapter Four: Art & Other Criminal Activities.

“Silence! Or all you be seeing while in Zurich are paintings and statues of nude men. That will allow you to recognize your shortcomings.”

“I’m meeting with my contact, Nico and his client Viktor soon. I’ll interrupt you when it is time.”

I quietly moved on to the Neoclassical chapter. A return to classical ideals, order, symmetry, and balance. At least the paintings looked realistic.

The book closed, and two men enter the Gallery.

Viktor stepped into the gallery like he’d already bought the building. Black cashmere, silver cuffs, and a face cut with patience. Nico, trailing just behind, offered a nod to Aria—more reverent than familiar.

“Guten Tag, Fräu Aria,” Nico said, with that effortless Swiss precision. “May I present Viktor. He’s curious. And cautious.”

Aria didn’t smile. She tilted her head slightly, the gallery’s soft lighting carving angles into her cheekbones. “Curious is good. Cautious is safer.”

Matt kept silent, though his thoughts scratched at the inside of his skull.

Nice. One man brings the money, the other brings the laundering instructions. I wonder which one wears both hats.

“I understand you have a growing interest in art,” Aria said, turning toward Viktor. “There are ways to collect, of course—pure acquisition, private sale, gallery-backed investment. But museums offer a different avenue. One can donate a piece… at an agreed value.”

Viktor’s brow raised a fraction. “Inflated?”

“Optimistic,” Aria replied. “Donations are reviewed with grace. And recorded with prestige. But first, you need something that speaks to you. Truth first, then negotiation.”

She moved through the gallery’s curated hush of a corridor, gesturing to a mid-sized oil painting of a woman draped in blue, surrounded by figures whose faces had been intentionally left blurred.

“This was once considered a minor school piece,” she said. “Until someone found a signature beneath the varnish. Now it’s a mystery with provenance.”

“You don’t need to commit,” Aria said softly. “Just feel something. Then we talk.”

Viktor lingered in silence—fifteen minutes of slow steps and studied indifference.

Then: “Thank you, Aria. This was enlightening.”

He nodded once and walked out, Nico shadowing him.

As the gallery doors clicked shut, Aria simply said, “Nico will tell me what Viktor says. And if he chooses discretion over drama.”

Matt exhaled silently.

Is it possible that he is not who he says he is? No jokes, no commentary. But I saw Viktor glance twice at the blue woman painting. And not for artistic reasons. Nico’s wasting your time, he’s either careless or complicit.

Let me off the chain, and I’ll script the shootout in cursive. I’ll choreograph a double-cross so clean it’ll get five stars in Zurich.

“Good catch Matt. You surprise me. There will be times when I’ll need that insight, but not today. They both are my contacts.”

A test. This whole setup was a damn test?

Wait! Stop for a moment.

I know this painting. It’s Fragonard’s ‘The Bolt.’ The original hangs in the Louvre.

“Are you sure about that? Perhaps this is the original, and an immaculate forgery hangs in Paris.”

Matt didn’t speak for a minute. The silence was deliberate, like a held breath in a rigged room. Only then did he speak.

The only thing I’m sure of is that the ‘d’ is silent in Fragonard. Just like the truth in a forged signature.

Something tells me Aria collects more than paintings

and she frames more than art.