That night I went out to Lazy Dick’s with Jonas, but only stayed for a single drink. I missed Lester, and was glad when he texted me Sunday afternoon that he’d landed at the airport. I offered to pick him up, and on our way back to Wilton Manors I heard all about the distillery he’d visited, how little differences like the source or the age of the oak barrels could have such an effect on the taste of the whiskey.
At least that’s what I think he said. I was too caught up in my own thoughts about Jesse Venable and the potential trip to Italy, which I finally had the chance to spill out as we pulled up at Lester’s apartment building.
“Your bosses will let you do that?” he asked.
“I hope so. My assignment is to get Jesse Venable to trust me, and hope that leads him to open up about illegal activities. This is all part of building trust.”
“Uh-huh,” Lester said, as he crossed his arms over his big chest.
“What? You’re not jealous, are you? You’ve been flying all over the place while I’ve been tied to my desk.”
“I thought the FBI only investigated US crimes. That the CIA did anything overseas.”
“Actually, the CIA doesn’t have any law enforcement function. They just collect and analyze intelligence information. And they’re only authorized to investigate foreign countries and their citizens, not anyone who could be considered a U.S. Person – citizens, resident aliens, legal immigrants.”
I got out of the car and popped the trunk to retrieve Lester’s bag. “I can’t arrest anybody in another country except under very specific circumstances, but there’s nothing to prevent me from following the lead of an investigation to Italy.”
“Hey, don’t get huffy,” Lester said. “I just asked. Because I don’t trust this Venable guy. What if he’s setting you up for receiving stolen goods or something?”
“I couldn’t get arrested for doing something within the scope of my job. And besides, I have to confirm with Miriam Washington before I can do anything,” I said, handing him his bag. “And if all the documentation I’ve seen is real, then there’s nothing illegal about a government agent retrieving stolen goods on behalf of the legitimate owner.”
Lester still wasn’t happy, but I coaxed him into going to the gym with me, where we worked out together, focusing on cardio, and as usual he pushed me farther than I’d have gone on my own. By the time we were exhausted we were both in better spirits, and after some languorous love-making I went home for a well-deserved sleep.
Monday morning, I got to the office at eight-thirty and spent the next two hours putting everything I’d learned that weekend into a series of FD302s. Then Miriam called me and said she could see me. I hurried down to her office, and told her about my conversations with Jesse Venable and Frank Sena.
“Are there any problems with my traveling to Italy to retrieve the painting?” I asked. “Even if the painting is listed as stolen, Frank has the paperwork to show that he’s the legal owner.”
“It’s interesting that the legitimate owner of the painting is willing to purchase it, rather than chase it through the courts. It makes our job a lot easier. That is, if he has the provenance you say he does. I’d like to see what he has and talk with him myself before I sign off on this.”
She sat back in her chair. “The art in art theft comes in the selling, not the stealing,” she said. “Despite best intentions, most of the world’s art is vulnerable to theft. Private homes, small galleries and museums, churches and archaeological sites are prime targets. Any reasonably competent thief can steal a work of art, but what do you do with it once you have it?”
“Sell it on the black market?” I asked.
“Easier said than done. Most thieves aren’t sophisticated enough to access the market for stolen art, so they end up trying to sell what they’ve stolen at pawn shops or else they’re stuck with something they can’t sell.”
“Pawn shops like the one Jesse Venable runs,” I said.
“Exactly. So it’s not surprising that he had the connections to learn about this painting. The more well-known the artist or the work, the more valuable it is— but the counter to that is the more well-known it is, the harder it is to sell legitimately. On the black market, stolen art usually sells for ten percent of its market value.”
In familiarizing myself with the work of the Art Crime Task Force, I’d learned that criminals used paintings, sculptures and statues as collateral to finance arms, drug and money-laundering deals. Small pieces of art that can be carried in a suitcase are easier to carry across borders than cash or drugs, and it’s hard for customs agents to spot the value. Half the art and antiquities that we and other law enforcement agencies recover is found in a different country from the one where it was stolen.
She sat back in her chair. “You’ll need to clear the trip with Vito Mastroianni, because he’s your supervisor. Assuming he has no problems letting you go, how soon do you think you could leave for Italy?”
“This is all I’m working on right now. So I could leave whenever necessary.”
“Check with Vito and see what kind of arrangements you can make. I’ll contact someone I know in the Italian Carabinieri who works on art theft.”
I was so excited I could barely put my thoughts together as I walked to Vito’s office. I had gotten a passport right after I graduated from Penn State, with grand plans to travel the world as soon as I built up some savings. But life and bills had gotten in the way. I’d be getting my first foreign country stamp in it. How cool!
“Miriam Washington says I can go to Italy to pick up this stolen painting,” I said, as I hovered anxiously in the doorway to his office. “As long as you say it’s okay, that you don’t need me for a couple of days.”
“Slow down, rookie,” Vito said. “Sit.” He pointed me to the chair across from him. “This is the painting Venable had a line on?”
I explained all that had transpired. “Venable has made the contact with the seller in Italy, but he doesn’t want to send the money without seeing the painting, and he can’t go.”
“I’m not understanding something,” Vito said. “It’s a big jump from doing some research on a stolen painting to traveling to Italy as an agent of the FBI to retrieve it. And that usually requires a much more seasoned operative. Non si parla Italiano, si fa? You don’t speak Italian, do you?”
“No. But I’m hoping to meet up with my brother, who’s studying there this summer. He speaks the language.”
Vito ignored that. “You don’t know anything about the man you’re going to meet. You won’t be able to have a weapon with you in Italy. You’re a smart guy, Angus, and you have good instincts. But you’ve been a sworn agent for a little less than a year, right? Not a good idea to send you on your own on a mission to a foreign country.”
I was stunned. The idea of traveling to Europe and seeing my brother had been so exciting, and now it was all swirling down the drain. “But...”
He held up his hand. “I can’t make the final decision,” he said. “But you asked, so I’m telling you what I think.”
It took me a moment to marshal my thoughts. “Agent Washington said she could hook me up with someone in the Italian police who handles art theft,” I said. “I wouldn’t be on my own, and I’d have someone to interpret who knows all the ropes.”
He pursed his lips together, then finally sighed. “I’ll call Miriam and talk to her. If she thinks you’ll be all right, then I won’t stand in your way. But trust me, you don’t want me to say I told you so if you mess up.”
I stumbled back to my office. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to go to Italy until Vito had pointed out all the problems and seemed to snatch the opportunity away from me. By the time I was seated in front of my computer, I had made up my mind. I wasn’t going to sit by and let Miriam and Vito make the decision whether I could go or not without doing everything I could to prove that I was capable of taking on the assignment.
17 – Navigation
First, I had to see
if Danny could meet me in Venice. Despite my bravado with Vito, I knew I’d need my brother’s help to navigate a foreign language and culture.
I looked at the clock and did some quick calculations. If it was two o’clock in Florida, then it was seven in the evening in Florence. I emailed Danny and told him I might have a chance to come to Venice in the next couple of days. I explained about meeting the person who had the painting.
Would Danny be able to meet me, translate for me, if the person with the painting didn’t speak English? I told him I’d be at my computer at work at least for another three hours, and asked him to Skype me when he could—even later that night, once I was home.
I initiated the Skype program on my laptop and left it running in the background. What else could I do to prove that I was competent? Investigate travel arrangements. If I could show Miriam and Vito that I had flights on hold, that I knew where I would be staying and how I’d get around Venice, that might sway their opinion.
Air Berlin had a flight from Miami leaving the next afternoon, changing planes in Dusseldorf, and then arriving in Venice on Wednesday morning. With that on a temporary hold I called Frank Sena. “It looks like I might be able to fly over and pick up the painting for you,” I said. “I just want to make sure you still want me to.” I swallowed hard. “And that you can cover my expenses. I won’t take advantage of you, but I can’t afford the airfare and the hotel out of my own pocket.”
“I’m so pleased you can do this, Angus. And of course I’ll pay your expenses. Do you think five thousand dollars would cover you?”
I was stunned that he could throw around that kind of money so easily. “Honestly, Frank, I have no idea. I’ve never been out of the United States before. And the flight alone is over a thousand dollars.”
“I know, I already checked myself, before I figured out that it would be too emotional for me. Don’t worry, I’ll cover whatever it costs,” Frank said. “And I don’t expect you to skimp on meals or sleep on a floor somewhere.”
“I just have to make sure my bosses agree, and that Venable can arrange for me to meet with whoever has the painting. I’ll let you know when it’s confirmed.”
“He’ll make it work. I’m paying him a commission for his services. Once you know for certain, I’ll have my travel agent book a flight and a hotel for you.”
Jesse Venable was next on my agenda. “It’s possible I’ll be able to go to Venice in the next couple of days to pick up the painting,” I said. “I’m juggling a couple of clients and waiting to make sure it’s okay with them. Can you verify with this guy that he’d be able to meet with me and deliver the painting? Find out as much information as you can about him. Where in the city he is, how I’ll recognize him.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Venable said.
I wondered how much of a commission Frank Sena was paying him. Venable had mentioned a purchase price of fifty thousand bucks – there had to be at least ten or fifteen percent on top of that for him.
From there, I went online and found a travel guide to Venice and an Italian language translation app for my phone. I discovered that when I landed in Italy I could buy a SIM card for my iPhone that would give me a local number and enable me to make calls in the country.
Then my computer beeped with an incoming Skype call from my brother, and I pulled on the headset and microphone.
There was a time lag so I heard his voice before I saw his lips move. “You’re coming to Italy!” he crowed, and then his face appeared on my screen. It was so great to see him, and more than ever I wanted to be able to be with him in person.
“I hope so,” I said. “It’s not definite yet. Can you meet me?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been wanting to go to Venice since I got here. It’s only about two hours on the train, and if I go second class it’s not that expensive.”
“And do you think you could translate for me if you had to? I got this app for my phone, too.”
“I use an app like that all the time and I get along fine,” Danny said. “Io parlo italiano molto bene.” My brother’s face was glowing with pride.
“I’ll take your word for it. If I get the authorization, I’ll be in Venice on Wednesday morning.”
“That’s awesome! How long can you stay?”
“I won’t know until I find out when I can meet this guy and pick up the painting. But I’ll email you later tonight with the details.”
“Ciao, mio fratello!”
I repeated the words to him and added, “Love you, bro.”
“Back at you, Angus.”
I ended the call and looked up to see Miriam Washington and Vito Mastroianni in the doorway to my office.
“I was just on a Skype call with my brother in Florence,” I said. “He can meet me in Venice and translate. I got this translation app for my phone, and I have maps and a guide to the city, and Frank Sena will cover my expenses.”
Vito laughed. “Hold your horses, rookie.” He turned to Miriam.
“I managed to get hold of a man I met at a conference,” she said. “His name is Leonardo Foa, and he’s willing to help with whatever you need.”
“That’s awesome! So does that mean I can go?”
“You can go,” Miriam said. “Hopefully your transaction will enable him to make an arrest on his end. Then he can lean on whoever he arrests to give up information on Venable.”
“Which in turn could give us what we need to catch the people smuggling immigrants and counterfeit watches out of Turkey,” Vito said.
Miriam agreed to email me Foa’s contact information, and then they both left.
I sat back in my chair. The trip was really going to happen – that is, if Jesse Venable was able to make the arrangements.
I fidgeted for the rest of the afternoon, waiting to hear back from Venable. I was tempted to call him again, but I knew he was as eager as I was to get the painting, and that he’d call me as soon as he could. I also didn’t to let any sudden enthusiasm for the trip make Venable suspicious of my motives.
Would I be able to get that flight I hoped to take? What if it filled up? It was the height of summer. Suppose I couldn’t get a hotel room in Venice? What if I got lost on the way to the meeting and couldn’t do what I was supposed to do?
I took a couple of deep breaths. Everything would work out, and if something went wrong, I’d roll with it, make adjustments. I was a full-fledged special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I knew how to handle a gun, interrogate suspects, and navigate in unfamiliar environments. And after years behind a bar, I knew how to read people and situations.
Lester came over to the house that evening with grilled salmon and take-out salads from Whole Foods. As we sat at the kitchen table and ate, I told him about the trip. After we finished eating, I opened my laptop and pulled up the photo of the painting.
“The more I look at that painting, the more it reminds me of something,” he said, staring at the screen. “I have an idea. Let me see the laptop for a minute.”
He typed for a moment or two, then turned the screen toward me. “See this painting? It’s called ‘Swimming,’ and it’s by a painter from Philadelphia named Thomas Eakins.”
The subject matter was very similar to the Fabre painting. A naked young man stood on top of a rock by a lake, with his back to the viewer. The pose was similar to what I’d seen in the classical nude statues I’d researched.
Another naked guy reclined on top of the rock in a pose that reminded me of the some of the female nudes I’d studied in art history. A third dove into the water and two more were in various positions on the rock. “That’s Eakins himself there,” Lester said, pointing at a man neck-deep in the water, watching the boys.
The description under the painting read that it had been painted between 1883 and 1885, around the same time that Fabre had been working in Italy. The technique was similar, too, though the men’s anatomy was much more carefully done than Fabre’s.
We looked at the painting of the
swimmers again, and I began to understand more clearly how Fabre’s work fit into artistic traditions. His art needed to be shown to the world.
Then my cell phone rang and I saw from the display that it was Jesse Venable. “This is the guy,” I said to Lester.
“My contact just emailed me,” Venable said. “He wants to meet with you at eleven o’clock on Thursday morning at an internet café near the church where the painting was taken from. I’ll email you the details.”
“How will I recognize him? Did he give you a name?”
“His name is Remigio Grassini. I told him to look for a young American man with red hair. He’ll find you.”
“How am I going to pay him?”
“He emailed me his bank information. I’m sending him a token down payment to make sure the transaction goes through and to demonstrate my intent. Once you verify that you have the painting in your possession, I’ll send him the remaining balance.”
“Then I guess I’m going to Venice,” I said. After I hung up, I called Frank and let him know I was good to go. He had gotten me a prepaid credit card with a thousand dollars on it, and all I had to do was stop by his apartment the next morning and pick it up. That was good, because it meant I wouldn’t have to use my own card, or the prepaid one that Wagon had given me.
I hung up, and Lester and I went into my room and began looking through my closet for clothes I could take with me. A short time later, Jonas joined Lester and me in my bedroom. Jonas looked at the shirts, slacks and boxers that covered my bed. “You’re not doing another strip trivia contest, are you?” he asked.
I realized that the last time I’d had so much clothing out was when I was about to enter a contest a few months before, to earn some money for Danny’s trip. How much had happened since then.
“No, dude, I’m going to Italy.” I explained about the stolen painting and the plan to retrieve it.
Survival Is a Dying Art Page 11
