9 One Down, Sixteen to Go
August 21, 2018
“It’s here. Both pieces arrived safely,” Suzanne said.
Ivan murmured his approval, yet internally, he was jumping with joy. One down, sixteen more to go. Ivan wiped the sweat off his forehead. It must be my age, he thought. His heart had been racing since the robberies started, and while he usually felt a rush of adrenaline followed by a wave of relief whenever the sale of a forgery went off without a hitch, this was much more intense. As far as he could remember, he’d never been so nervous about a job before. Then again, there was so much more riding on this project than a bit of cash.
He glanced at one of several photos of his daughter, laughing and carefree as every teenager should be. Ivan wiped away a tear, telling himself to get it together. He had to stay strong and focused for Marjana, his little princess.
Suzanne remained silent, waiting for him to respond.
He wanted to ask if she was calling from the disposable phone he’d given her but knew she was a consummate professional. Instead, he said, “Excellent news. Thank you,” then hung up without waiting for her to respond.
There was no going back now, he realized, not that he would have wanted to. This was his chance to bring down Luka Antic’s empire. With a little luck, his actions would also get the crime boss killed. Ivan reveled in the thought. Would the mobster’s death set him free from the pain and sorrow that had engulfed him since learning his daughter had passed? How he regretted the day he had suggested Marjana to Luka. Damn his fatherly pride!
Ivan smashed his fist onto his hotel room’s chair, bruising his knuckles in the process. What could have been haunted him daily, but it was too soon to dwell on the future and what might be. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. They still had sixteen more robberies to pull off and a total of forty paintings to forge. So much could still go wrong, and it was early days.
He contemplated how long it would take Suzanne to copy the sketches by Robert Zandvliet and Jan Schoonhoven, mentally running through the various processes she would use to age the paper and final product. Suzanne wasn’t nearly as fast as his daughter had been, but she was good enough. And she knew how to get in touch with him if she needed any extra equipment or assistance. He had to be patient and not pressure her to work faster. That was how mistakes happened. Instead, he pushed the copies out of his mind and mentally prepared himself for his next task.
It was time to call Luka and tell him the good news.
10 Conversations with American Modernists
August 23, 2018
Zelda walked around the Amstel Modern, her feet barely touching the floor. The Conversations with American Modernists opening party was in full swing and quite busy.
She squeezed around a couple debating the merits of Karel Appel’s later works to get closer to one of her favorite paintings by Jasper Johns. This later version of his iconic Flag was a small sketch-like image painted in green and black stripes with stars floating on a field of orange. Johns had worked so quickly that the canvas was still visible in places. Next to it hung a colorful and dreamlike work by the Danish painter, Asper Jorn. The square oil painting was almost as tall as her five-foot, ten-inch frame and was saturated in thick layers of color. The contrast between the two—reserved and linear versus explosively expressive—worked well, elevating both pieces. It did indeed seem as if the two artists were chatting with each other about the use of color or the lack thereof.
She turned to her left where an oil painting by Eugene Brands hung next to a sketch by Hans Hoffmann. Brands’ wispy clouds reminded Zelda of a softer version of Hoffmann’s harder, edgier composition, rendered with the same vibrant intensity. The simultaneous contrast—what Hofmann called ‘push and pull’—of complementary colors side by side made the squares and rectangles dance on the canvas.
Up ahead was a Franz Kline paired with an Armando, both large canvases filled with bold, sweeping strokes of black and white. Close by hung a Cy Twombly. His canvas was filled with colorful, otherworldly scribbles hidden under a fog of white and gray. The way it was positioned next to Corneille’s bold colors and childish shapes, it appeared as if the mist on Twombly’s canvas had dissipated, and the images underneath had been captured by the Dutch painter.
In the center of the hall hung an early drip painting by Jackson Pollock next to a disturbing, surreal painting by Lucebert. The Dutch artist’s canvas was a mess of linear scratches and slices of color breaking through a field of black. Paired together, the Lucebert looked like a linear version of Pollock’s chaotic work.
Zelda was thrilled to see pieces by these American masters hanging next to works by their Cobra counterparts. Their similar yet different styles of expression, as well as their use of color and form, exhilarated her.
She wandered among the guests attending tonight’s official opening party, feeling invisible. Most were already laughing a bit too gregariously, a reminder that booze had been flowing freely all night. And why shouldn’t they celebrate? The exhibition’s opening was a resounding success. Perhaps more importantly, it was also a chance for these museum professionals and the cultural elite to forget about the spate of robberies. Two Dutch museums had been hit in three days, and everyone had the feeling they could be next.
From afar, she observed the Amstel Modern’s curatorial staff, marketing team, and director standing in the center of the exhibition hall, ringed by the most important people in the Dutch cultural scene. All had wide smiles plastered on their faces as guests greeted and congratulated them. Considering this was the first time so many American modernists were being shown in the Netherlands, the exhibition was almost guaranteed to be a success. The number of reporters from newspapers and television stations around the world was a testament to that.
In one corner, a small group of directors from other regional museums were huddled together with their heads close, all glaring critically at a wall full of drawings made by American and Dutch abstract expressionists. Their haughty facial expressions were a combination of envy and contempt.
Zelda slowly walked to the bar all the while observing the who’s who of the Netherlands social and cultural elite. She had no idea so many actors, writers, dancers, and television personalities would want to attend. Most stood clustered together in small groups, chatting away and only occasionally glancing at a painting or, at least, the majority of guests.
She’d almost reached the bar when she noticed two men in the crowd who seemed to be interested in the artwork—extremely so. Their ill-fitting suits and weathered faces stood out among the perfectly coifed and dressed cultural elite circling the room. She watched as the two men moved through the hall, chatting animatedly about the color and design of each painting, sketch, and watercolor before moving to the next. Her curiosity piqued, Zelda walked closer to them so she could hear what interested them so much. She had taken a few steps toward them when she noticed how the chubby one smiled at a hostess passing out the champagne. It made Zelda shiver. She veered away and headed for the crowded bar instead.
A tall man in an expensive suit pushed his body a bit too close to Zelda’s as he squeezed past her. His lecherous smile made her tug at her dress’s hemline, ensuring it hadn’t slid up again. She was already feeling uncomfortable in this too-short green dress and chastised herself again for not wearing opaque tights under it instead of pantyhose. Her new stiletto heels were killing her feet, and she felt like she could topple over any second. Luckily, she was able to wrestle her long hair into a tight bun, which made her feel sophisticated enough to be here.
Zelda ordered a red wine then wandered through the crowd again, recognizing several highly-placed coworkers who pretended not to notice her. As a lowly assistant, she was not a desirable conversation partner, at least from a networking perspective. She couldn’t blame them for ignoring her because tonight was about being seen with the right people. A bright flash on her left made Zelda blink. A professional photographer snapped a shot of the marketing di
rector with her arm swung over the shoulders of a famous Dutch television presenter, their loopy grins perfect for Instagram. A lucky few would make it into the online media’s society pages, important blogs, and social media channels as well as traditional newspapers.
She was almost at the back of the exhibition hall when she spotted several fellow collection researchers and marketing assistants huddled together, looking as uncomfortable as she was. She waved, and Esmee made a beeline for her.
“Phew, it’s busy tonight,” Zelda said.
“Yeah, it looks like everyone who was invited showed up this time.” Esmee’s words were a bit slurred. Zelda wondered how many spritzers she’d already had.
“Do you think it will be a blockbuster?” Zelda asked, knowing the museum always had a target number of visitors in mind that, when reached, meant the exhibition had made back its costs.
“I sure do. Look at the turnout! Nora from marketing said the opening is going to be splashed all over the Dutch media tomorrow, as well as several other countries. That’s never happened before. I hope we have enough capacity. I can already imagine lines of visitors snaking out into the square.” Her eyes twinkled with glee.
“That would be pretty cool,” Zelda responded, feeling her joy intensify as she thought about all those visitors reading her texts and learning from her research.
“The only thing that could stop us now would be if the place burned down,” Esmee said. As soon as the words were out, she turned pale. “God, that’s a horrid thought. Time for another spritzer. Do you want one?”
“Sure, thanks.” As she watched her friend saunter away, wobbling only slightly on her stiletto heels, Zelda couldn’t shake the feeling that this exhibition wasn’t going to work out as everyone hoped.
11 Opening Night
August 23, 2018
Marko and Rikard sipped their free cocktails, taking in the busy opening night. Marko’s fake beard itched, and the fat pads that covered his skinny frame were making him sweat. He glanced over the Conversations with American Modernists flyer again before pocketing it. Despite his discomfort, he was grateful Ivan Novak managed to secure them invitations to this exclusive event. They didn’t have much time to plan and needed this opportunity to study the museum’s layout and artworks’ location.
Rikard nudged his side, drawing his attention to a blond, middle-aged man standing a few feet away. Marko’s eyes widened as he realized it was private investigator Vincent de Graaf chatting with one of the Amstel Modern’s curators. Thankful for his disguise, Marko swiftly changed direction and followed Rikard away from de Graaf and toward the bar. The detective had investigated several thefts that both Marko and his uncle Luka were involved with, but in every case, they had managed to slip through de Graaf’s fingers—along with the artwork they had stolen. The Antics were almost solely responsible for blemishing de Graaf’s otherwise spotless record, so Vincent would surely recognize him despite the beard and fat suit.
As they moved through the crowd, Marko noticed a younger woman in a green dress and stiletto heels. She didn’t appear to be one of the invited guests; she was too young and nervous to be someone of significance. His gaze was drawn to her hemline, which barely reached her mid-thigh. The dress seemed to be meant for a shorter woman, though it did show off her long legs. Too bad her hair was tied back in a librarian’s bun, Marko thought. She might be stunning if she let it loose. He looked down at his pudgy body and stopped criticizing.
He watched as she made her way to a group of shabbily dressed younger people, giddy with alcohol, hanging out at the back. They must all work for the Amstel Modern, he thought. They all seemed to be happily observing the party yet not really a part of it. None were important enough for the invitees to want to interact with.
He and Rikard had already walked around the exhibition hall twice and had inspected the artwork as well as the windows and doors for security tape or other triggers. They would have to case out the museum tonight and see when the security guards left and if a night shift replaced them.
The staff offices adjoined the exhibition hall, but the door was only accessible by key card. Marko realized they might need to sweet-talk one of the museum’s staff members to find out if a security guard was snuggled up behind a bank of video monitors, although experience told him it probably wasn’t worth his time. In most museums this small, video security was monitored off-site.
Even if a few guards were only a few feet away, both he and Rikard knew that most museums had a strict ‘no contact’ policy when it came to thieves. The on-location security personnel were supposed to call the police and monitor the intruders’ actions but not intervene. They weren’t cops, and most museums’ insurance policies didn’t cover the death of staff members while on duty.
If he and Rikard timed it right, they should be in and out within three minutes, meaning they would be leaving with the artwork before the police could arrive.
Luckily, their targets were clustered on the walls furthest from the office door and close to the main entrance. Two glass doors opened onto a steel staircase, which connected the second-floor exhibition hall with the permanent collection downstairs. The stairs ran along the glass wall covering the back of the building. From here, visitors had a perfect view of the Amstel Modern’s collection of kinetic sculptures floating in a pond below.
Based on photos they’d found of the building online, their original plan was to break in through the service entrance, which was secured with a ridiculously easy-to-pick lock. But once they arrived, they realized that was impossible. The museum was in a busy part of Amstelveen, situated at the edge of a large shopping center. The front of the building looked out onto shops, cafés, bars, library, and a theater hosting nightly shows. On its left was a bank and five-story parking garage, covered in security cameras. The right side, where the service entrance was located, butted up against a busy four-lane street leading to the freeway. Even after hours, three sides of the museum were busy with foot, bike, and auto traffic. The chance of a passerby spotting them was huge.
Only the back of the building was quiet. It faced the small pond, surrounded by high grass. A poorly-lit, single-lane street paralleled the water.
“Being on the second floor does complicate matters, although the ventilation shafts have potential,” Rikard said softly and casually as he gestured toward Jackson Pollock’s Study Number 5, an early version of his famous drip paintings. To a casual observer, it seemed as if he was commenting on the artist’s bold use of color.
The roof of the two-story museum was flat, providing them with more options. They might be able to climb up to the roof from the back of the building or even swing over from the taller parking garage next door—as Rikard pointed out earlier. The small road running between the garage and museum made it more challenging yet not impossible. They might be able to secure a zip line. There were always ventilator shafts and air vents they could take advantage of to get inside, but there was no guarantee the artwork would fit through the air ducts.
Marko cocked his head and studied the sketch. “I think we need to keep looking.” His eyes flickered briefly upward. “Might be a tight squeeze on the way out.”
Rikard nodded in understanding and continued scanning for options. As they passed by the large windows lining the back of the building, both men stopped to watch the sculptures in the water dance in the wind. As a strong gust sent the grass waving and the flying pig twirling, a smile broke across Marko’s face. He squinted his eyes and realized the pond was not a pond but a canal. The long waterway was encased in high reeds and virtually invisible from the road or sidewalk. Marko followed the narrow channel with his eyes, seeing how it ended two streets away.
“Rikard, I know exactly how we’re going to pull this off.”
12 A Moonlight Paddle
August 25, 2018
Four thieves paddled a flat-bottom boat along a channel running parallel to Heenvliet Lane, directly behind the Amstel Modern in Amstelveen. The darkened st
reet was lined with old trees and regal homes surrounded by expansive walled gardens. Not that the thieves could see the houses or street clearly through the walls of reeds lining both sides of the waterway. The moon helped to light their way, making their night goggles unnecessary. They had launched the boat from a small dock at the opposite end of the two-block-long canal. A few strokes later and the back of the Amstel Modern was visible. The glass façade glistened in the moonlight as they approached the canal’s low brick wall butting up against the museum’s concrete foundation.
Rikard looked over to his teammate Marko, then Tomislav and Sebastijan. The four men had never worked together before, but so far, things had gone smoothly. He was grateful that Ivan, their project coordinator, was able to arrange for Team Will to assist so quickly. This job would have been impossible without them.
Sebastijan untied the rope holding a foldable ladder to the deck. Tomislav held on to the bricks and kept the boat steady as his partner tilted the ladder into the foot-deep canal. The water only reached the first rung. The ladder, painted matte black, almost disappeared into the night. Sebastijan stepped out onto it, forcing the metal legs deep into the muddy bottom before extending the ladder to its full thirty-foot height. He then carefully leaned it up against one of the wide silver metal bars holding the six-foot-wide glass panes into place. Once he was satisfied it was secure to climb, he nodded to Team Tuck and stepped aside. Marko and Rikard, both swathed in black, scampered up.
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