The archbishop leaves his office and returns with a signed power of attorney giving full authority to me.
“What does this mean?” I ask.
“I’m placing you in charge. You select the lawyer and you supervise the case.”
I return to Holland with the Lans case now in my authority and the destiny of the Antiphonitis icons resting on my shoulders.
Robert W. Polak, who also represents Christie’s, is a young, dynamic expert in the field. He is in his mid-thirties, has dark hair, and wears round-rimmed glasses. Working at the full-service firm De Brauw Blackstone Westbroek N.V. in Amsterdam, Polak gives the impression that he is a fierce attorney in an understated way—no bravado, just expertise.4 In addition to his credentials, I would not want to ever face him as an opponent.
The archbishop trusts me to make some very critical decisions.5 He sees my potential, as does Van Rijn, ironically, which makes for a curious triangle as I delve deeper into the world of art trafficking.
Polak prepares the confiscation writ prior to Papageorgiou’s arrival, based on evidence I forwarded to him from the Ministry of Antiquities.6 The Lanses agree to let Papageorgiou examine the icons, and we set out.7
Once inside, I occupy them with questions in their living room, leaving Papageorgiou alone to examine the icons now on display in their home office.
“Are you absolutely positive you purchased the icons before 1974?”
Mrs. Lans answers again, “Yes, in 1971.”8
“From whom did you buy them?”
“An Armenian by the name of Edouard Dergazarian.”
“Is he an art dealer?”
“Yes,” replies Mrs. Lans.
“Where is his gallery?”
“He doesn’t have a gallery,” says Mrs. Lans.
“Well, how did you find him?”
“We belong to a circle of collectors. He visits us when he has something to sell.”
“He comes to your home to make the sale?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” says Mrs. Lans.
“Do you have a receipt for the icons?”
“No, we purchased them before the war, before all of the trouble started, and we paid cash,” she says.
With every question Mrs. Lans answers, Mr. Lans’s hands shake a little more. First, there was never a time when buying sacred artifacts was legal in Cyprus. Being experienced collectors, their suspicions should have been raised. It was a cash transaction with a dealer who operated door to door. I excuse myself to check on Papageorgiou.
“One hundred percent authentic,” he says in Greek.
I return to the Lanses in the living room and explain that our expert believes the icons to be authentic.
“The good news is that you did not purchase fakes,” I say, smiling. “The bad news is that they were probably looted after the war.”
“I’ve already told you,” says Mrs. Lans. “We bought the icons before 1974 for two hundred thousand guilders [approximately $125,000]. If the Church of Cyprus wants them back, they will have to reimburse us that money.”
“Mrs. Lans, it’s not the Church’s policy to buy back artifacts that were stolen from them. Doing so would only fuel the elicit trade. They can and will take legal action, if forced to.”
“Let them do that,” she says in a threatening tone.
“There are other alternatives. The Church can provide you with copies of the icons. You can return them to the people of Cyprus courtesy of the archbishop. We can look for a corporate sponsor to purchase the icons from you to donate them to Cyprus and take advantage of the positive publicity they will receive.”
“We’re not interested,” she says.
After saying our good-byes, we leave their flat and head for the hotel a block away to call the Church’s attorney, Mr. Polak.
“Confiscate them!” I say, and Polak calls the bailiff to confiscate the icons. Based on Mrs. Lans’s comments, I feel I have no choice in the matter. She will not give the icons back to the Church without compensation, and she has made it clear that the icons could disappear very easily.
By the time I return home, Mrs. Lans is calling me.
“You cheated me. You came into my home and stole my icons.”
“I’m sorry that you feel that way. These icons belong to the people of Cyprus. We can stop all of this now if you are willing to work with me. Otherwise, we will have to drag this out in court.” Before I can get take my next breath, I am disconnected.
Ironically, the Lanses telephoned Polak shortly after the confiscation, wanting him to represent them, totally unaware that Polak was the attorney who just seized their icons. Outraged by what just transpired, Mrs. Lans calls every newspaper and television news outlet to share how the honorary consul of Cyprus unjustly seized her personal property, and I am suddenly in the middle of a media frenzy.
The Lans couple speaks to the media. It is unlikely this couple could have purchased the icons before 1974. Mr. Papageorgiou saw them weeks before the invasion, and marked them for repair. The icons are original and signed by the artist.
They involved their neighbor, the Greek consul, to get confirmation that they were not on the Interpol list before their sale to the auction house. In addition, stating that they purchased the icons before the war also would place the works outside the Dutch statute of limitations for proof of provenance.
The confiscated icons, considered to be “disputed ownership” items, will be placed under the custody of an independent receiver who will hold them in a warehouse until the courts determine their fate. It’s important that the artifacts are housed in a controlled environment, usually unavailable outside a museum, in order to preserve them. Now no one will have access to these sixteenth century icons.
Court cases have been known to take years to settle, which means the icons will be out of public view for quite some time. When I look at icons or mosaics I see the story that each piece tells to humanity. At the bare minimum, I feel that there should be a museum for disputed artwork so that these “homeless treasures” are always accessible to the world.
My office is inundated with inquiries from the media when a phone call from Van Rijn slips through.
“Well done, my girl! I am proud of you,” Van Rijn’s enthusiastic voice says. “If you need anything, I am here to help you,” he says.
“Do you know Edouard Dergazarian?”
“Of course I do; he’s my Armenian friend. I can get you a sit-down with him.”
Van Rijn never gives something for nothing. I do not jump at the bait.
“We are about to begin a civil case.”
“Come to London,” says Van Rijn, “and I’ll introduce you.” The sound of a dial tone follows. It could be that he merely wants to stay relevant in the recovery effort, since this is the first case where the information about a stolen artifact came from a source other than Van Rijn. Perhaps he feels threatened about losing his value as an informant.
“Jan Fred van Wijnen from the Vrij Nederland newspaper would like to talk to you about looted Cypriot artifacts,” my assistant says.
“Schedule an appointment with him,” I say.
In preparation for my meeting with the investigative reporter, I pull a file of photographs, supplied to me by the Department of Antiquities and Mr. Papageorgiou of icons looted from the occupied area. I want the reporter to understand the importance that these sacred artifacts hold for the people of Cyprus and the role they play in the Orthodox Church.
Jan Fred van Wijnen is a young Dutch investigative reporter in his thirties. His long, dark wavy hair in combination with his penetrating blue eyes reminds me of how Jesus Christ is depicted on icons. After introductions, we sit down at the small conference table in my office to have our interview.
“Are you familiar with this icon?” he asks, as he places a picture of the archangel Michael of Platanistasa down in front of me. The icon originated in the village of Platanistasa, nestled between picturesque peaks at 3,100 feet above sea level, in the Pitsi
lia region, a free area of Cyprus.
Depicting archangel Michael standing between Saints Evdokia and Marina, it was transferred, on temporary loan, to the bishop’s palace in Kyrenia in the occupied area of Cyprus, where it was stolen during the invasion.
“Yes. It is the archangel Michael from Platanistasa.”
“Why isn’t your government doing something about it?” he asks in an accusatory tone. “Van Rijn told you years ago. Why delay?”
“Van Rijn told me that a doctor in The Hague was in possession of it. His name escapes me . . . what was his name . . .”9 I say out loud to myself, sounding as if I know his name—but Van Rijn never gave it to me.
Van Wijnen says the name of the doctor. I immediately open the phone book and search for his address.
“Got him,” I say. “Get your coat.”
I speed walk to my car, making it difficult for van Wijnen to keep up with me.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asks.
“Van Rijn never gave me the name of the doctor. Now that I have it, I can do something about getting the icon back,” I say, without missing a step.
“You tricked me! I didn’t come here to reveal my sources!” says the reporter.
“Please! You gave the name freely.”
“We are both being used by Van Rijn and we should be asking ourselves why.”
Pulling up to the clinic where the doctor works, I leave the motor running and the reporter in my car. I ring the bell to the clinic; a nurse answers.
“I’m the honorary consul of Cyprus. I’m looking for the doctor.”
“Sorry, Madame, he’s gone home for the day.”
“This is an urgent, confidential matter. Would you be able to give me his home address?” To my surprise, she does, and his home is actually around the corner from where I live. We arrive at the doctor’s home minutes later. I ring the bell with one hand, holding the file in the other.
“Good afternoon, sir, I am Mrs. Tasoula Hadjitofi, honorary consul of Cyprus,” I say. “Can you please tell me what you know about this icon?” I open the file and show him the photograph of archangel Michael, and van Wijnen’s card drops to the floor. He picks it up and notices the name.
“I know nothing,” the doctor says nervously. “I don’t want any part of this. Leave now!”
“Please, sir, if I may have just a moment more.”
“Look,” he says pointing to the card, “this journalist is already investigating me!”
“I am interested in working with people like you who have been taken advantage of by art traffickers,” I say. “You don’t have to fear me if you will assist me in getting the icon back. It is the dealers I’m after, not people like you. Please call me.”
Returning to the car, I inform van Wijnen of what has taken place.
The doctor didn’t admit to anything. Jan Fred van Wijnen published that when he spoke to the doctor he admitted to having the icon in his home.
That same afternoon, I return to my office and place a call to Polak, who sets the papers in motion to confiscate the icon. I see van Wijnen out.
Turning to van Wijnen, I say, “Did the Cypriot government act quickly enough for you today?”
The doctor is an elegant man of sixty and is accompanied by his son, who is a fortyish businessman and the more sociable of the two.
“How did the icon come into your possession?”
“Do you know Robert Roozemond?” the doctor asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Roozemond did warn me that the icon might be stolen at the time we purchased it.”
“Yes,” his son interrupts, “but he also told us he checked the icon’s status with Interpol and that it was not on the list of stolen art works. Because of that, we assumed it was a legal purchase.”
“I understand,” I say, trying to show them compassion. “The proper due diligence is to check with the Cypriot government or with the Church of Cyprus. Everything that is stolen or looted doesn’t always show up on the Interpol list.”
“I curse the day this icon came into my life,” says the doctor.
“Father began getting calls from a guy named Van Rijn,” says the son.
“What did Van Rijn want?” I ask.
“He was threatening my father. Telling us that if we didn’t pay him he was going to leak our name to the Cypriot government and the press to create a scandal.”
“Did you give him money?” I ask.
“I had to protect my reputation at all costs,” he says, looking quite embarrassed.
Van Rijn leaves a trail of facts that hint at the true underbelly of his personality, the part that he hides whenever I am in his presence. I always learn of his dark side through another source.
“I don’t want the icon anymore,” says the doctor.
“My father paid fifty-six thousand guilders ($35,000) for it, so I would like to see if we can find a way to compensate him for his investment.”
“A sponsor for the return of the artifact. Do you know of a Cypriot company in Holland that might be interested?”
“No, but I’m looking to strike a deal with a business, or a businessperson, someone who can benefit from positive publicity. Can you give us a few weeks to try and achieve that?”
I find the doctor and his son to be honest, decent people and truly remorseful, which is in direct contrast to my experience dealing with the Lanses. I agree to give them two weeks more to find a suitable donor or corporation to sponsor the icon’s return to Cyprus.
In the meantime, I report to the ministry and the archbishop.10, 11 Jan Fred van Wijnen writes an article revealing the story of how the icon was secured.
The doctor and his son telephone me, terribly upset.12 “Why did you send people to confiscate the icon?” asks the son. “And if that’s not enough, there is Jan Fred’s article for us to deal with.”
“Your name is not mentioned,” I respond. “This icon has been missing for twenty-one years since the war. We can’t risk losing it again. In regard to the article, the reporter had the story before he came to either of us,” I say.
“It is an assault on my father’s integrity.”
“It has nothing to do with your father’s integrity. I promise you that the icon is safe, and that I will do everything to resolve this matter discreetly. Remember, I gave you two weeks to find a sponsor.”
Two weeks go by, and I don’t hear from the doctor or his son. I reach out to them.
“Have you found a sponsor?” I inquire.
“I haven’t found anyone. Can you give me another two weeks, please?”
Polak advises me that I can only give one two-week extension, and anything more will impede the confiscation writ.
Several weeks pass, the doctor asks to meet. His elegant wife greets me at the door.13
“We will be happy to give you a reproduction of the icon, and I would like to invite you and your wife to come to Cyprus as guests of the archbishop to return the icon personally.”
“I appreciate the offer, Consul, but I just wish to be rid of the entire experience.”
“I can’t give you another extension. My confiscation writ will expire,” I say.
The doctor nods his head to indicate he understands. I feel for these people.
“If you sign a transfer of title to the Church now, I can give you another two weeks.” The doctor agrees.
“I wish to remain anonymous,” says the doctor.
“I can guarantee you that on behalf of the Church.”
“Madame Consul, I am grateful that this nightmare is finally over.”
I am euphoric about being able to recover this icon without having to go through the process and the expense of a court case.14 I telephone the archbishop.
“My child, bring the icon home to Cyprus as close as you can to August fourteenth,” says the archbishop. Checking my schedule, I see that I am able to accommodate his request. Then I realize why he is asking for that date: it’s the anniversary of the second invasion of
Cyprus and the eve of the feast of the Dormition of the Mother of God which is one of the three most important feasts of the church calendar.
“Let’s give the people something positive to remember,” says the archbishop.
Meanwhile, I extend an invitation to the reporter to join me in Cyprus.
“I promised my wife a vacation—I can’t,” he says.
“Bring your wife,” I suggest. “The archbishop invites you as his guests. It is important that someone of your caliber in the media witnesses the importance that these artifacts have for the people of Cyprus.”
I have a box specially made by professional shippers to carry the icon safely home to Cyprus.15 The night before we leave, I stand the archangel Michael next to my bed. I don’t sleep a wink because it’s in my possession, and it’s my responsibility to protect it. I feel the energy of this ancient, sacred artifact and pray before it, asking for the protection of my family and children. My children will remain in Holland with my in-laws who will care for them in our absence with the additional help of the nannies. The next morning, Michael places the icon in its box and screws the lid shut.
It is dusk when we arrive at Larnaca airport in Cyprus, but there are lights, cameras, and crowds of people. I question the stewardess.
“What are all of these people doing here?”
“They are here to greet the icon,” she replies.
I have heart palpitations.
Michael picks up the icon, which has taken up three business class seats on the Cyprus Airways flight. The crew escorts us off, and we are halfway down the stairs when a group of Cypriots, journalists, policemen, and custom officers take the box holding the icon from Michael and run with it toward the VIP room at the airport.
“Be careful!” I shout, but no one is listening; they are so excited.
A bishop escorts us to the VIP room, where the press is waiting.
The Icon Hunter Page 19