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steps to the bar. He was twenty minutes early for his appointment, but it gave him time to order a Dortmunder Union from the bartender and reflect on the phone conversation that had brought him here.
    From the minute he had first read the letter that Mr. Ferguson had brought to him, he realized the financial implications, and that once people learned of the existence of the crash, it would bring out the thieves and treasure hunters. Still, it amazed him that the wheels had turned as fast they had, and that he had received the call from a “Mr. Jones” this morning.
    The restaurant was busy, and he had no idea who to look for, but he was pretty confident Mr. Jones would find him. The beer tasted good! He was preparing to order another, when the tap on his shoulder interrupted him. He turned to find a small, white-haired man, in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed in a gray, three-piece suit.
    “Dr. Karl, my name is Irwin Jones. Please follow me and we’ll have some lunch.”
    “My pleasure,” replied Karl, as he followed the hostess and Jones to a table discreetly isolated in the front corner of the restaurant by the large window overlooking Bardstown Road. Menus were left with them as they took their seats.
    There was an eerie silence between the two as they surveyed the menus, while the bus boy brought water and the waiter introduced himself and the daily specials. They both ordered immediately and allowed the waiter to leave before Jones initiated the conversation.
    “Well, it appears Doctor that you have stumbled on quite a find. We had assumed that the flight containing this precious cargo had been destroyed in 1945. We were aware there was a survivor, but since he never made any attempt to return to the crash sight, we felt there was no need to pursue it. Our mistake.”
    “So there is some validity to Ferguson’s letter,” inquired Karl.
    “Completely!” affirmed Jones.
    “You seem to know a lot about this whole affair already, do you mind if I ask who you are and what you do?”
    “Certainly. My name is Irwin Jones, and I represent an antiquities dealer who in turn represents several interested parties that would like to purchase the recovered artwork from Mr. Ferguson… should he have any luck finding the missing pieces, and they’re in restorable shape of course.”
    “Of course,” mimicked Karl.
    “This is very big Herr Karl. Very, very big.”
    “Oh, I can only imagine how much this could be worth. What do you need from me?”
    “I need a translation of the letter. I intend to talk to Mr. Ferguson and persuade him that we would like to pay him an advance, and we will take the risk of the salvage operation. If we are successful, and the art is restorable, he will get a sizable percentage. You will also be compensated handsomely Doctor. I will pay you half up front and the other half upon completion, but from here on out I would like for you to take receipt of the letter and verify it’s authenticity, translate it and then transfer the letter to me. After that we will never speak again, is that clear?”
    “Very! Nevertheless, how will I get the letter, and I am assuming that I will not be involved with the negotiations with Mr. Ferguson?
    “Absolutely not! I will arrange for all of it. As I said, you will receive the letter, verify and translate it, and then you will get the letter to me. One week from today, same time, we will meet back here. You will bring the letter and the translation then.”
    Mr. Jones slid a business size envelope across the table. “In there is $25,000 dollars. I will bring the same amount with me next week upon the conclusion of our transfer. If you have any problems or questions in the meantime you may reach me at this number.” He handed him a blank business-size card with a single phone number printed on it.
    The waiter appeared with two of the lunch specials and two glasses of white wine as ordered. After he disappeared, Jones picked up where he left