“I’m waiting to hear from Michael Kyprianou. It’s been a few weeks.”
“You have to sit tight. If they involve senior counsel, it means there is a larger issue at stake.”
“I suppose you’re right, Harris.”
“I’m always right,” he replies, attempting to calm me.
“The statue of Naxos that you returned to Greece. What was the name of the dealer or expert involved?”
“Yes, I remember, a Mr. Roozemond. He proposed to work with my government,” says Harris.
The conversation jogs my memory back to November of 1988. I had been on the job a week or so when a Dutch art dealer by the name of Robert J. Roozemond requested an inventory of stolen artifacts from the Cypriot government. I sent a fax to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but there was never a follow-up call. At the time, I thought Roozemond’s visit to be insignificant. In light of meeting Van Rijn and the information he shared, I make a mental note to raise the situation again with Kyprianou when he calls.
On the personal side, Michael’s looming return to Oman brings up the subject of marriage for us. Unwed couples are considered taboo in the Arabic culture, making visits forbidden. We decide to postpone my dream of a big Greek wedding and marry in a civil ceremony on Michael’s birthday, in Oudewater, a picturesque Dutch city, which became famous in the 1600s for the Weighing House, or Heksenwaag (witches’ scales).
Henk Aben who organized the wedding selected this location knowing my love of cultural rituals and because of its historic relevance. After stepping on the infamous scale and receiving my certificate that I wasn’t a witch, an intimate group of family and friends witness our nuptials.
My momentary feeling of elation at becoming Mrs. Hadjitofi gives way to the loneliness brought on by the challenges of sustaining a long-distance relationship. I occupy my days learning everything I can about the business of art traffickers and my evenings attending cultural events from operas and ballets to art openings. To keep myself at the center of Michael’s heart and thoughts, I end each day with a letter describing every minute to him.
The ongoing politics in Cyprus cause me to vent quite a bit in my letters to Michael.
The new president of the Republic of Cyprus, George Vasiliou, presents a proposal to Rauf Denktash, president of the de facto state, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC), only recognized by Turkey, to establish a federal republic for the solution of the Cyprus issue. But peace talks between the two parties collapse with both sides unable to come to an agreement about the restructuring of property demarcation, a workable plan to deal with the claims of displaced people, and the division of power. The government of Turkey went on to illegally distribute Greek Cypriot property in the occupied area to members of the Turkish occupation army and Turkish settlers whom they imported from the mainland. Imagine leaving your home for one day and the next day your enemy is living in your house—using your dishes, sitting on your furniture, and enjoying the material possessions it took your family a lifetime to accumulate.
My parents, like other Cypriot refugees, have since lived in a state of continual limbo. Unable to make long-term decisions and unwilling to settle into their new home in Limassol, Mom and Dad see life through a temporary lens because their entire existence is based upon their wish to return to their home in occupied Famagusta. Like my parents, I wish to live out my remaining days in the city that holds the memories of our lives and those of the generations who came before us. There is a story of hopelessness visibly written on the face of every refugee. A sense of despondency weighs on our spirit, which dies a little bit more each day we are refused the right to return home.
JUNE 1989
A phone call from Michael Kyprianou, the Cypriot government’s legal counsel, is followed by a fax from Stelios Karayias, assistant superintendent of the Cypriot police, informing me that Inspector Savvas Antoniades and Sergeant Andreas Anastasi of the Criminal Investigation Department Office of Public Safety in Cyprus CID (OPS) will be arriving in the Netherlands on July 12. Interpol arranges for the Cypriot police to be picked up by Dutch detective Wim, who will schedule a meeting with Van Rijn at the Park Hotel in The Hague.2
The police officers from Cyprus are good-natured Cypriots: Antoniades is gregarious in personality; Anastasi is mild mannered, and Wim, the detective representing the Dutch, appears to be a man who enjoys his authority.
In The Hague’s city center, next to the Palace Gardens, an area where pockets of medieval streets are juxtaposed with high-end boutiques and restaurants, Inspector Antoniades stops Sergeant Anastasi, Detective Wim, and me before entering the luxurious Park Hotel.
Antoniades asks, “Why are we not getting Van Rijn’s statement at headquarters?”
Detective Wim responds, “He hasn’t committed a crime . . . I think it’s rather generous of the guy to invite us into his hotel suite.”
The two police officers react with surprise at Detective Wim’s explanation. I sense that we may be stepping into a world none of us are familiar with.
We exit the elevator and head down a hallway that leads to Van Rijn’s suite, where we are met by brutish-looking security personnel, who take pleasure in questioning us before they announce our arrival. Van Rijn is dressed in a sweater and slacks, hair slicked back, wearing a trimmed mustache, fashionable for the time. He emerges from the kitchen followed by a pungent aroma of roasted lamb, and introduces us to his ghostwriter, who is working on a book about his exploits as an art dealer. Van Rijn motions for the police and me to sit across from him at the dining room table. Detective Wim takes a seat next to him, and I sit between the two Cypriot police officers.
The view from Van Rijn’s premier suite looks directly over the Queens Gardens of the Noordeinde Palace; his suite projects an image of intimidating wealth. He politely asks, “What can I do for you?”
Inspector Antoniades takes a tape recorder out of his pocket, places it in the middle of the table, and hits the record button. Antoniades, void of any finesse, says, “You made an offer to Madame Consul that you could lead her to two mosaics, Saint Thomas and Saint Andreas from the church of Kanakaria, and two icons. How did they get into your possession?”
Van Rijn, poised and confident, replies, “They are not in my possession. This is clearly a misunderstanding. I assure you.” He looks at me as he denies the details of our previous conversation.
Inspector Antoniades continues, “You deny a meeting took place between Madame Consul and yourself?”
“No, I do not deny a meeting took place, just about what transpired,” says Van Rijn, who then turns to me while addressing the room. “Perhaps Madame Consul, who is new to her position, was a bit overzealous in her reporting.” I feel flushed, and I don’t know whether I am angrier at the fact that my face involuntarily turned red or that Van Rijn is lying.
Inspector Antoniades speaks with impatience. “During that meeting did you not offer to get looted artifacts in exchange for the legal ownership of either the Saint Andreas or Thomas mosaic, which, by the way are also looted.”
Van Rijn’s voice follows in an acrimonious tone. “Turn off the tape recorder, please.” Inspector Antoniades hits the off button on the recorder. “Would you gentlemen mind giving me a moment?”
Van Rijn and Wim move to the bedroom to speak in private. Wim comes back and whispers to me, “Why don’t you just take the deal?”
The police ask me in Greek what was said. I say that I’ll tell them later.
Van Rijn comes back and asks to have a word with me in private. Wim directs the Cypriot police to follow him into the bedroom.
Even these experienced law enforcement professionals seem to have met their match in Van Rijn. I decide to roll with what is happening, despite my discomfort.
“You disappoint me, Tazulaah. I thought you were smarter than this. I don’t work for dogs . . . dogs work for me.” Van Rijn says. “If you want your precious artifacts back, I’m your only chance.”
I don’t respond. I can’
t. I am shocked by the audacity of this man, who then instructs his bodyguards to bring the others back into the room. Watching his deceitful ways, I vow to beat him at his own game.
“Gentlemen,” says Van Rijn, “so sorry you came all this way for nothing.” Van Rijn lies. “I do remember receiving one of those anonymous calls at some point.”
Inspector Antoniades says, “And you have no idea who it is?”
“My memory fails me now,” Van Rijn says. He never mentioned a phone call during our meeting, only that he had access to the artifacts and was able to sell them to the Cypriot government for a fee. “I’ll contact you if I remember. Enjoy your stay in the Netherlands and have a safe flight home.” With that, Van Rijn disappears into his vast suite while his bodyguards escort us to the exit.
He is short in height but large in stature. Kyprianou is wise and street smart, and nothing slips by him.
“So what did Mr. Van Rijn have to say for himself?” he asks, with a take-charge demeanor.
Antoniades replies first. “He ran circles around us.”
“I’m not surprised,” Kyprianou says.
“Wim suggested that we take his deal,” I say.
My assistant enters. “Tasoula, Mr. Van Rijn is on line one.”
I reach for the phone, and before I can get a word out, he rattles off his demands. “If your government wants information, Kyprianou himself will have to be present at the next meeting. Tomorrow, five P.M., at the Okura Hotel near the Amsterdam RAI [convention center]. It was delightful to see you today, Madame Consul.”
After I reveal the latest turn of events to Kyprianou, he weighs Van Rijn’s proposal and says, “You realize I will not be attending any of these meetings. Tell him I’m otherwise engaged, and let’s see what he demands. Tasoula, I will need a recommendation for a Dutch litigation firm. Let’s see what action we can take against Van Rijn in the Netherlands.”
That evening as I write to my husband, Michael, in Oman, I am overcome with emotion. The fact that Van Rijn can offer to buy and sell bits and pieces of Cyprus’s cultural heritage and sacred art without remorse makes me angry. I leave a brief message for Harris Orphanides asking for a recommendation of a law firm.
The next day we make our way to the Okura, a high-end modern hotel slightly out of the city center but within walking distance of Amsterdam’s main attractions. The hotel carries a hint of art deco styling, as interpreted through the clean lines of Japanese design. Van Rijn is waiting for us at a table in the corner of the lobby that is somewhat private. Detective Wim sits next to him. Bodyguards surround both men. Van Rijn’s demeanor changes when he realizes that Michael Kyprianou is not with us.
“A no-show again?” he asks.
I respond first. “Mr. Kyprianou sends his apologies. He is otherwise engaged, Mr. Van Rijn. If you would let us know your demands, we will convey them to Mr. Kyprianou.”
Van Rijn extends one finger in the air, symbolizing his first demand.
“I need your government to assure me in writing that I will not be prosecuted for any of my past or future actions relating to Cyprus.” He extends a second finger. “I want the Cyprus government to give me a thank-you letter for my services repatriating stolen artifacts. And bring your boss with you next time, Consul.”
He hands me a card that says: Park Hotel den Haag, July 16 at six P.M.
We assemble back at my office later that afternoon, and after briefing Kyprianou, he says, “There is a very important court case taking place in America right now. The Cypriot government and the Church of Cyprus are suing an Indianapolis art dealer by the name of Peg Goldberg for the return of four Byzantine mosaic fragments that were stolen from the church of Panagia Kanakaria in Cyprus. The artifacts are from the same group of mosaics that Van Rijn recently offered to you. Whoever sold those Kanakaria mosaics to Peg Goldberg has the other two.” Kyprianou’s tone changes from informational to warning. “Be extremely cautious around Van Rijn. He may be trying to sabotage the Goldberg case by targeting you to compromise in some way. He plays both sides of the fence by trying to sell information to Cyprus and to Peg Goldberg and her attorneys. Everything rests on the decision of the American judge and whether he believes Goldberg had knowledge that the Kanakaria mosaics were looted when she purchased them. One photograph of me with Van Rijn can be used by Goldberg’s legal team to influence the judge’s ruling.”
Turning to Kyprianou, I say, “I have reason to believe that Van Rijn might have access to even more artifacts than the Kanakaria mosaics.”
“Continue to meet with him, but remember what I told you about his involvement in the Goldberg case. I’m impressed. If there is anyone who can get information out of him I believe it’s you,” he says.
He continues, “He is probably recording your meetings and having you photographed, which he will use to try and compromise people. He seems to be positively charmed by you. Use it to your advantage, but tread carefully. You do realize what is at stake?”
I don’t want to reveal that I am terrified. Who wouldn’t be? But there is something pushing me to step into this situation with abandon. An inner voice tells me to trust my instincts.
“I understand the risks, yes,” I reply.
“Good.” He hands me the card of the American lawyer in charge of prosecuting the Goldberg case in America, a man named Thomas Kline.3
“Keep me as your contact. I’ll make sure that you and Thomas Kline have a direct line of communication.” I nod in agreement, placing Kline’s card in my top desk drawer.
There is so much information flying at me from every direction. The more I think about it, the more questions I have. It was essential for me to read the documents that Kyprianou gave me about the Kanakaria trial. The way these dealers trade in illicit art reveals a complex subculture of deceit and money laundering.
When Peg Goldberg originally set out for Europe in the summer of 1988 it was to purchase a Modigliani painting.4 After viewing it, she feared it might be a forgery, so Robert Fitzgerald, an art dealer who accompanied her, called upon his contacts for help. Robert Faulk, an attorney from California, and Van Rijn introduced Goldberg to the possibility of purchasing Byzantine fragments from Aydin Dikmen. Dikmen presented fragments from the church of Kanakaria, and a deal is consummated in which Goldberg is to pay $1,080,000 and agrees to split the profits from any future sale of the mosaics with Van Rijn and the others.
Goldberg and company met Dikmen in the Freeport area of the Geneva airport to examine the mosaics, which she then purchased. At the time of the purchase, there were no laws governing the import of cultural property in Switzerland, making it a safe haven for art traffickers and unscrupulous art collectors to conduct their transactions.5
Goldberg fell in love with the ancient mosaics at first sight.6 Before the ink was dry on her loan to purchase the artifacts, she was caught attempting to resell the same sixth-century Kanakaria mosaics to the Getty Museum for twenty million dollars, prompting curator Marion True to alert the Greek Cypriot authorities.
This was the first time Dikmen and Van Rijn had come to the attention of the Cypriot government and the archbishop of Cyprus. In June of 1984, several Byzantine frescoes were sold to Texas philanthropist and museum founder Dominique de Menil through Yannis Petsopoulos, a Greek dealer based out of London.7 Petsopoulos intermediated the sale with Aydin Dikmen, whose name was unknown to the Cypriots because both de Menil and Petsopoulos would not reveal his identity as part of their arrangement. Dikmen was paid $520,000 for the frescoes, one of which depicts Christ Pantocrator (Pantocrator is a title used when Christ is represented as the ruler of the universe, especially in Byzantine church decoration) surrounded by angels; the other shows the Virgin Mary with the archangels Michael and Gabriel.
In 1985, when de Menil flew to Munich to view the frescoes, she first saw the badly damaged treasures in a dimly lit room, yet their infinite beauty inspired her to build a chapel in Houston to display them. Suspecting they might be stolen, she secured them for
purchase and went through political channels to investigate their provenance. It was determined that they were indeed stolen, so she contacted the Cypriot government and the Church of Cyprus and proposed a deal to buy and restore and display them in Houston, on loan for twenty years, in exchange for her paying for their restoration. De Menil spent more than five million dollars on restoration and the subsequent construction a chapel specifically designed to showcase the artifacts, which would eventually be returned to Cyprus. Her creative approach set an example for the rest of us to see the possibilities in alternative restitution solutions. It raised my awareness to see that such forward thinking was shared not only by de Menil but by the archbishop of Cyprus, Chrysostomos I, who agreed to this visionary plan.
Over coffee and Dutch waffles in my office the next day, Kyprianou, the Cypriot police, and I continue to discuss our strategy regarding Van Rijn.
“Your request for a lawyer recommendation . . .” I say, handing Kyprianou a card.
“Beker CS Advocaten out of Rotterdam, terrific! I’ll contact them today,” Kyprianou says.
“Do you recall receiving a fax from me about another dealer a few months ago, a man by the name of Robert Roozemond?” I say.
“His name sounds vaguely familiar,” says Kyprianou.
I hand him the file on Roozemond, which he reviews.
“Would it be useful to arrange to meet with him while you are here? He’s trying to work with us.”
“See what his availability is,” he says and changes the subject back to Van Rijn. “Van Rijn will be ready with a list of demands tomorrow regardless of whether I am at the meeting or not. Do your best to assure him everything is okay. Go through the photographs one by one and notate every word he says.”
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