The Icon Hunter

by Tasoula Georgiou Hadjitofi

  We hear Veres say, “It won’t take long. We’re staying at the Hilton.”

  Van Rijn gives me the thumbs-up sign.

  “Will be back shortly,” says Lazlo.

  Ten minutes later the phone rings. It’s Lazlo. They are out of Dikmen’s apartment and on their way to the hotel.

  “MOVE, MOVE, MOVE,” shouts Van Rijn giving me the cue to phone Kitschler, who is waiting for a signal that the intermediaries are clear.

  Van Rijn paces the floor waiting to get word from Kitschler that they have Dikmen.

  The phone rings.

  “We have your man in custody,” says Kitschler, “We searched the apartment and all we find is a few pieces.”

  “Kitschler is saying they can’t find any inventory,” I say.

  Van Rijn screams, “Impossible!”

  “How can this be? We all heard what went on in that room.” I tell Kitschler.

  “I’m telling you Dikmen is hiding the inventory!” Van Rijn, shouts, looking panicked.

  “Your men had his apartment surrounded, the inventory has to be in there,” I say to Kitschler, totally frustrated myself.

  Meanwhile, Van Rijn continues to rant.

  “Check the floors. Break open the ceilings. Look for dummy walls. Check the shed. Did you look through his papers? It has to be staring you in the face!”

  Van Rijn becomes more angered.

  “Rip up the floors. Bust through the walls. Find it!” He kicks the leg of a nearby armchair and orders a taxi to take him to Dikmen’s apartment.

  I alert Kitschler who says, “Absolutely not. We have no authority to let him enter the premises. You must control him,” says Kitschler.

  Van Rijn flings the chair across the room and my bodyguard jumps to his feet to restrain him. Without substantial proof of inventory, Dikmen will be released within the day.

  The shock and disappointment open the door for paranoia to slip in and I watch Van Rijn with different eyes now wondering whether or not this has all been an act. Maybe he never intended to deceive Dikmen. What if the throwing of the chair, the upset demeanor, is all a show? Dikmen put a price on his head when they had a falling out. Could Van Rijn be playing both sides of the fence to win his trust back?

  What if his plan all along might have been to humiliate me? I can just see him saying, “I got you, Tazulaah. It took me ten years, but I finally made a fool of your government and the art traffickers of the world rejoice with me today!”

  The hours continue to slip by with the police finding nothing. It is I who urged the Archbishop to spend the Church’s time, money, and resources and encouraged the government not to arrest Van Rijn and work in cooperation with him.

  The thought of having to return empty-handed terrifies me. Worst of all if Dikmen slips through the authorities, hands I will not have fulfilled my quest to see justice served. To the contrary, Dikmen can seek his own justice against me. I never contemplated failure until now. Pacing anxiously, I wonder if I might have wasted the last decade of my life. I curse the day that Van Rijn first approached me as consul, the day he walked into my life.

  Four

  DATE WITH A DEVIL

  THE HAGUE, MARCH 1988

  Freezing rain and wind pelt against the low-rise buildings in Jan van Nassaustraat, leaving a chill in the air that makes it impossible for my body to warm. The storm, blowing relentlessly off the North Sea, blankets The Hague with a wintry mix, making travel extremely challenging. Only one appointment remains on my calendar as honorary consul, with an art dealer named Michel Van Rijn.

  These are the kind of days that make me ache for Famagusta (Ammochostos in Greek, meaning, “hidden in the sand”). The land of my birth lies in the easternmost part of the Mediterranean Sea, with more than three hundred days of sunshine a year. The sounds of ice and wind pelting against my office window reminds me of just how far away from Cyprus I am, but it does not diminish my warm feelings for The Hague, which became a safe haven for me to land after the heartbreak of war. The Netherlands opened its arms to me as a refugee, adopting me as one of its citizens while handing me a blank canvas to create a new future.

  When I founded my company, Octagon, it gave me the financial freedom to work as a volunteer on behalf of the government of Cyprus, where I find my voice as honorary consul in the Netherlands. My recent engagement to Michael rounds out what I feel to be a perfect picture, which is now my life. For the first time since the war I feel whole again.

  A sense of urgency in the footsteps of my secretary brings my thoughts back to the present. She hands me a cryptic message, which reads, “Office too dangerous, meet at the Bodega de Posthoorn. Michel vR.”

  “What does this mean?” I say, slightly impatient as I have asked my secretary in the past to be more precise.

  “My apologies, Tasoula, Mr. Van Rijn hung up before I could get a word out.”

  An inner alarm sounds. I have no idea who this Van Rijn is, and I take issue with the fact that he is changing the location of the meeting at the last minute. I tend to have an open door as honorary consul—everyone is welcome to an hour of my time—but this situation has me question that policy.

  My intern, Jeroen, who is not in the office today, scheduled this appointment. A few weeks ago, he mentioned meeting an art dealer, this Van Rijn fellow, who had information about Cyprus and wanted to meet with me to discuss it. In retrospect, I wish that I had done more due diligence before confirming the appointment.

  I telephone Henk Aben, a well-respected Dutch journalist, a mentor and father figure who was most instrumental in educating me about and connecting me to the political world of the Netherlands. His mentorship contributed to my becoming an honorary consul at the young age of twenty-seven. “Henk, what can you tell me about an art dealer named Van Rijn?”

  “Tasoula,” he says, sounding a bit rushed. “I’m in Strasbourg, France, running to a meeting, but in a few words, be careful around this guy. Do not, under any circumstances, meet with him alone. Let’s catch up next week.”

  Henk is the foreign affairs editor of the Algemeen Dagblad, a highly regarded newspaper in the Netherlands. When I first arrived in The Hague, I was surprised by the pro-Turkish articles I read and challenged Henk to hear my view. He was shocked at my age when we met. I was just a twenty-three-year-old sharing my views about the war in Cyprus.

  He educated me about politics in the Netherlands, and introduced me into the cocktail circuit, where I met journalists, politicians, and policy makers, and soon became known as “the face of Cyprus in Holland.”

  I decide to take Henk’s advice and call my fiancé, Michael, who is stationed in Oman but currently on holiday visiting me in The Hague. Michael’s analytical skills make it easy for him to size people up with razor-sharp precision, a welcome asset for my meeting with Van Rijn. Besides, I want to spend every possible moment I can with him.

  “Love, are you available to join me for a meeting at the Bodega de Posthoorn this afternoon?”

  “Of course,” he says. “How can I help?”

  “Just observe for me, Michael. I’d love to get your assessment of him.”

  I freshen my lipstick and transfer a miniature icon of Saint Andreas from my purse into my suit jacket pocket. The icon was given to me by my mother to keep me out of harm’s way. I was seventeen years old when I left Limmasol, the city my family fled to after the 1974 Turkish invasion, in search of a new future abroad. My father gave me a five-shilling note. On it he wrote, “Safe journey, my tomboy—14th of November 1976—Never shame the family.” Moments before my departure he placed it in my hand and said, “I trust you.”

  My positive memories of Cyprus are always overshadowed by a flashback of war and a reminder that my home country is still under occupation. I turn my thoughts to seeing Michael and getting my meeting with Van Rijn over with quickly so I can enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

  The Bodega de Posthoorn is near the Binnenhof (House of Parliament) in the old city center. Inside the dimly lit café
, a man seated at a small round table with another gentleman rises to introduce himself.

  “Michel Van Rijn. Thank you for coming, Madame Consul.”

  His eyes are steel-gray, almost an icy blue, and they lock onto mine with a gripping hold. He is overly dressed for the occasion in an expensively made suit more appropriate for an evening gala, giving the impression that he is a bit of an odd showman. He seems to be in his late thirties, but the lines on his face reveal the story of a man who might be carrying a burden made bearable by some fast and hard living. He turns to a young man whom he introduces as his assistant, Paul, who is in his early thirties and conservatively dressed.

  We order coffees and, as the waiter leaves, Van Rijn says, “Are you aware of what has become of your churches in the Turkish area of Cyprus?”

  “You mean the ‘occupied’ area,” I say, correcting him.

  It is only a question, but the timbre of his voice and the look in his eyes lead me to think he is heading into territory that I am unprepared to explore.

  “Mr. Van Rijn, I am a refugee from Famagusta, Cyprus. My family and I were forced to abandon our home and belongings during the Turkish invasion. Are you not aware of the dividing line and the fact that part of Cyprus continues to be militarily controlled by the Turkish army? Greek Cypriots are forbidden to return to their homes in the occupied area. My city of birth is a ghost city north of the ceasefire line,” I say, as the waiter delivers our coffees.

  “Efharisto,” Van Rijn says, thanking the waiter in Greek, trying hard to impress me, which I find rather amusing because the waiter is Dutch. Van Rijn motions for Paul to pass him documents.

  “I spent time in Cyprus just after the war. It pains me to have to show you these images, as I have a profound appreciation for Byzantine art. It is a sin what the Turks are doing to your country.”

  The 1974 invasion of Cyprus ended with Turkey acquiring 36.2 percent of the island, which they continue to occupy. Part of Varosha, the former tourist area of Famagusta where I lived, is sealed off with barbed wire fencing and is heavily guarded by the Turkish military under orders to shoot trespassers.1

  Van Rijn slides several photographs across the table. My eyes go to the photo of the monastery of Antiphonitis, built during the Byzantine period. A beautiful drive up a winding mountainous road with spectacular views of the coastline leads to the village of Kalograia, where the monastery sits in the Pentadaktylos forest. The photograph shows scaffolding in the interior of the church reaching up to the ceiling, but the well-preserved twelfth-century frescoes and mosaics that once adorned this sacred site are gone. The iconostasis, a wall of icons and religious paintings that partitions the nave from the sanctuary, is destroyed. Every last artifact has been picked clean, leaving a hollow tomb where the symbols of centuries of cultural history once stood. Feelings of rage circulate throughout my body.

  The next photo is of the Church of Panagia Kanakaria, which lies in the small village of Lythrangomi, about an hour northeast of Famagusta.2 The church’s apse, which once held some of the most famous and revered Orthodox mosaics, is stripped bare. This magnum opus of early Christian mosaics, one of the last to survive through the ages, has been violently removed from the ceiling.

  The most sacred of religious treasures have been mutilated beyond recognition. The Kanakaria mosaic, depicting the Virgin Mary seated on a throne holding the Christ child on her lap with the archangels Michael and Gabriel around her encircled by a mantle of light, is one of the most significant religious artworks in the Eastern world. It was the first example where the Virgin is portrayed as the mother of God and Christ is revealed as a deity.3 In each photo the head of a saint is numbered.

  “Why would anyone do this?”

  “These artifacts hold a lot of value for clients worldwide.”

  “What are the numbers on the heads?”

  “When a client is found for that number, the instruction goes back to Cyprus to extract that particular artifact from the church,” says Van Rijn.

  I’m speechless. The last time I saw these images I was praying before them. The sacred artifacts so important to the people of my faith are now on sale for the rest of the world to buy as if they were ordinary commodities.

  I detach in order to remain cool. I have to tread carefully, be cautious not to misspeak or to give Van Rijn any indication of how upset I am.

  “Are you familiar with the Turk Aydin Dikmen?”

  “No.”

  Van Rijn gestures to his assistant, Paul, who continues to present photograph after photograph depicting piles of icons being burned, decapitated, and used as target practice. Priceless artwork, chalices, bibles, and crosses dating back to the earliest days of Christianity have been looted or destroyed.

  These images have now found their way into my subconscious where my darkest memories of war are buried, and they awaken a firestorm of emotional trauma.

  Van Rijn continues, “I’ve traveled extensively through your country and have witnessed this destruction firsthand. These precious works of art have been drilled out of the walls and ceilings of your holy sanctuaries, and they are selling now on the international market to the highest bidders. I can get them for you.”

  A photograph of the Virgin Mary with her eyes gouged out stares back at me.

  Van Rijn shakes his head in disgust. “It is shameful and unfortunate that the consequences of war and moral weakness leave such a permanent scar on your Cyprus.”

  I find a kindred spirit in these sacred treasures barbarically displaced by war; they are refugees like me, except that they are in the hands of criminals who care nothing of their true value. These images reveal the extensive looting and destruction that took place in the Turkish-controlled area of Cyprus. Could this have been executed without the Turkish government’s knowledge?

  “Is the Turkish government involved in this? How are these artifacts getting out of the occupied area?”

  “This is the handiwork of soldiers,” he says. “I also witnessed them using icons for target practice. I saved many of these treasures by paying the military not to destroy them, Tazulaah.”

  “Tasoula.”

  Van Rijn sheepishly grins. “Even foreign diplomats buy them.”

  “Mr. Van Rijn, I appreciate you updating me on the occupied area of Cyprus. Is there anything else you would like to discuss?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replies as Paul passes him a small pile of photographs.

  Van Rijn places two more pictures in front of me. One is a mosaic of Saint Thomas, and the other of Saint Andreas, both from the church of Kanakaria.

  “Look at these beauties,” he says.

  Despite my suspicions about Van Rijn, he is a connoisseur of Byzantine art.

  “Here is my proposal. I will give the Saint Thomas mosaic back to your government if I am permitted to keep the mosaic of Saint Andreas. Your government must transfer legal ownership to me. Plus, I will throw in an additional two icons.”

  “Why do you wish to keep the Saint Andreas mosaic?”

  “I am attached to it,” he says.

  Testing that theory, I ask him a question. “What if my government says that they want Andreas instead of Thomas; would you acquiesce?”

  “I will consider it,” he says.

  The depiction of Saint Andreas is one of the oldest in the world and is worshiped not only by the Orthodox but all Christians worldwide. Both mosaics clearly have immense market value, but I find his attachment to Andreas ostensibly personal.

  My thoughts return to my intern, Jeroen, who is well aware of my devotion to the icons. Could he have breached my trust? I have an image of Andreas hanging on my office wall. He could have easily spoken to Van Rijn about the special place Saint Andreas has in my heart.

  Raised to live as one of the faithful, I am disciplined to pray before these icons in church and to miniature icons daily at home. My family’s saint of choice is Saint Andreas, whom my mother believes was responsible for keeping us safe during the war. Icons
serve as a reminder of our role as Orthodox Christians. The artists who made these works of art placed themselves in a spiritual mindset prior to creation, fasting and reflecting in order to attain a higher level of consciousness. It is this devotional energy that flows into the formation of these symbols that makes them culturally significant as well as sacred.

  All that remains of northern Cyprus, according to the images in the photographs that Van Rijn presents, is a portrait of Christianity—and our history—obliterated.

  If Jeroen had relayed any of this private information to Van Rijn, then I have another angle to consider, which is that Van Rijn may be targeting me. His motivation is yet to be determined. The thought that I might have a mole in my office concerns me.

  I muster up a restrained face to bring the meeting to a close. “I will pass your request on to my government, Mr. Van Rijn. How shall I contact you?” Van Rijn, matching my demeanor, says, “I will be in touch with you, Consul.”

  I feel Van Rijn’s eyes trying to gauge my emotional temperature. I nod to Van Rijn and his assistant before exiting. “Good day, sirs.”

  Once outside, Michael and I walk hand in hand in silence, giving me an opportunity to think about Van Rijn’s offer to retrieve stolen artifacts in order for him to keep one of them legitimately. His absurd request for my government to surrender ownership of a sixth-century stolen artifact as a good will gesture provokes in me a deep desire to see all of those responsible for the looting of Cyprus brought to justice.

  As we pull into traffic and out of Van Rijn’s view, Michael gently pulls me closer to him so he can place his arm around my shoulders.

  “I trust you will be cautious around him. Van Rijn may have a connection with the criminal world. Are you okay?” he asks.

  These three simple words release an ocean of tears that I have been storing deep within ever since that summer of 1974.

  Five

  REFUGEE