Once they were at the top, Rikard took four suction cups with loops of steel attached out of his fanny pack. He fastened one set to the glass pane just below him and the other to the window in front of him. Then he pushed a thick wire rope through the loops, tugging to make sure everything held in place. After cutting through the pane with a battery-powered saw secured to his belt, he carefully pulled the pane outward. Holding his breath, he waited for the scream of an alarm, Rikard relieved it didn’t go off. Nothing was more distracting than a siren in your ear. And tonight, they needed to remain focused. Their getaway was risky at best, and every second counted. He lowered the pane down until it hung loosely against the building’s façade. The suctions cups held.
As soon as he released the pane, Rikard heard Tomislav in his ear, “Timer starting now.”
Rikard slithered into the opening and landed on the metal staircase leading up to the second-floor exhibition hall. After he checked that his earpiece was still in place, he stepped aside.
Moments later, Marko was by his side. As soon as they entered the exhibition hall, each man heard, “Thirty seconds.” Tomislav would continue counting off until he reached three minutes. By then, both he and Marko should be heading back down the ladder. It didn’t sound like much, but Rikard was always amazed at what could be done in a few hundred seconds given the right motivation.
While Rikard unfolded two hard-shell cases, his companion ran to their prey and began cutting the wires that held the artwork captive before propping them up against the wall. As Marko removed the fourth, Rikard heard “one minute thirty” in his earpiece. He scurried behind Marko and laid a Robber Hood card on the floor before gathering up the freed artwork and carefully packing it into the padded cases.
As soon as all four pieces were secure, Rikard raced back down the stairs and lowered the artwork to his companions in the boat. He waited for a tug on the rope before letting go. Rikard and Marko climbed swiftly down the ladder and sprang into the boat just as Sebastijan shoved off. Police sirens were rapidly approaching the front of the museum. Their companions paddled them away as fast as their oars would allow. Rikard’s nerves were jangled. He wished they had stolen a motor but knew it wasn’t an option. The noise would attract the police’s attention to their position.
Just before they rounded a slight bend in the short canal, Rikard looked back and saw a single flashlight, its ray whipping back and forth across the exhibition hall they’d just plundered. They must have night guards, or their security company was there in record time, he thought, a sinking feeling of dread working its way up his spine. To his relief, the light did not point down toward the water.
After they reached the other end of the canal, Rikard noticed several flashlights climbing the same stairs they’d just used to enter the exhibition hall. Before the police discovered the missing glass panel, the thieves had loaded the artwork onto two waiting scooters and were speeding away into the night.
13 Broken Glass
August 26, 2018
Marko and Rikard drove around for hours, switching from residential roads to freeways and back again. The police response to the robbery had been much heavier than anticipated. After dropping Tomislav and Sebastijan off at a nearby tram stop, they dumped their scooters in the Amsterdamse Bos and continued their journey in a stolen Volvo, circling Schiphol Airport then heading north.
They’d gone through one roadblock without incident before having to backtrack to bypass a second. The artwork was hidden in the trunk’s wheel well where the spare tire should have been. It was a miracle the cops didn’t search the car thoroughly enough the first time. Neither man’s nerves could handle taking that chance twice. Despite the fact they’d already sent a message to their contact, saying they were en route to the collection point, neither dared go to the drop-off point until they were confident no cops were following them.
It was only after several hours on the road that they felt safe enough to head back to Amsterdam. They stopped at a truck stop outside of the city to fuel up and settle their nerves. After ingesting pastrami sandwiches and a few beers, they finally felt ready to complete their last task for the night.
They’d driven farther outside of Amsterdam than they realized. When they finally approached the drop-off point, the sun was beginning to rise, turning the sky into a watercolor of pink and lavender.
A few blocks away, Marko sent another SMS to their contact, letting ‘G’ know they were almost at their door. All he knew about his drop-off points were their address and a letter, not a name. He looked at the dashboard clock and realized it was five in the morning. He hoped G hadn’t dozed off while waiting for them. He was ready to get this artwork off his hands.
When they arrived, Marko had to buzz the intercom twice before anyone responded. It was the only apartment number without a name next to it. Marko hated feeling so exposed, standing outside this monumental building with two bags full of stolen artwork for all the world to see. He was double-checking the apartment number when a sleepy female voice answered.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Hi, G. It’s Team Tuck.” He felt so stupid saying the words aloud, but he did as instructed.
“Fifth floor,” was the mumbled response before the door buzzed open.
By the time Marko and Rikard knocked on her apartment door, their contact was fully awake and clearly not in a good mood.
“Where were you? You should have been here hours ago.” The tiny young woman pouted as she threw her hands onto her hips. Her hair hugged her face like a 1920’s flapper though her torn jeans and paint-splattered T-shirt were anything but elegant.
Marko held his hands up and smiled. “More police responded than we expected. We wanted to make sure no one was following us so we took a tour of the Dutch countryside until we were confident we wouldn’t be leading them straight to you. I apologize for not letting you know.” He kept his tone humble and his eyes downcast even though he wanted to slap the bitchiness out of her.
His contact’s eyes narrowed as she studied him for a moment before nodding slowly. “Do you want coffee? I know I need one before I check the work.”
“Yes, thank you. That would be great,” Rikard responded quickly, stepping between them.
While she prepared their drinks, Marko glanced around the small studio, which was the dictionary definition of chaos. A wobbly bookshelf flowed over with art books while cans of paint, chemicals, and brushes filled another. Canvases were stacked up against two walls, making the room seem much smaller than it was, a third wall completely bare, save several strategically placed nails. Paint splatters outlined the spaces where canvases had recently hung. In the middle of the room was an easel. Something about the canvas resting on it caught his eye—it seemed familiar. Whatever it was, it was clearly a new work in progress and not much more than a series of seemingly random lines and paint splatters. He started to rise to get a better look when G returned with a tray holding a pot of coffee, milk, sugar, and three cups.
She set it onto a table, poured herself a cup, then said, “So, let’s take a look.”
One by one, the woman removed the four stolen pieces and examined their condition. Rikard and Marko fixed their own cups, took a sip, and smirked at each other.
“Disgusting,” Rikard whispered without moving his lips. Marko bobbed his head slightly. Both set their coffees down on the table and ignored them.
Marko sank onto the couch and let his eyelids close. It had been a long day, longer than intended, and he couldn’t wait for this cranky artist to finish up so he and Rikard could go to their hotel and crash. As soon as he was in his bed, Marko figured he would sleep the day away.
Except for the occasional grunt, the woman didn’t say a word until she reached the final piece. “Hooligans! You broke the glass! If it damaged the paint...” She didn’t complete her threat but did keep her eyes on the artwork, lightly brushing the area of concern with her fingertips. It was a study in oil by Jackson Pollock that Marko didn’t fi
nd particularly appealing. He was not a fan of Pollock’s drip paintings. Marko sat up straighter and watched the woman intently as she examined the artwork. He couldn’t see any damage, at least not from his position on the couch. After a long silence, she finally said in a stern voice, “I don’t see any damage, but it is going in my report.”
While she noted down her findings, Marko rolled his eyes. They’d had mere seconds to steal the art and had done their best to protect them. Too irritated to doze off, Marko stood up and stretched while the woman reframed the Pollock, sans glass. He gazed at the canvas on the easel in puzzlement. Where had he seen that piece before? Only after he’d finished stretching did it click. Marko stared at the work in progress, his eyes wide in recognition. Of course, the piece looked familiar—it was an incomplete version of the Pollock she’d just berated him about. But why would she be copying it? Marko knew his uncle Luka wouldn’t try to cross his Turkish contact by delivering copies instead of the real thing. Was he planning on doubling his profits by selling the forgeries abroad? It seemed foolish, and his uncle was anything but. And even if his uncle Luka was planning to attempt something so crazy, why wasn’t he using his own team of forgers?
“Okay, you can go now.” The woman’s command broke his train of thought. She stood next to her front door, her hand on the handle.
Her sudden dismissal caught him off-guard. Had she noticed him staring at the painting on the easel? Rikard was already standing next to her, clearly wanting to get away from the bitchy woman. Marko wanted to ask her about the work in progress on her easel but couldn’t think of a way to do it without making her suspicious. And until the paintings had been picked up by their contact for transport, he didn’t want to risk doing that. The last thing they needed was for her to get spooked and disappear with the artwork.
Marko pulled the door shut firmly behind them, resolving to tell Luka about her painting. His uncle instructed them to report any anomalies, no matter how trivial they seemed. For all Marko knew, the woman had been to the Amstel Modern exhibition and simply liked the work. She was obviously an artist. Yet he had learned at an early age to trust no one. That was the Antic way.
14 Branching Out
August 26, 2018
Luka Antic gazed out across the thick forest in front of him and inhaled deeply, reveling in the soft breeze gently scented with pine as the moon created shadows that danced in the green grass. After a long day of chopping wood and tinkering with the cabin’s unreliable plumbing, he enjoyed sitting outside on his porch, rocking in his swing with a vodka in hand. Yet physical labor and alcohol weren’t enough to ease his troubled mind. The Robber Hood thefts were by no means the most complicated job he had organized, but they were one of the most worrying. He had come so far in twenty years of hard work, mostly because he never got greedy or rushed a project, yet to meet Kadir’s demands, he had to do both.
Since saying yes to Kadir, he’d had to continually fight the feeling that he was about to lose it all. Not just this sprawling cabin in the foothills of the Dinaric Alps or his many legitimate businesses but also his entire operation.
With his family’s blessing, he had started his own art theft and forgery ring twenty years ago, and it had expanded exponentially since. The key to his success was utilizing a large network of thieves, forgers, and dealers spread across Europe. He used team members irregularly so that their connections to each other—and him—remained loose. For larger jobs, he always used a middleman to isolate himself even further. His money bought their loyalty in case they were caught. He preferred to use Balkan-based thieves so that he could put pressure on their loved ones if need be. Few dared to talk out of turn about Luka Antic.
He also owned many aboveboard legitimate businesses, yet, until recently, forgeries made up the majority of his profit. His team of artists could replicate almost anything to near perfection. But since the late 1990s, when art prices skyrocketed and record-breaking auction sales made international news, more and more gangs began specializing in art theft. With all of the new young bucks breaking into the market, the competition was fierce, and it was a challenge staying on top.
To make matters worse, there were too many players willing to accept increasingly less. Artwork was worth whatever the sucker was willing to pay, and the profit margin was decreasing rapidly. That’s why he was following his brother’s advice and branching out. Heroin was an item that never goes on sale.
The rest of his family had already given him their blessing. When his friend Davit told him about his Turkish connection and the exceptionally high quality-to-price ratio, Luka couldn’t believe his luck. He knew it usually took time and a better network to be able to purchase high-grade heroin. And Kadir Tekin’s product was consistently the best available on the market today. The Turk rarely took on new clients, but he had developed a taste for Western artwork, and his men were often spotted at auctions buying postmodern works for him. Asking Davit to mention him and his art theft operation to Kadir was a stroke of genius. A day later, the Turk had gotten in touch and soon requested a face-to-face meeting. This kind of chance would not present itself twice. Luka had to make this deal work. And right now, that meant trusting Ivan Novak.
Deep down, Luka knew, unless he was able to break into this new market and succeed, he would no longer be able to afford the luxuries in which he had become accustomed. Like most who had fought for everything they owned, losing it all was his biggest fear. Of course, there were other heroin dealers he could contact but none with such impressive merchandise as Kadir. His own family was involved with cocaine, something he had no interest in dealing. The profit margins were almost as unpredictable as artwork.
Luka took a deep calming breath, infusing his lungs with the musty scent of the forest floor. The smell reminded him of Ivan Novak’s daughter, Marjana, and the heavy perfume she favored. Since contacting Novak, Marjana had been at the forefront of his thoughts. She was the best forger he had ever had on his team, and he felt her loss daily. He didn’t dare steal anymore early Renaissance masters, for example. He didn’t have the right kind of artist to copy one effectively, not anymore. That was precisely why he couldn’t let her go.
Luka stared out into the forest, his mind slipping back to that horrible night three years ago. He should have sent a smarter bunch to get her back, but she’d taken off so suddenly that he wasn’t prepared. Not that he would ever admit that to Ivan. He had invested so much in her education, provided her with the most advanced studios and any supplies she desired. He even allowed Marjana to sell her own work through her father’s gallery, a right none of his other forgers enjoyed. Why couldn’t that have been enough for her? Luka gulped down the last slog of vodka. What’s done is done, he told himself. There was no point reminiscing about past events. You couldn’t change them, only learn from them.
Now it was time to think about his future. The first four robberies had gone off without a hitch. Only twelve more and Ivan Novak would be out of his life. Perhaps then he could sleep soundly again.
He hoped this was the only time Kadir would expect so many pieces of art as payment. Next time, he would try to talk him into accepting a few masterpieces instead of several dozen lesser works. But right now, Kadir was most interested in—perhaps even fixated—on expanding his collection as quickly as possible. If Kadir demanded art in lieu of cash again, he would find another dealer to work with. He had plenty to choose from, but none were as knowledgeable as Ivan Novak. He had needed this job to be perfect and given the number of thefts involved, Ivan was the only realistic option for it. But in the future… Ivan may be the best, but he was not irreplaceable.
His mobile phone’s ring interrupted his thoughts. Luka looked at the incoming number and frowned. It was his nephew Marko, his favorite brother’s son and one of his most professional and creative thieves. Marko was one of the few people on the planet who Luka trusted implicitly, not that he would ever tell the boy that, which made this call even more disturbing. Marko knew better than
to contact him directly when a job was in progress—that was Ivan’s role. Telephones were still the easiest way for the police to intercept their conversation or trace his location and possibly connect him to the crimes. At least, Marko knew not to call unless there was an imminent problem he needed to deal with personally. Or one that involved Ivan Novak.
“What?” Luka answered, his voice gruff.
“We might have a situation, sir,” Marko spoke quickly, knowing better than to wait to be asked. “The person we delivered to last night had a copy of one of the goods.”
Luka thought a moment, trying to unravel the cryptic nature of their conversation. “A copy?” His frown intensified. “I didn’t order any copies.” Not this time, he added in his mind. It was his usual practice to have his own team to make a copy of all stolen works immediately. That gave him two ‘originals’ to sell to nefarious collectors on either side of the globe. He learned early on how easy it was to double his profits from a single theft. Best of all, his clients were in no position to go to the authorities even if they later discovered they had paid top dollar for a forgery. It was tempting to do so again, but he didn’t want to risk one of the copies ever coming to the Turk’s attention, no matter how small the chance.
Marko continued, pulling Luka out of his thoughts. “She is an artist, and the opening did get a lot of press coverage. Maybe she visited it and got inspired?” Luka could tell from Marko’s tone that his own words did not convince even him. His nephew sighed. “It might be a coincidence, but I know how you feel about coincidences, Uncle.”
“You’re right. They don’t exist.” Luka’s mind whirled with possibilities. The drop-off point was an artist? What was Ivan playing at?
Did the art dealer have the same thought he had—was Ivan having copies made so he could sell them off later? Was that why he wanted to leave the paintings at the collection points for a whole week after the last robbery? Ivan said the extra week was to allow the media to concentrate on other things and forget about recovering the artwork. It would be easier to move the pieces that way, he’d said, but now Luka wondered.
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