When Kadir returned, his cold gaze told Luka that something was very wrong. Instinctively, his hand went to his side, but he had turned in his weapon when he boarded.
“Do you take me for a fool?” Kadir asked, his voice a growl.
Luka cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“It’s all over the international and Turkish news. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
Luka stood to face him. “I don’t understand. Explain to me what happened.”
Kadir turned on a television mounted in one corner. The news was live, and the camera zoomed in on the same artwork hanging in Kadir’s lower deck, but this wasn’t a shot taken from this boat. The reporter was standing next to a nondescript storage unit.
“How did…” Luka stopped mid-sentence.
Kadir turned up the volume so they could both listen to the on-scene reporter.
“Police opened this storage unit in Nijmegen twenty minutes ago, after a press release from Robber Hood announced that the stolen artwork would be found here. Experts are calling the art’s return a miracle. Curators from all of the museums affected are now converging in Nijmegen to help with the verification process and to assess any damage the art may have suffered. A note left inside the storage unit reads. ‘Improve your museums’ security and protect your cultural heritage for future generations. Next time, we won’t be so generous.’”
“I don’t understand,” Luka said. “They must be fake. But how? And why?”
“Indeed, Luka, why? This should have been the start of a mutually beneficial business relationship. Is it because I am Turkish? Do you think we are all stupid? Is that why you brought me forgeries?”
“These aren’t forgeries! These are the pieces taken from…” The truth flashed into Luka’s brain like a lightning bolt. Ivan Novak wasn’t having copies made so he could double his profits. He was copying the artwork to get Luka back for his daughter. He should have known a father would never forget. “It was Ivan Novak! He must have switched the artwork,” Luka babbled. “I wouldn’t be so stupid. Ivan was the only one who had access to it all.”
Two large men entered the room, and Kadir walked to the door. As he stepped outside, he turned to look at Luka one last time, his face a mask of disgust. “Your organization is only as strong as its weakest link. You should know that. Take this trash away and dispose of it.”
The heroin dealer closed the door on Luka’s screams of protest as one of Kadir’s men pulled his arms behind his back. The other one wrapped his arm around Luka’s neck and squeezed. He gasped for air, clawing at the massive bicep blocking his windpipe. His vision blurred, and he felt himself slipping away. He tried to cry out, but his lungs were empty. The last thing Luka felt was Kadir’s bodyguard twisting his neck until it snapped.
68 Moving Too Fast
September 24, 2018
Kadir closed the door on Luka Antic’s screams and went down to the lower deck. “Taner, you’re fired. Get off of my boat. Now.”
The young man looked at his uncle in shock but only nodded before darting away.
Kadir gazed at the worthless artwork before him as contempt and sadness now replaced his recent feeling of joy. His dream of seeing his museum open in his lifetime was shattered. The money he lost was nothing—a few months’ profits at most—but the hope he vested in this particular collection, as a foundation for legacy, was gone.
Did he want too much? Had his desire overcome reason and turned to greed? Kadir knew he was not dreaming too big, only moving too fast. He was young enough, so his dream was not unattainable. For a brief moment, his legacy had been secure and knowing that had given him a feeling of invincibility.
He didn’t care who switched the originals for forgeries. Luka was ultimately responsible for the delivery and should have chosen more loyal associates.
The opportunity Luka presented had been an unexpected gift. But his network of art thieves was not unique. He would have to discretely query his most trusted associates to see who else he may be able to work with.
Kadir stared out at the setting sun, trying to process this setback and figure out how best to move forward. He may not live to see his legacy fulfilled, but his children would. And that was enough.
69 Breaking News
September 24, 2018
When Zelda woke up, the sun was just starting its slow descent behind the mountains enclosing Marmaris Bay. She stretched out, careful not to move too quickly. Her temple and jaw felt broken and swollen. At least it wasn’t as bad as the last time Ivan whacked her on the head.
After splashing water on her face and carefully brushing her tangled hair, she knocked on Vincent’s door, expecting him to be watching the Sunset Dreams from his balcony. But there was no answer.
Zelda went out to her balcony and looked over. Vincent wasn’t there, and his room was dark. Did he return to the marina to get a closer look, she wondered. She called his phone, but no one answered. She tried twice more until she realized he probably had his ringer off. Instead, she sent a text message. “Where are you?”
When no immediate answer came, curiosity and the desire to stretch her legs propelled her back down the hill toward Bar Street and the marina. The setting sun cooled the air and lessened the humidity, making it quite pleasant to walk around.
On her right was the bay, full of boats, many filled with tourists out enjoying a sunset cruise. Beyond the plethora of masts and sails rose the mountains. Thanks to the setting sun, their green flanks appeared gray and distant.
Bar Street was hopping, and all of the terraces were overflowing with drunken tourists. Rap and dance music blared out of many speakers. Zelda scanned the crowd as she passed, wondering if Vincent had chosen one of these bars as a lookout. Deciding they were far too lively and thus distracting, Zelda continued down to the bridge.
A lone security guard stood next to the guard house, taking advantage of the cool evening breeze. She veered to the left and walked up a small street filled with expensive clothing stores—which, at this hour, were all closed. Vincent told her about a café he’d sat at this morning, so she walked down a small alley and found Robert’s Coffee Bar, but it was also closed. She stood on the empty terrace and stared out at the boats, wondering where Ivan’s was parked.
A marina security guard approached her immediately. “Excuse me, Miss. The shops in this vicinity are closed. Do you work on one of the boats docked here? Otherwise, I will need to ask you to leave.”
The guard’s question gave her an idea. “I don’t, but my boyfriend does. He’s a crew member of Sunset Dreams. Could I pop by and say hello? He’s not answering his phone.”
The guard picked up his walkie-talkie and called it in. When a male voice responded in Turkish, the guard’s expression became sheepish. “Miss, the Sunset Dreams left the marina today at 4:15 p.m. They paid their bill in full, which means they are not returning.”
Zelda’s mouth dropped. “What! Where did they go?”
The guard mistook her panic for rejection. “I’m sorry, Miss.” He blushed and looked away, embarrassed by her fictitious boyfriend’s heartless behavior.
“Damn it!” That meant the Sunset Dreams left the marina just minutes after she’d woken up to a circle of paramedics surrounding her in the Grand Bazaar. Did Vincent miss the handover because of her? But how did Ivan get back to the marina so quickly? Even if he were younger and fitter, it would have taken at least ten minutes at a full sprint. And in this heat and humidity, she reckoned fifteen would be more realistic, which meant Ivan wasn’t part of the final transaction. But who was? And if Ivan wasn’t involved with the sale of the stolen artwork, why did he hit her again?
The guard didn’t know what to do with the seemingly scorned woman before him. “I am sure you’re friend had a good reason for not calling you. These rich owners often arrive and depart on a whim. Perhaps you should call him again.”
“What? Oh, I’ll call him all right. Thank you for your help, sir.”
The gua
rd tipped his hat as Zelda walked back toward the hotel, crushed. Her mishap had ruined Vincent’s chance of recovering the stolen artwork. If the yacht sailed away this afternoon, they could be anywhere by now.
Vincent must be in a bar getting drunk, she reckoned. Zelda checked her phone. Vincent must be furious with her because he still hadn’t responded. She called him again, but he didn’t pick up. Instead, she sent another message. “Please call me back. I am so sorry.”
She touched the phone in her pocket absently, hoping it would begin to ring. Unsure what to do, she walked along the waterfront toward the city center. When she reached the Atatürk statue, her stomach started rumbling.
She bought a baked potato with everything on it—a popular snack—and sat down on a bench placed along the water’s edge. Behind her was a playground full of kids swinging and sliding. Others stood in a long line to view the full moon through a telescope, many children anxiously clutching their lire as they waited impatiently for their chance. Now that the sun had gone down, the heat and humidity were finally dissipating, and the Turkish families were out in force.
After finishing her meal, Zelda continued down the waterfront, joining the many well-dressed Turkish families as they slowly strolled down the pedestrian boulevard along the shoreline. She walked out onto a short pier to better see the moon’s reflection on the bay. The upside-down exclamation point reflected in the rippling water reminded her of an Edvard Munch painting.
She sat down in a lounge chair close to the shoreline and stared out at the multitude of stars above. The rippling water quickly lulled her to sleep. Zelda woke with a start, then headed back to her hotel. Vincent hadn’t left any messages for her at the front desk. Once back in her room, she turned on the news.
Video footage of a badly-lit storage unit filled with artwork drew her in. As a camera panned across a room full of paintings, Zelda realized several looked familiar. She rushed to the screen to look more closely when the truth struck her like lightning. All six of the works stolen from the Amstel Modern were in among the rest. When the video cut to a close-up of a Robber Hood card, stating: ‘Improve your museums’ security and protect your cultural heritage for future generations. Next time, we won’t be so generous,’ Zelda yelled out in triumph.
She flipped to CNN International and saw the same video.
“In a highly unusual twist to a string of robberies in Dutch museums earlier this month, the Robber Hood gang contacted the media and police this afternoon, telling them in an email where to find the stolen artwork. An email, Sandra, can you believe it?” The anchorman glanced over at his perky blonde co-host.
“That’s right, Will. Their message is a serious reminder of how extraordinary this situation is. According to the FBI, only ten percent of artwork stolen from museums is ever recovered. Art experts are examining the paintings now. Early reports indicate that they are all in pristine condition. Several of the pieces have been authenticated and are already on their way back to their respective homes.”
“The storage unit was rented by a Croatian national named Luka Antic. Police expect to…”
Zelda’s jaw dropped. So Luka was involved. Vincent must be thrilled to be right. But if the stolen artwork was in his storage unit in the Netherlands, what was in the crates that Ivan delivered to the Sunset Dreams, and who was the intended recipient?
She needed to talk to Vincent. It was approaching midnight, and he still wasn’t answering his phone. Out of desperation, Zelda asked at the reception desk where the nearest police station was. She figured she’d better report him missing before she called the American Embassy in Istanbul.
As she walked to the police station, Zelda thought about her last conversation with Julie Merriweather. With the art recovered, she would be able to return to the Amstel Modern with her head held high. Wouldn’t she? Zelda’s feet stumbled. Or would the police still try to tie her to the robberies? How she wished Gabriella would get in touch with them if only to make the police understand that Zelda had nothing to do with any of the thefts or the Robber Hood gang. Would Gabriella resurface now that the artwork had?
Zelda had so many questions and hoped Vincent knew at least a few of the answers.
“Vincent de G-r-a-a-f.” Zelda spelled out the art detective’s name for the Turkish police officer.
“Your friend isn’t missing. He’s here in our holding cell.”
“What? Why? Is he okay? Can I see him? Thank God he’s alive!” Zelda knew she was babbling, but the relief at having found her friend was overwhelming.
“Yeah, you can see him. It’s a slow night.”
Zelda was surprised by the officer’s casual approach to policing but didn’t mind. Right now, she needed to talk to her friend.
Minutes later, the officer escorted Zelda to a visitor’s room.
Vincent’s shirt was torn and one pant leg ripped but, otherwise, he looked fine. In fact, he was grinning from ear to ear. Zelda looked around the room, perplexed by how clean and modern it was. She’d watched too many National Geographic specials on prisons abroad and had been expecting damp walls and rats scurrying about.
She tried to hug him, but the officer wagged his finger at her. “No contact.”
Zelda sat down across from Vincent. “What happened?”
“I was arrested for stealing a fisherman’s boat. I have to pay a fine. As soon as the wire transfer goes through, I’ll be a free man again.”
“But why did you steal a boat?” Zelda had trouble not interrupting Vincent as he rehashed the day’s events, ending with the police arresting him while he tried to tail the yacht—with Luka Antic on board.
Vincent smiled and leaned forward so that his head was partially hidden from their Turkish guard. “I tipped off the Greek Coast Guard. They should have stopped and boarded the Sunset Dreams as soon as the yacht entered Greek waters.”
“But, Vincent, the stolen art wasn’t in those crates.”
He nodded. “I saw it on the news.”
“But if all the real art is in the Netherlands, what have we been chasing?”
“I’ll know more once I talk with my contacts. But they might have been copies of the originals.”
“You mean forgeries? Do you think Luka would be stupid enough to try to pay his Turkish drug dealer with fakes instead of the real pieces?”
“This wouldn’t be the first time a Croatian mafia member tried to pass off a forgery as the real deal.”
“Okay, but why did they return the originals now? I can’t imagine the Turkish drug dealer Luka met with would have been happy to know he’d just accepted fakes as payment.”
Vincent’s grin widened. “I’m guessing someone double-crossed the Croatian. The timing was too perfect for it to be a coincidence.”
“But who?”
“I don’t know, but I have a feeling we’ll find out soon enough.”
Zelda contemplated the situation for a moment before her face drained of color. “Oh, my God, that means Luka Antic…”
“Is already sleeping with the fishes.” Vincent’s grin lit up the room. “We’ll know for sure as soon as I can talk to the Greek Coast Guard. With a little luck, they should be able to tell us what is inside those crates and who is still alive and on board.”
70 A Museum in Marmaris
September 24, 2018
Minutes after his yacht entered Greek waters, a Coast Guard vessel signaled the Sunset Dreams to stop. There was a report that artwork recently stolen from several Dutch museums was on board.
Kadir laughed as he escorted the police down to his lower deck. “Here are the artworks you speak of. All are copies of paintings I admire. The originals were found in the Netherlands an hour ago—I saw it on the news. I have committed no crime.” The alcohol racing through his blood flushed his cheeks. It also made it easier for him to be courteous to these officers. Whoever screwed over Luka was trying to screw him over, too. Someone must have tipped them off. Otherwise, the Coast Guard would have had no reason to stop
his yacht and search it.
The Greek officer in charge glowered at him but refused to respond. Once his men had inventoried all of the pieces on board and compared them to the list of stolen works, the officer called it in. After a heated conversation in Greek, he turned to Kadir, “Why do you have copies of the same paintings as those stolen by the Robber Hood gang?”
“I admire the Modernists. After the robberies made the international news, I feared the stolen works would be lost forever. So I hired several artists to paint them to save them for the world. I am building a modern art museum here in Turkey and thought they would fit nicely within the new displays. But now there is no need since the originals have been returned unscathed. Instead, these pieces will hang in my summer home.”
It took the Coast Guard several hours to confirm the art stolen by the Robber Hood gang was really in Nijmegen. Only after curators working for the victimized museums had verified that all the pieces in that storage unit were indeed the same ones stolen, did the officer’s demeanor soften. It also took the Coast Guard’s legal team time to confirm that there was no law against owning copies of artwork—it was only when they were sold as the originals that a crime was being committed. Ultimately, the Coast Guard had no choice but to let Kadir sail on to Corsica for a much-needed vacation.
When Luka’s phone rang later that night, curiosity made him answer. “Yes, who is calling?” he asked, assuming that was enough to let the caller know he was not Luka.
“This is Marko Antic. I am trying to reach Luka Antic. Is he with you?”
Not one to pussyfoot around, Kadir told him the truth. “He is no more. The merchandise he delivered was not up to snuff.”
Marked for Revenge Page 25
