“Yes. Every piece sold came from Dikmen. He is the link between Cyprus and the international dealers.”
“Did Stoop ever own the icon?”
“On paper, yes! In reality, no.”
“How did the deal with Stoop come about?”
“I went to Stoop and asked him for a loan to buy some icons and sell them the same day to Roozemond for a profit.”
I start to take notes as Van Rijn is speaking.7 “You’re selling them to Roozemond with Stoop as the investor.”
“Yes,” he says.
“Tell me about what you have stored at the Schiphol airport free zone,” I ask.
“You’re a clever girl,” he says. “How did you find out?”
I shoot him a look, which reflects that I will not divulge my sources. “It’s for me to know and for you to find out, Van Rijn. Aren’t those your words?”
“This is not your concern,” he says.
“Convince me of that,” I say.
Van Rijn shakes his head no. I’ve learned when to push and when to lay back.
“Give me a statement,” I say.
“Give me a day to think about it,” he says.
“What is there to think about? You were involved! We know you were involved. Say it and let’s be done with it!”
“If I put this in writing your government is going to press charges against me.”
“The Dutch do not extradite their own citizens nor are they prosecuting you for your involvement in the Kanakaria case.”
“I do not trust your government, and I never will.”
“I want the icon back from Petsopoulos. Even if I want to prosecute you, what is there against you in this case? You go on and on about how the Greek dealers are never prosecuted . . . This is your chance for satisfaction.”
Sitting back in his chair, he considers my proposal.
“I never make rash decisions. You will forgive me, but I do have a prior commitment,” he says.
“Of course. You know where to reach me.”
I gather my bag and turn to make my exit, but I stop to deliver a final message.
“This offer is good for twenty-four hours, Van Rijn. After that, it will be useless to me.” As I rise from my chair I notice that Van Rijn is smiling at me.
As the Hotel des Indes fades in my rearview mirror, I think about how having access to the legal resources that I do has helped me to gain a vast understanding of how some dealers, investors and curators walk a fine line as to what is legal and what is not in the trade of antiquities. The evidence I gathered contributed to winning the Goldberg-Kanakaria case and will hopefully help us secure the Saint John the Baptist icon. For whatever it is worth, Van Rijn has taken a liking to me. He is as mystified about my persona as I am about his. He gives me bits and pieces of information to which the government and the Church would not otherwise have access, and without my ability to put those pieces together they would lead nowhere. The private investigators and the journalists who cover the subject have all contributed to my understanding of the game and how to play it. I’m at a crossroads here with one primary objective, and that is to get Van Rijn to trust me. It comes down to this: whoever controls the game wins.
CYPRUS, 1992
The archbishop’s Palace in Nicosia is the official residence and offices of the Archdiocese, a seventeenth-century two-story building reflective of Cypriot history. Next to it sits the current Neo-Byzantine-style palace, built some time before 1960 by Archbishop Makarios III when he was in office. Mr. Kyprianou and I agree to meet at the thirty-foot-tall bronze sculpture of Makarios III that stands near the entrance to the new palace.
Just a few seconds in the sizzling hot August sun transforms my cotton dress into a second skin. This is my first time meeting the archbishop whose assistant greets us at the main entrance and quickly leads us to a main sitting area, where I am grateful to be able to dry off in the air conditioning. The high ceilings give the place a feeling of grandeur but not in a typically palatial style as one’s imagination might conjure; it has a more understated elegance. I admire the sacred art hanging on the walls as we walk toward the archbishop’s office. The archbishop greets us, and I am surprised by his towering height and stocky physique. His long white beard makes him look a bit grandfatherly, which complements his friendly demeanor. He is wearing an exorasson (an outer cassock with long sleeves) and a klobuk (a rimless hat designed for monastic clergy). Around his neck hangs an engolpion (a medallion signifying the archbishop’s status). The medallion itself is the symbol of the Church of Cyprus, which contains a picture of the Virgin Mary surrounded on each side by an eagle’s head. The heads signifies life on earth and life after death.
The large wooden structure that is his desk has a thronelike appearance. His high-chair is upholstered in red velvet, and just behind him and above his head there is an icon of Christ, with its eyes savagely dug out. This vandalized image is shocking to me but at the same time it speaks to my history as a Greek Cypriot in a way that no other image has ever done before.
The archbishop gives Kyprianou and me a tour of the gifts given to him by dignitaries. There is a table of photographs with him and his favorite visiting dignitaries. He stops at the photograph of President Carter.
“I told him that the presidential elective system of America was copied from the Church of Cyprus,” he says. It is apparent that he takes great pride in this story and that he has perfected telling it to others.
“President Carter laughed and said maybe it was the other way around. Maybe the Church copied from us.” His facial expression changes in the midst of his sharing as he adopts a more serious tone. “Dear Mr. President, we have over two thousand years of history in the Church of Cyprus. You Americans have only just begun!”
The archbishop is a studied and cultured man, a charismatic communicator with degrees in philosophy and theology from the University of Athens. His views reflect deeply conservative values.
I am a modern woman who is not considered to be a practicing Orthodox by church standards. I don’t go to church on a regular basis, and I differ in view with some of the church clerics on issues like gay relationships and cremation, yet this doesn’t seem to be an issue for the archbishop.
“Please, sit down.” He takes a seat in a plush red velvet armchair. Mr. Kyprianou sits next to him, and I sit beside Kyprianou.
“Your Beatitude,” says Kyprianou, “Mrs. Hadjitofi is the consul of Cyprus to the Netherlands who helped us on the Kanakaria case and has done a great deal of work securing information on the John the Baptist case.”
“You have done a marvelous job, Madame Consul, and I thank you deeply on behalf of the Church and the Holy Synod,” says the archbishop.
“It’s my duty, Your Beatitude. Every time a stolen artifact is brought back to Cyprus, it is a victory for our people.”
The archbishop smiles to acknowledge that he feels the same way.
“Fifty thousand people came out to welcome the Kanakaria mosaics home last year,” says Kyprianou.
“I followed it on the news in Holland,” I say. “It brought tears to my eyes.”
“You should have been here to witness it with us,” the archbishop says, and his acknowledgment touches me.
“Your Beatitude,” says Kyprianou, “We are still in discussion with Yannis Petsopoulos to surrender the John the Baptist icon to us.”
“He is Greek, he should be less averse to negotiating with us than Sotheby’s,” says the archbishop.
“Mrs. Hadjitofi has asked Van Rijn for a statement.”
“What will it take to close this case?” the archbishop asks Kyprianou.
“Petsopoulos might surrender more easily if we can get a statement from Van Rijn, but it isn’t essential. And then there is the small issue of politics at hand,” says Kyprianou. “If we make an example of the Greeks the Cypriots will be angry because they will feel that one or two Greeks should not let Turkey off the hook for their actions.”
“The world
is not foolish enough to believe that the actions of one diminish the destruction and ethnic cleansing caused by the Turkish military,” the archbishop says.
“I’m afraid that will be the mindset abroad, Your Beatitude. There is little known about the cultural cleansing of Cyprus,” I say.
The archbishop and Kyprianou continue to discuss the outstanding cases.
It is apparent to me now that the Cypriot government and the Church are two different entities, contrary to Archbishop Makarios III’s rule of Cyprus, when he was the head of both Church and State. As consul, my correspondence is directed to the government. The Church of Cyprus is the legal owner of the sacred artifacts.
“Mrs. Hadjitofi,” says the archbishop, “you mention in one of your memos that you would like to see better coordination between church and government. Explain what you mean by that.”
“Yes, Your Beatitude and, if you will, I am humbled to be here and to be doing the job that I am. It is frustrating at times, because I do have the attention of Van Rijn who can help us recover looted artifacts. He is feeding me bits and pieces of information on which I cannot act immediately because there is no coordination of approval. Many of my requests for permission to take action go unaddressed, and timing of these tips is crucial.”
He continues to listen intently.
“As an example, the information I received about artifacts being held at the Schiphol Airport was never followed up. Mr. Kyprianou, myself, and Mr. Papageorgiou work smoothly together, but now that Mr. Kyprianou is leaving his post, I fear his replacement may not see the return of the artifacts as a priority,” I say freely to the archbishop.
The archbishop nods, letting me know that he has heard my concerns. I assume that this is an issue to which he will be giving some thought when, to my surprise, he responds.
“How can I support your efforts, Mrs. Hadjitofi?” he asks.
“The icons are hidden behind the structures of shell corporations. I would suggest hiring the services of Mr. Toorenaar. He is a private investigator who can help us untangle the information we have and turn it into evidence.”
“You have my permission to do so,” he says.
I am stunned. I ask for something and receive it without sending numerous memos.
The archbishop comes from humble origins, and that is where his heart remains, despite his position. Given to the Church by his parents when he was a young boy, there is an independence in his personality with which I identify.
The archbishop’s assistant enters.
“Mr. Hadjitofi is downstairs, Madame,” he says.
The archbishop responds, “Please bring him here.”
Michael arrives seconds later. The archbishop greets Michael graciously. “Mr. Hadjitofi, I thought I was the big man!” Michael is even taller than the archbishop. Everyone laughs.
“Thank you for the services you have allowed your wife to provide our Church and our people. I can image how many hours are sacrificed by your family,” he says with a smile.
“Your Beatitude, I do miss my wife but this is important to me too. I am half-Cypriot. My dad is from Eftakomi.”
“What are your parents names?”
The archbishop removes his red fountain pen from the left chest pocket to write their names.
“I will pray for your family,” says the archbishop, as he places the paper in his pocket.
Leaving the palace, I wonder if my direct link to the archbishop will help me put the dealers behind bars once and for all.
After the Turkish occupation shut down the Famagusta seaport, Limassol, only an hour’s drive from Nicosia, became one of the most active commercial ports in the Mediterranean.
A couple of years after the war, the Republic of Cyprus offered Greek Cypriot refugees small plots of land in the suburb of Pano Polemidia, whose Turkish Cypriot population had fled to the occupied north during the war, and a few thousand dollars to build a house. This is where my family settled.
A simple one-level three-bedroom stucco house, it has a small garden and a narrow driveway separating it from other houses. In the back there is a covered patio where an outdoor clothesline hangs next to the door leading into the kitchen, which is where I find my mother hanging laundry.
“Μου έλειψες,” I say. (I missed you.) While hugging my mother, my father dashes out, shouting “Το μωρό είναι πίσω.” (My baby is back!) No matter where I go or what I accomplish, nothing feels as rewarding as being in the arms of my parents.
When you enter their home, a picture of Famagusta hangs prominently on a wall with framed photographs of the icons and family. The Easter candle sits next to miniature icons of Saint Andreas and the Virgin Mary.
The home is furnished minimally because they refuse to put any energy or money into a place they still consider to be temporary housing. Waiting years to return to their home in Famagusta has taken a physical toll on them. I try to visit them every two months, even if only for a few hours, when I return to Cyprus on business.
After catching up on their health and family news, I get down to the issue I wish to speak to them about. My mother, once an excellent cook, has stopped finding joy in it. I want to buy them new furniture, pay for the renovation of their kitchen, and build an outdoor brick oven on the back patio to entice my parents to stop living in this self-inflicted purgatory and to love the home they are in.
“Why waste your good money?” my father says.
“I want to build new memories with you and Mom, Dad,” I say, knowing full well that even if I make the physical changes, it will do nothing to ease their heartbreak.
“I hope you don’t mind, I just met your neighbors and invited them to coffee.” My father smiles, recognizing his talent for attracting people now lies within me. Bringing new energy revitalizes the pall that lingers in their home. For a few short hours I distract them long enough for them to push their misery aside. They live vicariously through the stories I share about my own travels. I take them to their favorite seaside restaurant with a few of my friends who adore them, lifting their spirits even more.
That night before I lie down on the single bed in the spare bedroom, I open the night table drawer where I keep a book and a bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume handy for my visits. I am content and become a little girl again. The simplicity and goodness within them is what I crave to be around. I live in a fancy house, have stayed at luxury hotels, and have even visited the queen’s palace, but this is the place where I feel grounded.
I drift off into a peaceful sleep. In the morning I hear my father whispering, “Did the baby wake up yet? Let me take her some tea.” For a few short hours I am the baby again and get to be taken care of unconditionally in the way that only my parents can provide.
“Listen,” I say to them, as I am about to leave. “I will be back on this date.” And I would mark it in their calendar. “So let’s not shed a tear between us,” I say, wearing the biggest smile I can muster . . . “It’s not ‘good-bye,’ it is I’ll ‘see you soon.’”
The moment the car service pulls away from their home, my tears flow all the way to the airport. Just before I board I call to remind them that I’ll be back soon.
Arriving home in the Netherlands, I spend the next few weeks finalizing a three-million-dollar deal for Octagon with a Japanese customer who is interested in our new software. This means that I must travel to Yokohama, Japan, south of Tokyo, to meet with the company principals. I research the Japanese culture before I go so that I will make the best possible impression on my potential client. Michael adjusts his travel plans so that Sophia and Andreas can be in his care while I am away. Although we have a full-time nanny, one of us is always present with the children. This year he has been working quite a bit in Russia and there have been many weeks when the children were solely in my care.
Michael and I are supportive of each other’s careers. Caring for Sophia requires round-the-clock nannies, who come at considerable cost. Since Sophia will be dependent on care
for the rest of her life, Michael and I work hard to secure financial independence for our family.
Prinsjesdag or Prince’s Day is quite the political event in Holland held every year on the third Tuesday in September. Prior to the monarch delivering a speech from the throne that summarizes government policy for the upcoming year, a royal procession carries Queen Beatrix in her Golden Coach from Noordeinde Palace to the Ridderzaal. Thousands of people line up in the streets to catch a glimpse as the cavalry and standard bearers escort the horse-drawn Golden Coach back to the palace. Of course this makes travel a challenge as I make a last-minute attempt to get a statement from Van Rijn at the Hotel des Indes.
“How was your meeting with the holy man?” Van Rijn asks.
“Delightful,” I respond.
“I bring you good news, Tazulaah. The price on my head is gone. The Yugoslavs and the Turks are no longer after me. I can give you a statement.”
“What’s changed?” I ask.
He smiles. “Not your concern. As long as you can guarantee that my statement will in no way incriminate me, I will do it.”
“Do I have your word?”
“Tazulaah, I don’t have the time to play games with you. I leave for Cuba tomorrow, and I won’t be back for three months.”
“If I have our lawyer draft a statement and send it to you later today, will you sign it before you leave?”
“If you can get Kyprianou to move that fast, I will sign it,” he says.
I’m not sure I believe him. He’s excellent at dangling the things you want in front of you in return for what he ultimately intends to gain from you. He hands me a piece of paper.
“Here is a friend’s number. You can reach me here, but it’s for your use only, do you understand?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Call me when the statement is ready. When I return, I will review the photographs of missing artifacts and divulge the information you need.”
“If someone were to offer to buy the Saint Thomas and Saint Andreas Kanakaria mosaics, what would it cost?” I ask.
The Icon Hunter Page 17