The German Suitcase Read Online Free PDF Page A

history. The book covers a period when it was family run and long before it became part of LVMH. We are diverse, tolerant and all the things a modern company should be.’ That’s a quote.”
    “They didn’t deny it, did they?” Steinbach said.
    “Yeah, well it’s still going to stir up one hell of a hornet’s nest, Sol,” Tannen warned.
    “It damn well better,” Steinbach growled. “Like I said, controversy is good. Generates lots of free media. It’ll make those Frenchmen squirm, too,” he went on with a laugh. “More important than that, much more important, it’ll keep the memory of the Holocaust alive.”
    “Gunther’s been out front on that for decades,” Tannen said, jumping at the chance to establish GG’s Semitic bonafides. “The Never Forget campaign after the Seventy-Two Olympics was organized by this agency,” he went on, referring to the kidnapping and murder of Israeli athletes by Palestinian terrorists.
    “For all the fucking good it did,” Steinbach fired-back. “Anti-Semitism is alive and well, Bart. We’ve got neo-Nazis in Paris abducting Jews off the street; Muslim wannabes in White Plains torching synagogues; bearded psychos in Tehran threatening to wipe Israel off the map.” He took a moment to settle, and then said, “After the war, I came to this country with my Uncle Abe, the only other family member to survive. He rebuilt the business from scratch, and it killed him. I was twenty-two when I took over. For me, it’s about profits. The more we generate, the more cash I have to support those causes that are close to my heart.”
    “You know boss,” Stacey said, glancing to Tannen with a little grin, “Something tells me this piece of vintage Steinbach is going to be part of the campaign.”
    “You bet your Blackberry,” Steinbach cracked. “That suitcase, and the guy who owned it, kick-off the campaign.”
    “Assuming he’s still kicking,” Tannen cautioned.
    Steinbach responded with a preoccupied nod. He had slipped on his glasses and was bent over the suitcase, squinting at the area next to the handle. “Looks like this one was monogrammed.”
    “Hot-stamped in gold, as I recall,” Tannen prompted.
    “Eighteen carat,” Steinbach replied, his voice ringing with pride. “Can’t make ‘em out. Fucking Nazis probably chipped ‘em off for the gold.” He removed his glasses, then smiled at a thought. “Come to think of it, I know a Jake Epstein. I know a handful of ‘em. One belongs to my temple; another lives in the same condo in Florida; another’s a surgeon. We served on a few boards together. Haven’t seen him in years.”
    “Well, assuming we get lucky,” Tannen said with as much optimism as he could muster, “Our Jacob Epstein would be damn near ninety if he’s a day,”
    Stacey’s thumbs were flying over her Blackberry, again. “Two-hundred-forty-thousand hits,” she said with a disappointed groan. “Jacob Epstein the Sculptor, the British financier, the rugby player…” She resumed thumbing the keyboard, using phone listings to narrow the search. “Okay, here we go. Lots of Epsteins in the Manhattan directory…not a single Jacob? A half-dozen or so J. Epsteins. Of those that list an address…not one lives in The Apthorp.”
    “The Apthorp?” Steinbach echoed. “Geezus, talk about hornets nests. I don’t know who’s in more trouble, those guys or the ones who bought the Plaza. Anyway, here’s the drill: I’ll have my people run this serial number. I’ll also have ‘em put together a list of clients most likely to have vintage Steinbachs. I want to focus on print. Find out if Penn is still working. If he isn’t, look into Demarchalier and Meisel. I like Annie Leibovitz too; and I hear she needs the cash.”
    “She may need the cash, but she’s doing Louie Vee,” Tannen said, referring to Steinbach’s competitor.
    “Must be a mental block,” Steinbach said with a laugh. “There’s always Zach Bolden; but he’s usually