Marked for Revenge

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  “Once again, art thieves from the Balkans have pulled off a brazen heist. Late Saturday night, ten landscapes from the Dutch Royal collection were stolen from Vianden Castle in Luxembourg. The watercolors, painted by revered Belgium master Jean-Baptiste van der Hulst, were on display as part of a special exposition celebrating the castle’s historic connection to the current Dutch royal family, members of the House of Orange-Nassau…”

  Hoping to find new details to share during lunch, Zelda clicked on a television news report posted five minutes earlier. A Dutch news anchor for the NOS Journaal recounted the same details as the newspaper, adding, “Two eyewitnesses’ statements were originally rejected by police based on the men’s high blood-alcohol level. However, camera footage from the castle and local businesses confirm two paragliders jumped off the castle’s uppermost balcony and glided to an awaiting getaway car further down the valley.”

  Geez, last month it was a speed boat and now hang gliders. It seems as if they are trying to score points for ingenuity, Zelda thought. Despite the horror she felt knowing that they were stealing irreplaceable cultural treasures, Zelda couldn’t help but admire their audacity.

  Still shots of Vianden Castle filled the screen as the newsreader informed viewers about its history and the exhibition currently taking place there. Zelda marveled at its location and architecture. With its turrets and high walls, it reminded her of Camelot, though this one was perched precariously on the tip of a rocky outcrop, high atop a forested ridge. The views from the balcony the thieves supposedly paraglided from made her queasy. It seemed to be suspended over the valley. When the image changed again, video footage from the exhibition’s opening night showed viewers the high-profile guests in attendance—including several members of the Dutch and Luxembourgian royal families—all admiring the watercolors that were later stolen.

  When the image switched to wide shots of the castle, the reporter said, “Although no suspects have been apprehended, the theft has all the characteristics of a criminal organization based in the Balkans. While several known rings of art thieves are active, the most well-known—the Balkan Bandits—have been evading international law enforcement agencies for the last ten years. Interpol estimates they have stolen four hundred million euros in jewels, antiques, and artwork from European cultural institutions, the vast majority of which has never been recovered. The organization’s loosely associated network of freelance thieves spread across Europe makes it difficult for authorities to link members to specific criminal families. These gangs from the Balkans favor smaller, regional museums with less security…”

  “Five minutes.”

  Zelda jerked her head up to find one of the marketing assistants standing in front of her desk. Absorbed in the news report, she hadn’t even noticed the woman entering the room. Then again, she shared the space with three other coworkers and had learned not to be distracted every time someone walked in or out of the door. “I’ll be right there.”

  The marketing assistant frowned when Zelda didn’t spring out of her chair, but the assistant moved down the hallway just the same. Zelda heard the reporter saying “…as more international law enforcement agencies are able to show a direct connection between art thefts, drug smuggling, and arms dealing, calls for improving museum security are gaining hold in the European Union parliament. However, there is a concern at the national levels about their politicians’ ability to secure the funding for such improvements or if sources in the private sector should be responsible for…”

  Zelda knew that little would change despite these politicians posturing. As long as museums, orchestras, ballet companies, operas, and the like were considered elitist, gaining broad public support for increasing cultural subsidies would be almost impossible. Many museums were already reliant on private sponsors to fund exhibitions or the acquisition of new pieces for their permanent collections. How much more could they be expected to give? And even if the government coughed up a more significant percentage of the costs, how many museums could they afford to make theftproof realistically?

  A few more coworkers rushed by her door, obviously on their way to the same project meeting where she was supposed to be. Zelda clicked her browser shut then gathered up her notebook and the folders containing the project timeline and exhibition plan. Conversations with American Modernists opens next week, and the entire museum was on edge. It was the first exhibition organized by their new director, Julie Merriweather, and Zelda knew it had to be perfect. For the past two weeks, Julie led daily project meetings to stay on top of any problems the exhibition team may come up against. Most were nothing more than a rehash of the previous day’s rehash. Zelda didn’t understand the point, but the new director insisted, and the exhibition was Julie’s baby.

  Despite her irritation with the meetings, Zelda was as excited as the rest to see works by Jackson Pollock, Jasper Johns, Cy Twombly, Alexander Calder, Lee Krasner, Hans Hofmann, Willem de Kooning, Robert Motherwell, Franz Kline, and Mark Rothko here in Amsterdam. Exhibitions of American modernists were rare in the Netherlands. Back home, Zelda had been spoilt. The Seattle Art Museum had a fine collection of modern and contemporary work, and she had visited it often.

  That the Amstel Modern, a provincial museum in Amstelveen, had managed to secure works by prominent American artists for this exhibition had everything to do with their new director. Thanks to Julie, this exhibition would feature the most significant number of works by postwar American modernists ever shown in the Netherlands. She was known for having incredible contacts and a way of sweet-talking private collectors into lending out works they would typically never show to the public. She’d worked her magic again with this new exhibition. Five Jackson Pollocks, three Jasper Johns, and a Hans Hofmann were making their public debut in Amstelveen next week.

  Born in London to American parents, Julie had worked on both sides of the Atlantic and was considered to be a rising star in the international art scene. As a former curator at Saatchi Gallery and Tate Modern in London, the Museum of Modern Art in New York and the Los Angeles Art Museum, everyone who mattered was astonished when she accepted the Amstel Modern’s offer to become their new director. The museum world was abuzz with rumors—not all favorable—until the press discovered her husband had recently been named the director of the Goethe Museum in Dusseldorf. Amsterdam was a whole lot closer than Los Angeles.

  The Conversations with American Modernists exhibition was Zelda’s first project and a treat to work on. The era fascinated her as well as the selection of artwork, most of which she hadn’t seen before. Due to the demands of the insurance company, this exhibition was sketch-heavy. Julie did manage to secure eleven more well-known oil paintings worth a few million apiece, but that was as far as the exhibition’s insurers would go. Zelda didn’t care either way because the charcoals, line drawings, watercolors, and oil sketches were just as captivating as many of these painters’ finished pieces. In many cases, they were more spontaneous and invigorating to look at than the final version of the same scene.

  When Zelda saw the ad for this temporary position, she wasn’t certain the Amstel Modern would be a good fit. The museum was established in 1972 by diamond trader Henrik Lomak to house his extensive collection of postmodern Dutch art, in particular his paintings and sculptures created by CoBrA artists. Other than Karel Appel, she knew little about CoBrA, an international avant-garde art movement founded by artists based in Copenhagen, Brussels, and Amsterdam that only officially existed between 1948 and 1951. Seeking to achieve direct and spontaneous expression, they were inspired by the creativity of children as well as folk and tribal art forms. The results were always colorful, often surreal and sometimes disturbing.

  The position’s title and responsibilities convinced her to apply. Not only would collection researcher look great on her résumé, but it would also keep her mind occupied while she waited for her master’s thesis to be approved. Her university supervisor and the senior Oceania curator from the Tropenmuseum were revie
wing her thesis now. They had another month to critique it as well as request any explanations about her sources or methodology. After they gave her their assessment, she would defend it publically before receiving her degree.

  Writing her thesis about bis poles and the restitution of colonial-era objects had been therapeutic. She had been able to weave her experiences gained during her work for the Bis Poles: Sculptures from the Rainforest exhibition as well as the knowledge she gained during her investigation into Nick Mayfield’s disappearance. It had been a turbulent year, one she would never forget. The Asmat and their art still fascinated her. But after a year of being occupied solely with ethnography and colonial history, she was glad for the change of pace the Amstel Modern and its postmodern collection provided.

  To her delight, the role and artwork suited her. She was halfway through her six months. Zelda knew the museum’s director was considering hiring another part-time researcher. Maybe she would apply for the job when this contract ended. However, once she had her master’s degree, she would be able to apply for more senior positions instead of only the assistant roles. After three years of studying art history and museology, she was ready to graduate and start working her way toward her dream role of curator.

  But until she had her master’s degree in her hand, she was happy to be an assistant anything.

  Zelda looked down at the exhibition timeline in her hand, wishing Jacob, her boyfriend of eighteen months, could attend the opening. Unfortunately, he would still be in Cologne next Thursday night. They could visit it together on the weekend, she knew, but it just wasn’t the same as if he’d been able to be there. Truth be told, Zelda hated attending exhibition openings but knew her presence was required. She never knew who to talk to or what about. Most invitees were there to network with important friends, not look at the artwork on display or chat with museum assistants.

  Esmee, Zelda’s favorite of the three other collection researchers working on this exhibition, rushed into their shared office and began rummaging around her desk for a pen. “Come on, Zelda. You know how mad Julie gets when anyone’s late,” she chided.

  It was never Mrs. Merriweather but Julie. The new director insisted everyone use her first name. In the Netherlands, using someone’s first name was a privilege, not a given. Zelda had grown accustomed to Dutch formality and was irked her new boss was trying to integrate her American ways into their office. Zelda chuckled at the irony that after four years of living in Amsterdam, she was starting to feel more Dutch than American.

  She joined Esmee and walked with her to the conference room. “I don’t understand why we need to meet today,” Zelda grumbled. “Didn’t Julie approve the catalogs yesterday? Have you seen them? How do they look?”

  “Yes, and they are spectacular. The depth of color is quite extraordinary. The last printer we used made everything look so washed out. I don’t think Julie would have stood for it.” Esmee was in awe of their new director who had become an instant role model for the young art historian.

  “You’re right. She is quite the perfectionist. But now that the catalogs are approved, I think we are completely on track for the opening. All the signs and text boards for the exhibition halls arrived last week. Marketing is taking care of the posters and flyers. The website will go live tomorrow. Every item on our list has been crossed off. What else can we do except wait for the paintings to arrive?”

  “That’s true. But you know Julie. She leaves nothing to chance. I can’t say I blame her. It is her debut here and one of the biggest exhibitions the Amstel Modern has ever organized. I can imagine she’s feeling a lot of pressure to succeed at the moment and wants to leave nothing to chance,” Esmee responded quickly.

  Zelda snorted. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  4 A Golden Opportunity

  August 16, 2018

  Ivan Novak hummed Eine kleine Nachtmusik by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart as he slowly flipped through the images on the screen, eyeing each critically. He’d started with a list of ninety potential targets but had eventually whittled it down to a more manageable number. His final selection of forty was a mix of modern and contemporary art by American and European artists. Most were sketches, watercolors, and pastels as the buyer had requested.

  When he reached a sketch by Paul Cézanne, he stopped to admire the loose interpretation of a small mountain village, soaking up the simple lines and dramatic color choices. Cézanne was on the verge of discovering cubism, and his geometric renderings of the houses and mountains showed it. Ivan couldn’t wait to hold this piece in his hands.

  Compiling this list of artwork to steal was a pleasurable exercise of his research abilities, even under such a tight deadline. And the buyer’s particularly stringent prerequisites meant he’d gotten a chance to reacquaint himself with the Dutch museum scene. In his older age, he preferred warmer climates and hadn’t visited the country in a year.

  Based on the auction sales and estimates of similar works, he calculated the total worth of his list to be 20.3 million euro. That gave him three hundred thousand in wriggle room in case the Turkish buyer got greedy and lowballed his estimates. He clicked quickly through the last of the images. His choices were exactly what the buyer asked for.

  Luka’s call earlier in the week had been an unpleasant surprise, to say the least. And one Ivan had ended abruptly. He’d listened long enough to hear what the Croatian mobster wanted before hanging up on him. It had only taken a few minutes to realize that this was a golden opportunity, and one he could not pass up. Yet it took more than an hour to control his emotions enough to speak calmly and rationally to the man who had destroyed his life.

  Most humans wouldn’t dare dismiss or ignore Luka Antic—let alone wait an hour to call him back—but Ivan didn’t care. Let the bastard simmer with worry for a bit, he thought and poured himself a double shot of vodka.

  They were once best friends and business partners. Both came from the same small town in the Croatian mountains, yet their lives had taken drastically different turns after they left high school. Luka began working for his powerful family as was expected of him.

  After earning degrees in art history and business management, Ivan opened his first art gallery in Split, Croatia’s cultural capital. Business hadn’t been great that first year until Luka made him a proposition he couldn’t refuse. His childhood friend was responsible for overseeing the Antic family’s increasingly lucrative art studios. Luka managed a team of artists who forged paintings stolen in Western Europe before both pieces were sold as the original to collectors on the opposite sides of the world.

  The Antic crime family was expanding their operation into Western Europe, and Luka offered Ivan the chance to be a part of it. Ivan had said yes without hesitation. Five days later, he began creating paper trails and fake documents to support the forged artwork’s fictitious provenance. Months later, he began selling work created by Luka’s team of artists in his own gallery. With the help of Luka’s family, Ivan was soon able to open galleries in Barcelona, Bern, Amsterdam, Venice, and Paris. The choice of locations was well suited to another task he took on for Luka’s family, that of collection point for their thieves to drop off their ill-gotten goods. All he did was store the work while Luka took care of the transportation to and from his galleries.

  What Luka’s talented team forged, Ivan sold to an endless supply of louche collectors based around the world. Thanks to Luka’s investments, he had expanded further. Nowadays, he had galleries in fifteen major European cities and a team of sales associates who represented hundreds of talented artists. He always felt like he was blessed. At least until that horrible day three short years ago when his beautiful daughter passed away.

  Looking back now, he could still feel the greed that consumed him in his youth. How he regretted ever saying yes to Luka, stepping so happily into his family’s criminal activities, never considering how his actions could affect his future. What a fool he had been. By saying yes, he had sealed his daughter’s fate. />
  Ivan hadn’t spoken civilly to Luka since Marjana’s passing. He’d broken all contact the day after the funeral, and to his relief, Luka accepted it, allowing him to retreat out of criminal life without any further repercussions. To Ivan, his old friend’s uncharacteristic display of sympathy confirmed Luka’s guilt.

  Since burying his daughter, Ivan had become a shell of a man, haunted by nightmares and consumed with a desire to get revenge. He had dreamt of this day for three years, and in that time, he’d imagined multiple scenarios and schemes but hadn’t found a way to hurt Luka without putting himself in mortal danger. And now the object of his rage had presented him with the ultimate opportunity to do so. It was time to stop the nightmares and hurt the man who had destroyed his family.

  When Ivan called Luka back, he drove his fingernails deep into his thigh to help keep his voice tempered. “Yes, I accept your challenge. Tell me again the names of the artists your buyer is interested in. Wait. Let me get a pen.” A pen and notepad were already laid out before him. Just hearing Luka’s raspy voice made his blood boil. Ivan put a hand over the receiver and breathed deeply, his heart racing as anger and sadness surged through his body. Simply speaking to this monster would take all of his self-control. When he was able, Ivan recorded the buyer’s list of preferences then hung up.

  It took him four days to compile this list of potential targets. He looked at the map of the Netherlands spread out on his dining room table. Red circles surrounded seventeen cities. With three teams, Ivan figured they should be able to complete the robberies within twenty-one days. That was ahead of Luka’s already tight schedule and involved more risk, but it was the best way to complete the work he’d agreed to do for Luka as well as execute his own plan. His team would need that extra week. Now all he had to do was figure out a way to convince Luka that the timing, as Ivan had laid it out, was necessary.