Ivan refreshed the screen once again, and three more articles appeared. He clicked on the newest link and reread Robber Hood’s manifesto.
You only love what you’ve lost…
When governments slash cultural subsidies, they leave their national institutions—those dedicated to culture, art, and history—vulnerable to mold, insufficient conservation, thieves, and corporate sponsors. Museums aren’t businesses. They are storehouses of knowledge and our history.
They are soft targets that need protecting, not monetization.
Don’t let our cultural institutions become empty, dusty warehouses.
Lucky for you, we’re the good guys. Your art is safe for now. If you improve your security, your loved ones will be returned to you.
Your politicians claim culture is invaluable and priceless, so here’s their chance to prove it. If the Dutch parliament pledges two million euro in subsidies to help museums improve their security, all of the stolen art will be returned. They have two weeks to act. If they don’t, they will have no one to blame for the art’s destruction but themselves.
This was a warning. Criminal organizations are stealing our culture to fund their drug buys, terrorist campaigns, human trafficking routes, and arms deals. It is time the politicians we elected—at both a regional and national level—step up and take responsibility for our history’s protection and conservation.
Our future generations are counting on it.
54 Sally’s Coffee Hour
September 21, 2018
Zelda listened in awe to the banter on the radio. Though she only had two hours before she was to meet Vincent de Graaf at Central Station and travel to Schiphol Airport with him, she had trouble keeping her mind on what possessions to pack. The discussion about the Robber Hood press release and museum security was so heated that the host and guests kept interrupting each other, making their conversation difficult to follow. The Robber Hood gang turned out to be a radical group of cultural crusaders just as their messages implied. Zelda still couldn’t quite believe it but was glad they finally made their manifesto and artnapping demands known. If she couldn’t find Gabriella, maybe the situation would resolve itself upon the return of the stolen artwork. That is if it was returned.
Although the Robber Hood gang had not named all the artwork they had stolen during their twenty-seven-day spree, several institutions had already come forward this morning to acknowledge their loss. The list was astonishingly long and growing by the hour. Because of Robber Hood’s demands, the police also decided to release all seventeen of their messages to the press, as well.
Zelda listened as Sally Sanderson, host of Sally’s Coffee Hour, took back control of the conversation. She was in top form this morning. “Harold, there is so much more we can do! Our cultural treasures are sitting ducks, and no one will take responsibility for protecting them. Until there is an increase in security—I’m talking cameras, security guards, motion sensors—we might as well leave the door open as one of the Robber Hood’s cards stated. They do have a point, you know. Heck, we might as well hand over the Night Watch to the first yo-yo that asks for it.”
A deep, booming voice responded. “Sally, we can’t turn museums into fortresses. They need to remain accessible for all. Heck, the Van Gogh Museum was already one of the best-protected institutions in the Netherlands, and a pair of small-time crooks managed to break in—with a ladder no less—and escape with two multimillion-dollar paintings in a matter of minutes! Being accessible means being a soft target. It’s a risk I’m still willing to take. We have to restore our faith in humanity. You don’t want all our cultural institutions turned into the Jewish Historical Museum, do you? They have metal detectors, armed security guards, bullet-proof doors, and cameras, and that’s just to get inside. I can imagine many visitors decide to skip it once they see—”
“Museums should raise ticket prices and dedicate the extra funds to improving security! There’s no way the government could, or would, subsidize all of the changes needed,” a third guest chimed in.
Sally ignored her, preferring to keep her spears pointed at Harold. “My faith in humanity was corrupted long ago, Harold. To say that trust is the solution to the theft of our national treasures is quite naïve—if not stupid—in my humble opinion. We’re lucky this Robber Hood gang does have their heart in the right place. Most art crimes are committed by thieves planning to sell them to buyers who want them as a bargaining chip, trophies, or to use as a down payment in some illegal dealings. Groups such as ISIS and the Taliban use the profits from stolen art to fund acts of terrorism, for God’s sake! Doesn’t that make better protection for these paintings and objects worth fighting for?”
“You can’t expect the government to—” The third guest valiantly tried to cut Sally off, but the radio host barreled over her.
“If we demonstrate a willingness to improve our museums’ security, they’ll give the art back. Their message is worth listening to.”
“And the two million in subsidies Robber Hood demands? Where’s that supposed to come from?”
The show’s host laughed heartily. “It’s a drop in a bucket compared to what is truly needed to get anything done. But it’s better than nothing.”
“You’re suggesting we give in—”
“No, Harold. I’m suggesting we do something. If our politicians don’t take any measures to improve museum security, what then? Are we just supposed to sit back and let any idiot steal our history?”
“You can’t give in to Robber Hood. Otherwise, every protest group in the world will pull a similar stunt to ransom their opinion into law by forcing our politicians to do their bidding.”
Harold may have a point, Zelda thought, but on the whole, she agreed more with Sally. Maybe we need a Robber Hood to get anything done. The average taxpayer or politician didn’t care about art crimes—at least, not until it was literally too late.
Without more governmental funding, most cultural institutions would not be able to modernize their facilities enough to protect their collections adequately. And after years of filling in the gaps left after slashed cultural subsidies, the private sector was tapped out. As long as museums were expected to preserve, restore, conserve, and display priceless artifacts and artwork with limited funding, they would never have enough left to pay for multimillion-dollar security systems. They might as well open the door and let looters inside.
Zelda wondered what would happen if the politicians couldn’t agree on a solution in time. Would the Robber Hood gang go through with their threat? Would the destruction of forty relatively unknown pieces of art really rile up the Dutch public enough that something would be done? Or once the shock of the destruction had subsided, would public interest wane and politicians become concerned with other, more pressing issues? Zelda feared the latter. And once again, the cycle would continue…
55 Amsterdam of the South
September 21, 2018
The moment Zelda stepped off the staircase leading away from Piazzale Roma, she was at a loss for words to describe the beauty of Venice. The water was liquid opal, the architecture opulent. Bridges soared over the wide Canal Grande, gravity-defying structures made of carved stone. Plying its choppy waters were watercraft of all shapes and sizes.
Zelda wove through the clusters of tourists standing outside of Santa Lucia Train Station to reach the water’s edge. Zelda wanted to pinch herself; she was actually in Venice, gazing at one of the most famous canals in the world. A cluster of gondolas caught her eye, slowly bobbing in between the speedboats as they paddled rich tourists up the canal. Zelda couldn’t help but marvel at the gondoliers’ striped shirts and sunhats as well as the glossy blackness of the boat’s sleek hull. She pulled out her camera to take a few pictures when Vincent caught up to her.
“We aren’t here to sight-see, Zelda,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her through the dense crowd.
“I know,” she replied quickly, vowing to return to Venice one day soon to do j
ust that.
They had flown to this island city in the afternoon to ensure they would be on time for their early morning appointment with Ivan Novak. Zelda was thrilled to have a night in Venice even though Vincent emphasized it would be spent working on Vanessa von Trapp’s character, accent, and motivations. Zelda didn’t care. She’d always wanted to visit the ‘Amsterdam of the South’ and was thrilled to be here, no matter how long their trip ended up being. Everywhere she looked was sparkly water, beautiful boats, and people—masses and masses of people.
Zelda started to scale the steep Ponte Scalzi when Vincent tugged at her arm. “We should take a vaporetto. It will be faster.”
“A what?”
“A water taxi. We can buy a ticket over there.” He pointed to a row of ticket machines positioned inside a small bus stop floating in the Grand Canal, a few feet from the bridge Zelda wanted to cross. While waiting for line one to arrive, Vincent said, “I booked us into a hotel close to the Rialto Bridge. It’s nothing fancy so don’t get your hopes up, but it’s clean, which is saying something around here.”
Rialto Bridge! Zelda couldn’t believe they were staying in a hotel so close to such an iconic landmark or that she was about to sail on Venice’s famous Grand Canal.
They jostled with a surge of tourists to get on their floating taxi. Vincent pulled her to a small open seating area at the back of the vaporetto. “We’ll have the best views from here.”
Vincent was right. Their short boat trip took them along richly decorated palazzos that seemed to be sinking into the canals, thin bridges rising overhead, and several busy markets. Too soon, their vaporetto docked next to a wide bridge that resembled steps across the water. Its white stone façade glimmered in the early afternoon sun. It was the only bridge Zelda had seen with sheltered market stalls built into one side. She felt like a sardine as they pushed their way off the boat and over the Ponte di Rialto. There were so many tourists shopping at the glass, jewelry, and T-shirt shops lining one side of the famous bridge that she wasn’t confident they would make it across. She’d heard about Venice’s issues with overcrowding but experiencing it firsthand made her agree with the locals that a tourist tax was in order.
Vincent led her over to the other side, then down a dark alleyway a block away from Rialto Bridge. Their room was tiny but meticulously decorated. The curtains, bedspreads, and walls were all covered in brightly printed fabric with traditional designs. The explosion of color was a delight for the senses. Their light source was a chandelier made of transparent blown glass, each peak topped with a colorful glass flower from which light emitted. When Zelda lay down on the bed, she felt like a princess.
What she initially took to be one bed was two, albeit pushed so close together she and Vincent could spoon if they wanted to. Considering she wasn’t paying the bill, Zelda didn’t feel in a position to complain. She lay back, arms folded behind her head, and dreamt of living here.
“Don’t get too comfortable. I want to scope out the gallery before it gets dark.”
Zelda sat up, tossed her jacket onto the bed, and slung her bag across her shoulder. “Okay. You lead the way.”
He led them to another vaporetto, but this time, they got off at the Accademia. Zelda rushed up the Ponte dell’ Accademia before Vincent could stop her. When she crested the wide bridge soaring over the Grand Canal, she gasped in awe. On her right was a massive white-domed church—the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute according to a tour guide standing close to Zelda, pointing out the highlights for her group. On her left, the iconic clock tower on Piazza San Marco rose high above the richly decorated buildings lining both sides of the canal. This was the money shot, the photo of Venice everybody wanted to have. Zelda snapped a few selfies, and then Vincent begrudgingly took a few more for her before finally ushering her off the bridge and toward the Dorsoduro neighborhood.
Zelda followed Vincent through one gorgeous street and square after another, past fairy-tale palazzos and grand churches, often begging him to slow down so she could take just one photo. Every corner was a postcard. Gallery Novak was situated in a residential neighborhood full of colorful, crumbling mansions, dainty staircases over thin waterways, and open squares filled with tourists and locals dining. Gondolas and speed boats played peekaboo with them as they crisscrossed over hidden walkways and Escher-like bridges. The soft colors, the chipped paint, the constant presence of water—it was more beautiful than she could ever have imagined.
Once Vincent was satisfied they both knew the general layout of the neighborhood, he steered them toward the Calle San Gregori, the street where Gallery Novak was located.
The buildings on the street were tall, grand structures with latticed stone worked into the fronts and backs. Most had apartments above and shops below, the majority occupied by expensive art galleries, jewelers and glass shops. Zelda noticed those on the left side butted up against the Grand Canal. Through tiny alleyways and gates, she could see most had a pier extending out the back with boats worth millions of euros tied up to them with a simple rope.
“It should be at the end of this street on the left.” Vincent pointed straight-ahead. A few feet later, they saw the sign for Gallery Novak. It was one of three shops on the ground floor spaces of one long building. It wasn’t a palazzo, but the façade was old and just as beautiful. The neighboring shops sold antiques and Murano Glass.
They sauntered past, pretending to study the artwork through the large windows. In reality, both were more interested in the woman turning off lights and locking doors at the back of the space. When she pulled on her jacket and turned toward the front door, Vincent said, “Come on, we don’t want her to notice us.”
He led Zelda further up the street toward the Campo della Salute, a small square made of white marble. Towering above them was the dome-shaped church they had seen from the Accademia Bridge. At its base was a pier full of gondolas. Zelda snapped a dozen pictures of the gleaming black boats and smartly dressed gondoliers before Vincent nudged her forward.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
He led them past the Fondation Pinault then along a half-submerged waterway to the end of a narrow strip of land—the Punta della Dogana. At the tip was a tiny triangular space already full with tourists standing around, gazing out over the blue-green bay. Piazza San Marco was on their left and straight-ahead was an enormous church floating in the water. Zelda was captivated. She let the wind blow across her face, reveling in the hazy views across the open water.
Vincent pointed straight at it. “That’s the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore. You can take an elevator up to an observation deck. If you get the chance, I recommend it. The views are spectacular.”
Zelda muttered her appreciation, unable to put into words the joy she felt. Standing on this point, which was almost the same level as the churning sea, while gazing out to these iconic islands and structures was magical.
Too soon, Vincent steered them back toward the hotel. He wanted Zelda to bone up on Gabriella’s oeuvre so she could play her part to the fullest tomorrow. And he wanted to do more online research as well as call a few Croatian contacts. Hours before they’d left Amsterdam, he’d found a report about Ivan’s daughter, Marjana, and her apparent suicide. She worked as an art restorer for a company owned by Luka Antic until an accident forced her to stop painting. An accident—his network said—Luka was personally involved with.
It was a weak link for sure, one that left Zelda wondering whether Ivan was working with Luka or against him. Either way, Vincent was convinced the dealer was worth talking to, which made him even more anxious about her performance tomorrow at the gallery.
Zelda didn’t quite understand why Luka was so important to Vincent. He continually stressed that his job was about recovering the artwork, not arresting any thieves. But in this case, he seemed to want to tie Antic to the Robber Hood crimes. She got the feeling that something happened between them, something personal that may be affecting his judgment. However, s
he was so grateful for Vincent’s help in finding Gabriella that she didn’t pressure him by asking about it.
They were following signs pointing to the Accademia vaporetto stop when Zelda spotted an unusual metal gate. It reminded her of a series of birds’ nests woven out of fine metal strands. The threads were patinaed black, but time had removed some of the stain, revealing a golden glow beneath. Tucked inside several nests of metal were chunks of glass in a rainbow of colors.
Zelda pulled out her camera and took several shots of it while Vincent watched. “What do you think of the gate?” he asked.
“It’s incredible. If I owned a Venetian palazzo, I would order one of these,” Zelda said with a laugh.
“I doubt you could afford one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Peggy Guggenheim commissioned an American sculptor, Claire Falkenstein, to make this entrance gate to her home before it became a museum.”
“Seriously?” Zelda peeked inside and saw a small cobblestoned square that now served as the entryway to the Guggenheim Museum, home of one of the most exquisite modern art collections in the world. This trip was so last minute that Zelda hadn’t bothered looking up the addresses of any museums she might have wanted to visit, figuring they wouldn’t have time to see any of them anyway. If she had, the Guggenheim would have been at the top of her list. A long, snaking line of impatient-looking tourists filled the small square. “Oh, I guess it’s pretty popular.”
Vincent joined her at the gate and peered inside. “Yeah, you could say that. I think the average wait time is two hours.” He looked at his watch. “It’s closing in an hour. Do you want to take a quick look?”
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