Sources working in three of the museums were able to share photographs of the messages left behind.
Zelda glanced at the images, all poor-quality snaps made by a smartphone, probably taken on the sly.
These Robber Hood cards haven’t yet been reported in the mainstream media. Why not? Are the police asking the museums’ staffs to keep the presence of the cards quiet? To what end? If an audacious group of morally emboldened thieves is targeting our cultural institutions, doesn’t the public have a right to know? As taxpayers, we do fund the majority of museums in this country.
Who are Robber Hood, and what are their motives?
The messages left behind suggest they are stealing to draw attention to the poor security of our public art collections. Yet if they are cultural crusaders trying to draw attention to the vulnerability of our cultural institutions, they are doing a pretty crappy job of it.
Why aren’t they on social media broadcasting their manifesto and flaunting photographs of their daring crimes? Why aren’t they contacting the traditional media directly and explaining their motivations? How do they expect to grab our attention and spread their message if they do not?
When we look critically at the work they have stolen, the thieves seem to have a preference for sketches, studies, and watercolors. None of the stolen works are on par with the Night Watch. Why haven’t they stolen the most expensive pieces in the museums they’ve broken into, artwork so ingrained in our collective consciousness that its theft would enrage a nation and band the public together?
After the embarrassingly easy theft of two multimillion-euro paintings from the Van Gogh Museum in 2002, the Netherlands’ top cultural institutions invested heavily in their security. Pieces like the Night Watch are virtually impossible to steal. Yet smaller regional museums don’t have access to the same kinds of funding and subsidies that the big boys do. Robber Hood’s week-long spree has affected cultural institutions across the nation. If their tactic is to enrage as many cultural lovers as possible, this is a good second best.
So if Robber Hood is trying to send a message to those responsible for safeguarding our nation’s historical, cultural, and artistic heritage for future generations, why haven’t they spoken up yet? Why haven’t they made demands for the art’s return? Or are there more thefts on the horizon? Could they be waiting until their spree is over to reveal their identity and demands to the museums from which they stole?
Time will tell, though the police maintain they still have no viable leads into the whereabouts of the stolen artwork nor Robber Hood’s true identity.
Zelda couldn’t believe it. The Robber Hood cards meant these weren’t random robberies but committed by the same organization. It seemed so strange and unbelievable.
Zelda clicked on the About section. A Dutch culture-lover named Nik started this blog three months ago. His profile photo was of an average-looking, middle-aged man turning away from the camera as the photo was taken. Zelda doubted she would recognize him on the street even if she walked right past him. She scanned the scant details about his life, scrolling down to read about his motivation.
Why do I blog?
In the topsy-turvy world of art crime, nothing is ever as it seems. My blog is dedicated to reporting on art thefts and forgery cases in the Benelux, especially those crimes often ignored by the mainstream media. And trust me, there are many. Knowledge is power. We can’t sit back and do nothing while the mafia, profiteers, and misfits steal our culture—our history—for a quick buck.
17 The Art Detective
August 28, 2018
Vincent de Graaf leaned back and folded one knee over the other, his broad shoulders filling the conference room chair. He flicked a piece of lint off his pant leg then looked up at Julie Merriweather. His sapphire blue eyes pierced her soul and took her breath away. “You do realize how unconventional it is to call me in so early? This is still a fresh case, and the police are actively pursuing leads.” His voice was deep and booming. Julie could hardly believe the man could ever work undercover.
“Yes, of course, I am. I have already discussed your involvement with the lead investigator, Detective Prins, and he supports our decision.” Julie leaned forward, trying to infuse her voice with authority. But in the face of this private investigator’s oozing self-assuredness, her voice sounded weak and whiny. The Dutch police had already assured her that Vincent would also be given access to all the information available about the Robber Hood thefts once he agreed to investigate this one. That was a big if—Vincent de Graaf was known for being picky and not swayed by emotional pleas. If he didn’t think he could locate the artwork, he wouldn’t bother to waste his time and energy on it. So far, this meeting was not going as she’d hoped. Vincent seemed uninterested in investigating any Eastern European connection to their robbery. She sucked up her breath and tried again.
“The Dutch police are concentrating on tracking down several local leads. However, there are indications that at least one of the thieves involved is from the Balkans. The police are open to you investigating any connections outside of the Netherlands and tracking down the artwork if necessary. They know as well as we do that if a criminal organization took the art, the longer we wait to follow up any viable lead, the less likely it will ever be recovered. And if it does end up an artnapping case, it may be preferable to have you negotiate for the insurance company instead of the police.”
Julie looked to insurance agent Ruben Meyer, seated to her left, for confirmation. He locked eyes with Vincent. “We believe—”
The art detective ignored him, and instead asked Julie, “Why exactly do the police believe criminals from the Balkans are involved?”
Julie sat up straighter, knowing this was the moment of truth, that this was the information that would either interest him in the case or not. She pulled a photograph out of a manila folder lying on the table and passed it to Vincent. “This is a still-frame capture from a security camera in Amstelveen. This man is stealing one of the two scooters used to flee the Amstel Modern robbery. Police were able to use footage from home security cameras in the area to place it at the scene. Our insurance company put us in contact with Interpol, who was able to match him to a Croatian criminal named Marko Antic. My museum’s security team is now reviewing our video feeds in the hopes of finding a record of him visiting the museum.”
Vincent de Graaf startled visibly when he heard the name. “Marko Antic? We’ve crossed paths before. If Marko is involved, then the chance is quite high that the artwork will find its way to the Balkans. Your insurance provider is right—the police don’t have the resources or connections to investigate this possibility further. But I do.” By the end of the sentence, he had uncrossed his legs and was leaning forward, making eye contact with both Julie and Ruben.
Julie was overwhelmed with relief. That was precisely why the insurance agent had recommended him. Not only did Vincent have a vast network in Eastern Europe but he also had a good working relationship with most of the national and international police forces involved. For the first time since entering the room, he seemed interested in listening to what they had to say. There was hope he would take the case, after all.
Vincent picked up the photograph and examined it carefully. Julie’s hands shook in her lap as they waited for him to make his decision. After what felt like a lifetime, the detective said, “I will take this case as a consultant. I can’t guarantee I’ll find Marko, but I think I know where to start.”
Julie had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out in joy. The police were not making much progress, and with more robberies happening every day, the Amstel Modern theft was already old news. The insurance agent believed this detective was their best hope at recovering any of the art, and for the first time since the break-in, Julie felt a spark of hope. Perhaps her new position as director was not in jeopardy. She might have a chance at leaving her mark on the museum world, after all.
Vincent whistled as he unlocked his bicycle chained
to a rack outside the Amstel Modern. How many times had he crossed paths with the Antic family? And how many times had he gotten stung for it? While he made a point of always putting the art’s recovery before anything else, where Luka Antic was concerned, it was personal. Evidence found in three cases he’d been working on linked Luka and his criminal organization to the crimes. Each time, he had been so close to recovering the artwork only to have it yanked away and disappear forever.
Three months ago, one of his informants had his throat slashed, his body laid out where the final meeting was supposed to be taking place. Vincent knew the dead man’s wife and three sons as well. Since that cock-up, several of his regular informants refused to work with him, fearing for their lives. Considering his plans to open an office in Split, he needed as many of his Croatian contacts on his side as possible. And proving himself more formidable than Luka Antic may be the only way to do so.
Luka was an elusive figure, who could never be tied to any art-related thefts. Vincent, as well as several of his colleagues, suspected Luka of being the brain behind the Balkan Bandits. But this time, they’d found evidence that his nephew Marko was directly involved. In contrast to his powerful uncle, Marko was still young and prone to making mistakes. He’d even been caught on camera during several recent robberies. Though he was incredibly adept at vanishing into thin air when the police came looking for him, there was a higher chance of catching Marko than Luka. And if Vincent could pull that off, there was a chance he could break the young thief, thereby reassuring his Croatian network that he could protect them, especially if Marko implicated his uncle—assuming Luka was the ringleader behind the Robber Hood crimes. Or was Marko or another young buck trying to butt in on Luka’s market… Vincent’s mind reeled with possibilities as he biked through the residential neighborhoods of Amstelveen toward his home on the Amstel River.
18 Creating a Legacy
August 29, 2018
Kadir Tekin always enjoyed his brother-in-law’s company. Not only did Yusef marry Kadir’s favorite sister but they were also roughly the same age, had ten children, and were successful businessmen. They always had much to talk about and often had the same opinions about world events as well as the resolution to family squabbles. So when Kadir decided to start selling cocaine and heroin in his hotels, he had turned to Yusef. His brother-in-law was one of Istanbul’s best suppliers of wholesale product, shipped straight in from Afghanistan and Columbia on his overseas transport company’s many ships.
“How far have we come, eh? Thirty-five years ago, you were a tour guide in Dalyan, and I peddled miniature mosques to tourists in Istanbul. Now we own empires.” Yusef punched him lightly on the shoulder before taking a long drag of the hookah placed between them.
Kadir nodded. They were indeed blessed, and he knew it. He had risen from his humble beginnings as a tour guide on the Dalyan River delta to become the owner of hotels, nightclubs, bars, tour companies, and a fleet of rental yachts. Nothing had come easily to him, first as a child working ten-hour days to serve Western tourists’ every whim, and then later as the owner of so many ventures that he had to bring in several trusted relatives to help him run them all. Now, everything he touched seemed to turn to gold.
He had accomplished so much, yet as he approached fifty years old, Kadir’s mind often turned to the legacy he would leave his children. He had his many bars and hotels to thank for his enormous wealth, more than a simple fisherman’s son could ever dream of. But that was not the lasting legacy he wanted to create. Kadir wished to leave behind something that would earn the Tekin name everlasting respect. “It is important to leave a mark on the present and future. Don’t you agree, Yusef?”
“Oh, yes. I am grooming my sons to take over my import-export businesses and transport companies. I want them to own good, reputable businesses they can be proud of. They won’t have to deal with the same scum I do.”
Neither man wanted his children to have to go through the same hardships they had. Kadir had earned enough in his short lifetime that none of his ten offspring would ever have to engage in the same criminal activities that made him so rich. Just as any father, he wanted his children to have a better life.
Yusef held his tea up to his lips then added with a laugh, “But you, Kadir, you have the Midas touch. Your accomplishments dwarf those of your brothers and uncles. Perhaps, one day, you will also be buried with the kings in the cliffs of Dalyan.”
Kadir snorted. “They would never allow the grave of a fisherman’s son to be carved into those cliffs, my brother.” But the thought alone brought a smile to his face. His birthplace was known for its turtles and the royal tombs carved into the cliff faces in the Dalyan River’s delta. “Besides, without your connections, I would have never made it this far. Perhaps there is room for two graves.”
His brother-in-law bowed his head at the compliment. Both sipped their tea, contentedly.
It is true, Kadir thought, without my brother-in-law’s help, I wouldn’t have been able to expand my businesses so rapidly. Since he started selling hard drugs in his clubs and hotels, his total profits had tripled, allowing him to invest in even more ventures geared toward Westerners. He’d learned at an early age that tourists were always on the lookout for substances to enhance their vacation. As a young boy, their requests offended and disgusted him. Nowadays, he was happy to fulfill their whispered requests for marijuana, cocaine, ecstasy, and heroin. Every bar and café in Marmaris offered water pipes, but he’d built his reputation on providing the best party drugs in the region, but temples to drugs and alcohol were not the legacy he wished to leave his children. There was more he wanted to do with his money, and he’d recently discovered another way to garner the respect he desired.
Yusef was one of the few people he trusted implicitly. He hadn’t told a soul about his plan, and his desire to share it with someone was overwhelming. If he had anyone he could talk to about it, it was Yusef. Kadir sucked up his courage and said, “Brother, since my fifth son was born last year, I have been contemplating my legacy—and not one carved in Dalyanian stone. I want my family name to have the respect it deserves. To be important to all Turkish people, even those snobs in Istanbul.”
His brother-in-law laughed. Those who lived in the capital were often considered arrogant elitists by the rest of the country.
“Ever since Omer’s boy, Taner, returned from studying art history in The Hague, he’s been teaching me about Western art. I must admit that the more I learn, the more fascinated I become. The longer you look at a piece, the more it speaks to you.” He glanced at his brother-in-law, wondering if Yusef could understand how he felt, feeling foolish talking about it. Yusef listened attentively. Kadir dared continue. “I want to be remembered for more than my dance clubs, bars, and boats. Taner has shown me how the rich and powerful of today create their legacy by collecting and protecting cultural treasures. In Western lands, important families like the Rockefellers, Guggenheims, and Gettys have all been sponsors of arts and culture, and their names adorn the museums they funded. Taner has also shown me the websites of new museums being built in Saudi Arabia, China, and Mexico and how their collections combine local and Western art. Yusef, I want to see the Tekin name on such a monument. Maybe then those elitist snobs will accept us as one of their own.”
Yusef’s eyes widened as he looked to Kadir, a puzzled look on his face. “Are you building a museum here in Marmaris? “
“Of a sort. Taner is now my art advisor. He has recently helped me purchase several Western paintings at auction, which is a start. But Taner has explained to me that a museum must have many pieces and should include earlier works that show development in style and artistic expression.” Kadir hoped he was recounting Taner’s words correctly. Though he was fascinated by the art world and the status it could give his family name, he still had much to learn.
“That sounds like quite a project, Kadir. Luckily you have a long life ahead of you to fulfill your dreams.” Yusef sipped his tea, watchin
g his brother-in-law closely.
“It may not take as long as that, my brother,” Kadir responded.
Yusef grinned slyly. “Ah, you have found a way to get what you want faster. Does this have anything to do with the large purchase you wish to make?”
“As a matter of fact, it does. Taner has also taught me that the better pieces of art do not always come onto the market.”
Yusef laughed. “Oh, oh. Are you planning on doing something naughty?”
Kadir laughed along with his drug-dealing brother-in-law. Naughty was par for the course. “Yusef told me something interesting recently. During a class in Culture and Law, he learned that the Netherlands is the only country in the world where stolen art can become the rightful property of a thief.”
Yusef’s eyes widened in astonishment. “How is that possible?”
“The statute of limitations on artwork stolen from a Dutch museum collection is only thirty years. After that, the piece is considered the property of whoever has it even if it is the person who stole it.”
“Oh, that is quite stupid of our Dutch friends to have such a law.”
“Yes, it is. Ever since Taner told me about it, that tidbit of information has fascinated me. I can have anything stolen for me—that is not an issue—but this collection should be a source of pride, not controversy. When it is revealed to the public, I do not want my children’s ownership contested. This shortsighted law offers me a loophole, and I intend to exploit it to my advantage.”
Kadir paused to take a sip of tea and wet his throat. “You asked why I want to buy more heroin than usual this time. The product you are supplying me with will be used to expand my collection exponentially. By the end of the month, I will have the foundation of my museum secured.”
Marked for Revenge Page 8