by David Hosp
“Why didn’t that happen in this case?”
“The Gardner Museum was uninsured. It’s a private institution with one of the largest collections in the United States. At the time, they viewed the cost of insurance premiums as prohibitively expensive.”
“They had no insurance?” Finn was incredulous.
“None,” Porter replied. “That’s probably why no demand was made. Insurance is usually necessary for any institution to pay a ransom. In theory, there are other ways the thieves can profit. The theft could have been commissioned by some wealthy client with a fetish for these particular works. Or the works may have been collateralized in connection with other criminal activities.”
“I don’t understand,” Finn said.
“Stolen artwork has become a second currency among criminals. It’s traded as collateral for purchases of weapons or drugs. Art is often easier to transport than huge sums of cash, and makes transfers easier. In addition, drug and arms dealers are looking for ways to invest their enormous illegal profits. Stolen art is one place where they can plow huge sums of money.”
“But you don’t think that happened with the artwork stolen from the Gardner?”
Porter shook his head. “I don’t think so. It is possible, of course. Perhaps they are hanging right now on the wall of some grand mansion of one of the world’s great crime figures—sort of a real-life version of James Bond’s Dr. No. I think it’s too romantic a notion, though.”
“What makes you believe the paintings are still here, in Boston?”
Porter laughed bitterly. “Perhaps I’m just an optimist. I still have hope.”
“Why?”
“Because this is Boston,” Porter said. “In 1990, most crime in Boston was run by Whitey Bulger. He was at the height of his power. Nothing like this happened in Boston without his involvement. So I start with the assumption that Bulger was tied in. But it’s equally clear to me that Bulger didn’t plan this job himself.”
“Too complicated for him?” Kozlowski asked.
“It’s not the complication factor,” Porter responded. “It’s the subject matter. Bulger was a smart man, smart enough to recognize that this was outside of his area of expertise. Plus, it’s not clear that he would have had a good idea of how to move these effectively unless he already had a buyer.”
“So the question is, who was the buyer,” Kozlowski commented.
“Well, yes and no. In fact, it’s fairly obvious who the buyer would have been.”
“Who?”
“The IRA,” Porter said. “At the time, the Republican movement was the most active group in art theft. They were linked to dozens of high-profile thefts in the late eighties and early nineties throughout the United Kingdom and Europe. It was how the movement supported much of its paramilitary activities.”
“Terrorism,” Kozlowski corrected him.
“Yes,” Porter agreed. “Terrorism. There are those—particularly in Boston—who would take issue with that characterization, but I certainly don’t disagree. They funded a large portion of their operations with money made from the theft of precious art.”
Finn shook his head. “Art buying bullets. Ironic.”
“Ironic, perhaps,” Porter said, “but hardly surprising or unusual. Artwork has often played a significant role in funding terrorist activity—still does today. Consider Iraq. According to intelligence estimates, the artwork looted from the Iraqi museums after the American invasion is still providing a significant percentage of the revenue used by the terrorists there to fund their campaigns. Hitler made the capitalization of plundered art a centerpiece of his plans. Even as far back as the Greeks and Romans stolen art was used to fund insurrections and massive armies on both sides of virtually every dispute in history.”
“And you think the IRA sold the Gardner Museum paintings?”
Porter crossed his arms. “It feels like I’ve been doing most of the talking. That doesn’t seem quite fair. It’s clear that you have a client who claims to have been one of the men who pulled the robbery off.”
“I can’t officially confirm that for the purposes of this meeting,” Finn said.
Porter rolled his eyes. “How quaint. We’re going to go through the absurd charade of using hypotheticals? Fine. Hypothetically, why would your client come forward at this point? What’s happened now? Is he afraid that someone is selling the paintings out from under him?”
Finn shook his head. “I don’t think he even knew that someone was trying to sell the paintings. But the other man involved in the robbery must have found out, and he’s come back.”
“Come back? Come back from where?” Porter asked. Then he smiled again and answered his own question. “Ireland.”
Finn just stared at him.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Finn, I’m not looking for an admission to use in court. It makes sense, though. The IRA was successful in the art theft business, but they got too greedy in this case. This was the greatest art theft in history. There was no insurance to provide a ransom, and within hours, it was international news. It would have been virtually impossible for them to sell the paintings on the open market. They would have had to sit on them for a long time. Like twenty years. Even if those in the IRA had wanted to get the paintings, it would have been problematic with their organization crumbling and Bulger on the run. It would also have been difficult to move the paintings, so they most likely remained here in Boston.”
“But now someone is trying to sell them,” Kozlowski said. “That would probably get those who were once in the IRA pretty pissed off.”
“So it appears,” Porter said. “I assume you gentlemen have heard about the untimely demise of Vincent Murphy and Eddie Ballick? Of course you have. And if your hypothetical client is tied in with all this, he can’t be feeling too comfortable right now, can he?”
Finn and Kozlowski looked at each other, and Kozlowski raised his eyebrows.
Porter reached into a file he had brought with him into the room and pulled out a picture. It was the face of a man Finn had never seen before, but it fit the description Lissa had given them of the man who’d attacked her and kidnapped Sally. He had dark hair and black eyes that stared into the camera with an evil, lifeless gaze. “Have you seen this man before?”
Finn shook his head. No,” he said honestly. “Who is he?”
“His name is Liam Kilbranish,” Porter said. “He is a former IRA operative. Our terrorism task force picked up information from their British counterparts recently that he fled Ireland, headed to the US.”
“I thought the IRA was dead,” Finn said.
“It is,” Porter said. “The ceasefire was reached under the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. There were years of negotiations that followed, with the major sticking point being the process of disarming all paramilitary organizations in Northern Ireland, including the IRA. In 2005, the IRA finally capitulated, and international weapons inspectors verified the decommissioning of the IRA’s arsenal. By late 2006 the independent monitoring commission ruled that the IRA was no longer a threat.”
“But that’s not the whole story?” Finn asked.
“It never is, is it?” Porter said. “This is a struggle that went on for more than three quarters of a century. Most of those involved in the fight have been willing to put down their arms and work to maintain the peace. That’s a significant achievement.”
“But not all?” Finn said. He pointed to the picture. “Not him?”
“As with any cause, there will always be those few who refuse to accept anything but total victory. There is a small cadre of former IRA operatives who are still looking to ruin the peace and begin the fighting all over again. Kilbranish is one of them. His family was killed when he was a boy.”
“Why was he headed to the United States?” Finn asked.
“I think you can figure that out,” Porter said. “Kilbranish is known for two things: his brutality, and his skill as an art thief. If he thought there was a way to recover the Gardner pain
tings, he wouldn’t hesitate. The IRA has no weapons and no money. If the troubles are to start fresh, they would need an enormous influx of cash. Our informants tell us that once the offer to sell the paintings was made, this group of IRA leftovers paid a hundred thousand dollars for confirmation that the offer was genuine. They received that confirmation.”
“How?”
“Paint chips and dated photographs. The photographs could be doctored, but the paint chips can be tested to provide a reasonable degree of certainty. It looks as though the offer was genuine.”
“So these people are going to buy the art back?” Finn asked.
Porter laughed. “Hardly. They have no more to pay. Besides, if our theories are right, Kilbranish was involved in the original theft. He would view the paintings as rightfully his. He’s here to bring the paintings back his own way.”
There was silence for a moment. Finn wished there were windows in the conference room; he felt as though the walls were closing in on him.
“Let me be very clear, Mr. Finn: if your client helped Kilbranish rob the Gardner, and Kilbranish doesn’t have the paintings now, your client is a dead man. You know what he did to Murphy and Ballick. He’ll do the same to your client. Of course, you already know that, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. He needs to come in. We can help him.”
Finn thought about Sally in the hands of the man Porter was describing. It made him feel sick. “He can’t come in.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Finn said.
“If he’s worried about being prosecuted for the robbery, I’m sure we can work something out on that. Particularly if the paintings are recovered.” Porter was practically drooling, and Finn saw Hewitt shoot a questioning look toward him.
“It’s not that,” Finn said. “Although some sort of an agreement that he wouldn’t be prosecuted would be needed. There are other considerations, though.”
“Like what?” Porter demanded. “If he doesn’t come in, he’ll be dead in a matter of days. It’s that simple.”
“I wish it was that simple.” Finn took out a card and handed it to him. “Let me think about it and we may be back in touch.”
Porter reached into his jacket and pulled out two cards of his own. He handed Finn and Kozlowski each one. “I hope you will be.” He walked over to the door and opened it for them. Just as they got to the door, though, he closed it slightly, blocking their path. “There is one thing you should explain to your hypothetical client, Mr. Finn,” he said. “If he does not come forward, and we find him… all bets are off. I have no doubt in those circumstances that the Justice Department will bring its full weight to bear on him and anyone else involved.”
Finn looked at Porter. When they stood next to each other the size difference was striking, and yet the FBI agent no longer seemed small. There was an intensity to him that was intimidating. “I understand, Agent Porter. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Chapter Thirty-One
She had known fear before. It had been a constant companion of hers; like a shadow that faded from time to time, but was always present. She had never known fear like this, though.
The basement was dark. She could feel the mold and mildew surrounding her. On her skin; in her hair; in her nose; growing all around her, choking off her air. It gave her panic a physical presence, and she tried unsuccessfully to put it out of her consciousness.
She had to focus. The one thing that had kept her alive through her short and difficult life was her ability to keep her head, even as everything around her was falling apart. She needed that strength now, but every time she tried to take a deep breath to settle herself, the stench of decay invaded her lungs, carrying with it a new wave of terror.
She looked around the basement. It was difficult; her arms were strapped together with duct tape and she was lying on her side on the stone floor carved from the bedrock. Every time she turned, the tape ripped at her skin, sending flashes of pain up her arms. She was secured to a pipe in the corner of the basement, prevented from repositioning herself. But with some effort and pain she was able to turn enough on her back so that she could see the place in its macabre entirety.
It was little more than a glorified crawl space, perhaps five feet high. Above her the floor joists were visible, with ancient, fraying strips of insulation tucked into the gaps. In many places the moisture had eaten its way through the strips, and yellow-brown strands of matted fiberglass hung in frozen drips, like toxic stalactites. There was a furnace in the corner, covered in rust and oil residue, with its piping reaching up toward the rest of the house, like tentacles grasping for freedom.
She heard the door open and the footsteps on the stairs, and strained even further to get a better look. The man descended slowly, the rotted wooden planks on the ancient stairs creaking painfully with each step. He’d said little to her in the car, making clear only that if she shouted or tried to get away he would kill her.
When they’d arrived at the little house, he’d reiterated his threat and told her to walk in front of him to the door. He pushed her into the house and forced her quickly into the basement, which he’d prepared for her arrival. Other than telling her to lie down, he said nothing while he tied her down. He used a last strip of duct tape to seal her mouth.
Now he reached the bottom of the staircase and bent slightly to avoid bumping his head on the flooring above. Moving toward her, he picked up a small crate and brought it over, putting it down next to her head and sitting down. He looked at her for what seemed like a long time, saying nothing. She looked back, searching his face for some sign of pity or compassion. She saw none.
The gun he’d held from the moment he’d grabbed her was still in his hand, and he placed it on the ground next to him, the barrel pointing at the back of her head. He reached out and pried loose a corner of the tape that covered her mouth. He gave a hard and fast pull, ripping it from her face. She gave a short, involuntary cry, and he picked up the gun again, holding it over her. She choked back tears.
There was an air of expectation to his demeanor, as if he was waiting for her to say something. If so, she was determined that he be disappointed. In spite of her fear, she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing weakness. After a moment he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle of water. He twisted the cap off and moved the bottle at an angle toward her, holding it up to her lips. “Open,” he said.
She opened her mouth and he tipped the bottle up, letting the water run down toward her. It was awkward, and most of the water ran down over her cheek, splattering on the floor. It was cold, though, and her mouth was thick with fear. The water tasted good, and she lapped at it, swallowing hard to get as much as she could.
He took the bottle away and reached into his pocket again, this time pulling out a cereal bar. He unwrapped it and dangled it in front of her mouth, lowering it so that she could take a bite. “Eat,” he said.
She did. When she had finished the cereal bar, he put the water bottle and the wrapper from the cereal bar into his pocket. “Do you have to use the bathroom?”
She hadn’t even thought of it until that moment; she’d been too scared. “Yes,” she replied.
He pulled a long knife out of a sheath hanging from his belt and cut the tape that was wrapped around her wrists and the pipe to which she was attached. It left her arms taped together, but she was free from the ground, at least. She sat up awkwardly. “Where?” she asked.
He pointed to a corner of the basement. A blanket was draped over a rope tied to the ceiling. It provided little privacy. “There’s a can behind there,” he said.
“Can I use the bathroom upstairs?”
He shook his head.
She could feel the tears running down her cheeks as she moved over to the corner, but she brushed them away. Once she was done, she stepped from behind the blanket. He hadn’t moved.
“Lie back down,” he said.
He wrapped the duct tape around her wrists, secur
ing them again to the pipe coming up from the floor. Then he tore off another strip just long enough to cover her mouth.
“You don’t have to,” she said. “I’ll be quiet.”
He shook his head. “Close your mouth.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Close your mouth.”
“What do you want?”
He reached forward and pasted the tape hard to her face. “Nothing you can give me,” he said. Then he stood and walked to the staircase, stooped over to avoid the ceiling. The steps groaned as he walked up toward the light from the floor above. It seemed to Sally that the noise was even louder than when he had come down. Then the door closed, and the basement was dark again. She pulled at the tape, just to make sure that there wasn’t any chance that he’d been sloppy and left enough give for her to pull free. He hadn’t, though, and the tape pulled painfully at her skin again.
She put her head down, resting it on the dirty concrete in the puddle that had formed from the water that had spilled from her lips. The tears came freely at last, dripping off the side of her face and mixing with the water on the floor. She wasn’t much for self-pity, and yet there was a point at which even she couldn’t bear any more. She wondered whether she had reached that point.
Sean Broadark was sitting on a stool in the kitchen when Kilbranish came up. It was the first time Liam could remember the man coming off the sofa in the living room.