by James Ponti
“When did this even happen?” asked Miller.
“It was stolen the same night as the others,” he said. “Except, unlike them, this one was swapped with a forgery.”
“Which painting?” Hobbes asked.
“Woman with a Parasol,” answered Rivers.
Hobbes and Miller looked like they were going to faint. “That’s one of the signature pieces in the entire collection,” he said. “It’s irreplaceable.”
“I know,” replied Rivers. “Which is why we’re going to get it back.”
He went step-by-step through everything he knew, careful to speak only in facts, not theories. He minimized my role in the discovery of the fraud, because although we were all on the same side, as far as Hobbes and Miller knew, my involvement was limited to the night of the burglary. They weren’t supposed to find out about my relationship with the FBI. In fact, that’s one of the reasons we had the meeting at our house. It gave me a good excuse to be there. I was in listening mode, not speaking up.
“Now comes the tricky part,” said the agent as the others looked through the report from Dr. Gonzalez. “We’re going to keep it a secret from everybody who’s not in this room. We’re all going to act like the painting on display in Gallery Eighty-Five is the masterpiece by Monet.”
“That’s unacceptable,” exclaimed Miller. “I’m the museum’s director of security and have a responsibility to my board of trustees and executive officers. If one of the most important paintings in our collection has been stolen, I have to tell them about it.”
“The same goes for my supervisors,” said Hobbes. “Our company is financially liable for this painting upwards of forty million dollars. They’ll want to know as much as they can, as soon as they can.”
“Actually,” said Rivers. “I’m pretty sure they’ll want the painting recovered. That’s true of your supervisors and of the trustees. Still, I understand the difficulty of your situations, which is why the director of the FBI is personally calling the chairman of the museum’s board and the president of the insurance company. He’s informing them about the theft and asking them, in his very convincing way, to keep it quiet so that we are in a better situation to capture the bad guys.”
He waited to make sure there were no more complaints, but the mention of the director’s involvement seemed to put an end to the protests.
“All right, then,” he said. “This food’s delicious, so let’s keep eating and figure this out.”
“Why do you want to keep it a secret?” asked Mom. “Wouldn’t people knowing about it help put pressure on the thief?”
“Yes, but pressure’s not what we want,” he explained. “I want the opposite of pressure. Right now he thinks he’s gotten away with the crime of the century. That’s good. We didn’t catch him at the recycling center because word had already gotten out that the other paintings were recovered. As long as he thinks we don’t know about the Monet, he’s far more likely to make a mistake.”
“What’s the latest on the artist who painted it?” asked my father.
“According to our counterparts at Interpol, Pavel Novak has not been seen since he flew from Washington to Prague the night of the burglary. We suspect he’s somewhere in the Czech Republic, but realistically he could be almost anywhere in Eastern Europe. We’re working with local police agencies and also trying to check with sources who have connections inside EEL.”
“That’s the crime syndicate you mentioned at FBI Headquarters,” said Mom.
“That’s right,” he replied. “The Eastern European League is involved in illegal activity throughout the region. Even if it wasn’t involved in this particular case, it’s almost certain to have a history with Novak or any associates he may have.”
“What about the burglar?” asked Hobbes. “The custodian who went missing?”
“We’re still following multiple leads, but so far we’re frustrated by our lack of results,” he admitted. “We’ve looked at all the custodians who’ve worked in the National Gallery in the last year and each one has a solid alibi. The same cleaning company provides custodial services to the Department of Labor, the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and the National Archives, so we’re looking into all of those employees as well, but there are hundreds of names.”
The mention of the National Archives caught my attention, and I must have reacted because Agent Rivers stopped talking and looked at me.
“Florian? Is there something you’d like to say?”
“Not really,” I replied. “It’s just that when you mentioned the National Archives, it made me think of something. Actually, someone.”
“Who?” my father asked.
“Earl,” I replied. “I don’t know his last name.”
“Earl Jackson?” asked Serena. “The man who was working in the security center the night of the burglary?”
I nodded.
“He’s been with the museum for ten years,” she said. “I guarantee he had nothing to do with this.”
“I didn’t think he did,” I replied. “It’s just that he came to mind and I guess I made a face.”
“Why?” asked Agent Rivers. “What does he have to do with the National Archives?”
“He told me he used to work there,” I said. “He left for two years and said he begged Ms. Miller for his job back.”
“Is that true?” asked Rivers.
“Yes,” said Miller. “But I mean it when I say there’s no way he’s involved.”
“Well, someone from your department is,” said Hobbes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she replied angrily.
“It’s obvious,” he answered.
“Let’s not get into finger-pointing and accusations,” said Rivers.
“Someone from your department has to be involved,” Hobbes reiterated, ignoring the agent. “Someone had to tell the thief that the security system was going to be reset at precisely one fifteen.”
“And you think it was Earl?” she replied.
“I have no idea if it was him,” replied Hobbes. “I’ve only met him a few times so I don’t know him. But I do know that he was in charge of the security upgrade the night the paintings were stolen. And now it turns out he has a connection to the National Archives, which may be important.”
It was about to erupt into a full-fledged argument when my mother came to the rescue. “Who wants dessert?” she said. “Agent Rivers brought an apple crumb pie that looks delicious.”
At first no one responded, so I jumped in.
“Do we have any ice cream to go with it?”
“Of course we do,” she said.
“Sounds good to me,” said Agent Rivers.
The pie did the trick and the argument was averted, although Hobbes and Miller exchanged angry looks with each other the rest of the evening. The focus of the conversation turned to the different types of people behind most art thefts.
“There are three basic types,” said Rivers. “Knuckleheads, masterminds, and extortionists.”
“What are knuckleheads?” I asked.
“Basic criminals, usually not so bright, who see an opportunity to steal a piece of art and take it,” explained my father. “They’re usually short on planning and have no idea what to do with what they take.”
“They’re also responsible for most of the art stolen throughout the world,” added Ms. Miller.
“But I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with here,” said Rivers. “Breaking a window and grabbing a picture off the wall is one thing. But creating a high-level forgery and swapping it with the original takes meticulous planning.”
“Which leads us to mastermind,” said Hobbes. “A crime in which a very rich person targets a specific piece of art to add to his collection.”
“That could be the case here,” speculated my mother. “Woman with a Parasol is iconic.”
“No doubt,” said Rivers. “But the truth is, the mastermind art thefts tend to be more of what you see in movies and less of w
hat happens in real life.”
“So you suspect extortion?” said Serena.
“I’m leaning that way,” he said. “But I want to stay open-minded.”
“What’s extortion?” I asked.
Agent Rivers turned to Oliver Hobbes. “You want to tell him?”
“That’s when criminal syndicates like EEL acquire a painting and then try to ransom it back to the insurance company or museum,” he said. “Officially, insurance companies do not pay ransoms. But unofficially, they do offer rewards for information leading to the return of stolen paintings, which some people claim is really the same thing.”
“Why would an insurance company pay that?” I asked.
“Woman with a Parasol is valued at roughly forty million dollars,” he said. “That’s what my company will have to pay the National Gallery if it’s not recovered so that they can purchase something of equal value to replace it. But whoever has it can’t sell it for that much on the black market because of its history. It’s toxic. So if they offer to ‘help find it’ for two million, then they make a lot of money and we save thirty-eight million dollars.”
“But that’s not going to happen in this situation because we’re going to catch the bad guys and get it back ourselves,” Rivers claimed.
“I like your thinking,” said Hobbes. “So will my bosses.”
“How do we do it?” asked Ms. Miller.
“Each of us has to work a specific lead,” he said. “I know you don’t want to think that anyone at the museum might be involved, but it has to be considered. The thief did know that the security system was going to be shut down. Isolate who had that information and see how word might have gotten out. Also, keep an eye on your staff and watch for suspicious behavior. Remember, the thief thinks he’s gotten away with it, so see if anyone is making big life changes with an eye on sudden money coming in.”
She nodded. “Fine. I can do that.”
I caught his eye as a signal to remind him of a conversation we had during the car ride home. “Oh, and can I get a record of who on the staff has traveled to Europe in the last three years?”
She gave him a confused look. “Why?”
“If there is someone from the museum involved, we have to figure out how he might have met Pavel Novak in the first place,” he said. “He’s never been to the US, so the odds are that meeting took place in Europe.”
“Europe is an entire continent,” she pointed out. “How can you possibly figure out if two people met each other?”
“I can’t,” he said. “But we have this genius at the Bureau. If anyone can figure it out, he can. His name is Johan Blankvort.”
As he said it, he shot me a look.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Hobbes.
“You’ve dealt with extortionists before and know about the black market,” Rivers said. “Put feelers out to see if there’s been any chatter that might seem even the slightest bit connected to what we’re dealing with.”
“I’ve also got a database of every major art auction in the past twenty years,” Hobbes said. “I’ll dig around and see if anyone has expressed particular interest in Monet or the major Impressionist works.”
“That’s a great idea,” Rivers said. “I’d love to get a copy if I could. I might show it to Johan.”
“Of course.”
Now Rivers turned to my parents.
“I know you don’t have an official role in this investigation, but your brainpower and breadth of knowledge are greatly appreciated. If you think of anything, please let me know.”
“Our pleasure,” said Mom.
“Absolutely,” said Dad.
“And remember,” he said to everyone, “the key to this is that we keep it a secret. If word gets out, everything changes.”
19.
Capitol Crush
THE NEXT MORNING I RODE my bike to deal Middle to watch the championship game of the U13 Washington Area Girls Soccer League. The match was played on the big field behind the school and when I got there I was amazed by how many people had turned out.
Margaret had already told me all about the team they were facing. The Capitol Crush had won back-to-back city championships and was looking to become the first team ever to win three in a row. They wore red-and-white-striped jerseys and their supporters hung a huge banner on the fence that read CRUSH IT!
I headed for the opposite sideline and found Margaret’s parents in a cluster of Dynamo fans. “Did I miss anything?” I asked.
“No,” said Mrs. Campbell. “Your timing’s perfect. They’re just about to do the Tornado.”
The Tornado.
Margaret had told me all about that too, but I didn’t fully appreciate how cool it was until I saw it in person. It started with the team forming a tight circle in front of their goal. Their arms were wrapped around each other’s shoulders and they swayed side to side and started chanting, “D-C-D, D-C-D,” for DC Dynamo. They got louder and louder and swayed more and more until the circle looked like it was about to spiral out of control. Finally one of the girls let out a piercing yell and they scattered from the huddle and ran to their positions.
Everyone on our sideline went nuts.
“That was impressive. I’m glad I didn’t miss that,” I said when the noise died down. “Although I meant to get here earlier so I could give her a pep talk.”
Her dad laughed. “It’s probably best that you didn’t.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Margaret’s not exactly . . . chatty . . . before a big game,” he explained.
When I saw her face I instantly realized what he meant. The girl I normally hung out with, the goofy, brainy girl who was always smiling, bore little resemblance to the one who lined up to play center midfielder. This one was oblivious to the world beyond the sidelines. She focused an intense stare straight ahead at her opponent while she loosened up her shoulders and gently rocked up and down on the balls of her feet. It was unnerving.
“Where have I seen that look before?” I asked.
“The zoo,” replied her mother. “It’s the same expression the tiger has right before feeding time.”
We all laughed because it was true.
The game was exciting from start to finish, and both teams played great. The Crush scored early, but the Dynamo tied it up right before halftime. It was still 1–1 when Margaret moved up out of position, stole a pass between two defenders, and sprinted all alone toward the goal. Their keeper, who played brilliantly all game long, charged out to challenge her, but Margaret put on the brakes and chipped the ball over her head and sent it fluttering into the net.
“Did you see that?” Mrs. Campbell squealed, jumping up and down. “Did you see that?”
It was a memorable play, but nothing like the one the Capitol Crush pulled off in the final moments of the game. They were awarded a free kick, and, desperate to tie the score and force overtime, all of their players moved forward and flooded the penalty area. Two of them even started arguing about who should take the kick. Then, in the middle of the argument, another player sneaked in and kicked the ball to the other side of the field.
It was a trick play designed to give one of their players an open shot and it worked perfectly. No one was near her as she got the ball and volleyed it to the top left corner of the goal. Everyone on the DC Dynamo had been caught off guard watching the argument.
Except for Margaret.
She’d slipped in behind the keeper and taken a spot on the goal line. As the ball rocketed toward the net, she jumped up and headed it just enough to send it over the crossbar. Both sidelines went bananas, while Mr. Campbell and I did so many high fives the palm of my hand turned red. Two minutes later the referee blew the whistle, ending the game, and Margaret’s teammates swarmed around her.
Somewhere in the middle of the celebration, she looked toward the sideline and we locked eyes. It was the first time I saw her smile that day. It lasted only a second because two more players piled on top of
her and they all tumbled to the ground. I knew the team was going to their coach’s house for a party, so I said good-bye to Margaret’s parents and headed for the bike rack.
The school is a massive, three-story brick building that seems even larger because it sits on the top of a hill. I walked around to the front and was unlocking my bike when I heard someone coming toward me. I looked up and saw that it was Margaret. Despite being exhausted from a grueling game in the summer heat, she had run all the way up the hill after me.
“Where are you going?” she asked in between deep breaths.
“Home,” I said.
“Without saying anything to me?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt the celebration,” I explained. “I figured we’d talk later.”
“You’re my best friend, Florian. By definition that means you can’t interrupt me. You’re always a part of whatever I’m a part of.”
It was, without a doubt, the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.
“I’ll remember that in the future,” I said. “By the way. You were . . . Amazing . . . Incredible . . . Unbelievable. It took my breath away.”
She grinned. “It was a good game, wasn’t it?”
I laughed. “You could say that.”
“Thanks for saving that last goal,” she said. “I don’t know if we could’ve held them off in extra time.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Without you I never would have headed that ball over the crossbar.”
“Yeah right.”
“I mean it,” she replied. “The two players who got into the argument, I’d noticed them whispering to each other right before that. I thought that was strange. Then I realized their best goal scorer was in the absolute wrong place, totally away from the play. So I ignored the big thing, which was the argument, and added up the little things.”
“You mean you used . . .”
“TOAST,” she said, finishing my sentence. “TOAST absolutely won that game.”
Now I was the one who was grinning.
“I’m going to keep the trophy and all,” she continued. “But I couldn’t have done it without you.”
