The Medici Conspiracy

by Peter Watson

  Hecht immediately called Robert Guy, at Princeton, and even over the phone he was enthusiastic. Guy said it sounded to him that it was not unlike a particular vase in one of the other main reference works, on south Italian vases, compiled by an Australian scholar, A. Dale Trendall and updated by Professor Alexander Cambitoglou. Based on the description Hecht gave him, Guy made a preliminary attribution to the Kleophrades Painter. Re-assured, Hecht sent photographs to Marion True at the Getty. She was enthusiastic, too, becoming even more so after she showed the photos to Dyfri Williams at the British Museum. Hecht was asked to bring the vase to Malibu as soon as it had been cleaned “and she did not find unreasonable the price of $700,000.”

  With the vase cleaned, Hecht hand-carried it personally—aboard Lufthansa, he tells us—just as he had done with the Euphronios krater. With ceremony, he unwrapped the psykter in the library of the Greek and Roman department of the Getty. To his great consternation, however, Marion was not impressed by the real thing. In fact, she was rather cold and asked that the museum’s chief restorer be sent for. All became clear the next morning, when Hecht met True in her office. She told him that the museum would not be buying the psykter because they thought it was a fake. Hecht was incensed.

  Some time later, he saw the Getty’s restorer and asked him what had made him suspect the vase was not genuine. The restorer replied that some of the black figures, instead of being bluish black, as was normal in a vase of that kind, had a greenish tinge. Hecht was having none of it.

  Actually, the occurrence of greenish figures adjacent to black figures is not unusual and could be caused by the vase breaking in the kiln because of the heat....

  From Hecht’s point of view, however, the episode ended happily, because the vase was acquired by the Princeton Art Museum—on the recommendation of none other than Robert Guy. Despite this satisfactory outcome, Hecht couldn’t quite let the matter drop entirely. He had been told, he said, that the doubts that had been sown in Marion True’s mind about the psykter had come from Britain, and he thought the skeptic was Martin Robertson, former professor of Ancient Archaeology at Oxford.

  Still he wouldn’t let go.

  Shortly after the acquisition by Princeton, Marion True admitted in a telephone conversation that Robert Guy had persuaded her of the psykter’s authenticity.

  Now, besides what this reveals about the provenance of Princeton’s red-figured psykter, which the Italian authorities will no doubt be addressing in due course, this episode is also most interesting for the way in which it echoes Hecht’s first account of the Euphronios krater affair (the “Medici version”). It is a straightforward narrative, obsessed with flights and sums of money; it gives bare details about seeing the object in Italy at first; then in Switzerland, dwells on the object’s reception in the United States, shows off his scholarship and learning, and ends with Hecht triumphant in his claims about the authenticity of the object. In tone, details, and style it is a parallel narrative.

  In a final part of the memoir, in which he comments on a series of articles in the 1990s about antiquities looting and smuggling in the Boston Globe, by the journalist Walter Robinson, Hecht sets out what we might call his archaeological philosophy. He says he told Robinson, who had telephoned him when researching his articles, that he had never smuggled objects, nor “instigated” the smuggling of objects. He did write that he was “not averse” to buying an antiquity without a pedigree “unless it was demonstrably stolen.” But he went on to insist that “unprovenanced” objects (his quotation marks) are of “more use” to the world if they are in public museums and private collections, rather than in “obscure local salons.” He also claimed that many objects stolen from Italian museums and private collections had been returned through his “agency,” though he did not give any details.

  This was, at the least, an interesting use of the verb “instigate.” At several points in the memoir he meets middle men, either in Rome or Athens, is shown antiquities of one kind or another (at discreet venues where he avoids the limelight), discusses their value, or at least their price, and then takes possession of them in Switzerland, from where he sells them on at a handsome profit. Does this not classify as instigation? When he prevailed upon his “respectable” Swiss girlfriend to fly in to Athens, with forty one-thousand-dollar bills, to pay for some silver figures which he had been offered by an Armenian dealer on Pandrossan Street, and then fly out again, taking the figures with her, did this not count as instigation? When he met Mauro Moroni at the latter’s home in Cerveteri and was shown the psykter that was brought to Zurich “within a few days” and which Hecht eventually sold to Princeton, did this not count as instigation? When he demonstrated to Giacomo Medici, in the matter of the kylix with a youth in the tondo, that “quality had a high premium,” did that not count as instigation? He himself said the sale of the kylix was an “eye-opener” for Medici and that, following the incident, “G.M. soon became a faithful purveyor.” We shall encounter similar idiosyncratic use of language again in this book—in Giacomo Medici’s defense at his trial.

  Hecht’s interrogation on March 10, 2001, in Paris, took place twenty-five days after the raid in Boulevard Latour Maubourg. It was classic fencing match. From Ferri’s point of view, Hecht was a difficult nut to crack at first, though gradually he did admit some things and contradicted himself several times, so that the overall picture came slowly into focus. Hecht said that he had written the memoir some four or five years before, in 1996 or 1997 (in other words after Hoving’s memoirs), and that it contained only fantasies and things that he had heard. He had wanted to write a fascinating book, he said, that would sell well. He said that the first account of the Euphronios krater affair was the version “the Italians wanted” (even though it had been written four or five years before), that he “only hoped that Medici would give him the vase.” He declined to expand on what, exactly, this meant, though it appears to confirm that Medici had a Euphronios vase in December 1971. He admitted that he knew Marion True but denied, at first, that he had ever sold anything to the Getty Museum. Then he changed his story and said that “maybe” he had sold them a bronze figure in the Attic style that he bought in a Swiss collection, and a black-figure cup, and some red-figure vases.

  He could not (or would not) explain why True and Medici didn’t deal directly, “seeing that they knew each other well.” He did sell to the Getty the bronze tripod of the Guglielmi Collection (which turned out to be stolen) but didn’t remember a candelabrum. When challenged that it was in Boursaud’s inventory and shown a photograph, he recognized it and confirmed it had gone to the Getty. He also agreed he had “given” “a few” Apulian vases to the Getty but claimed not to remember the details. He did not remember the name of his suppliers, then named Medici (though he said he bought little from him) and Savoca, from whom he remembered receiving an archaic Greek bronze vase. Hecht remembered buying some coins from Monticelli, and he admitted receiving a small terra-cotta from Scrimbia from Orazio Di Simone and buying two bronze handles and a Greek vase from Becchina. He admitted knowing Sandro Cimicchi, a restorer who had lived in Borowsky’s house. He insisted that he “generally bought unimportant bronzes and vases.”

  Regarding the Pompeian frescoes, Hecht said Medici had them in Geneva and had shown them to him, in the Freeport. He sent them to Bürki in Zurich to be restored. He had bought them from Medici and had paid him—the invoices made out to Bürki were what he called “courtesy invoices” for Medici to render importation possible. This was a polite way of saying the invoices did not give the true picture. He agreed that “[h]e lent himself to appearing in place of Medici.” The frescoes were returned to Medici when “the illicit provenance of the frescoes had been pointed out to him.”

  The reader can judge for him- or herself as to what weight to attach to Hecht’s replies in his interrogation and how they compare with his written memoir. The other raids and interrogations carried out by Conforti’s men and by Dr. Ferri would confirm certain a
spects of Hecht’s memoir but would vividly contradict other parts.

  13

  RAIDS IN ZURICH AND GENEVA, ARREST AND INTERROGATIONS IN CYPRUS AND BERLIN

  ABOUT A MONTH AFTER THE RAID on Hecht, in the second week of March 2001, a Swiss magistrate, two Swiss police, together with two investigators from Conforti’s Art Squad and Public Prosecutor Ferri himself, raided the premises of Phoenix Ancient Art, S.A., at 6 Rue Verdaine, in Geneva, and also the premises of Inanna Art Services at the Freeport.

  Of course, the Italians were already aware of the close links between Medici and Phoenix Ancient Art because of the documentation found in Corridor 17, including checks made out to Phoenix by Lawrence Fleischman, a partnership contract with Editions Services, and a series of monthly invoices made out to Phoenix by Medici, for his expertise.

  At the premises on Rue Verdaine, only the manager of the company, Jeffrey Suckow, was there, so none of the Aboutaams were interrogated, either then or later. Suckow handed over to the Italians a list of auctions at which the Aboutaams had bought objects being sold by Medici and in which, in at least two cases, those objects had ended up back with him in Corridor 17. Apart from this, five vases were seized, all of which had been temporarily imported into Switzerland by Ariss Ancient Art and which, Suckow said, were owned by Noura Aboutaam, sister of Ali and Hischam. Two of these objects came from Medici, as shown by the seized Polaroids.

  The details about the laundering, and about Noura’s involvement, were steps forward, but small ones, so far as Ferri’s investigation was concerned. He had higher hopes for what he might find later that day in their warehouse in the Freeport.

  The Carabinieri, of course, were by now more than familiar with the Freeport, its gray-painted structures, its green stairwells, its forbidding metal doors. After lunch, as they reached the doorway to Inanna, there was a slight hiccup when the Swiss judge expressed reservations that Inanna actually had anything to do with Phoenix Ancient Art and the Aboutaams. Ferri explained again the links between Medici and the Lebanese, and the references in the seized documents to Inanna. The judge remained doubtful, but after still more discussion in the corridor outside the offices, she agreed to let one of the Swiss police go inside the warehouse and see who was there. He came back to say that inside were Jeffrey Suckow, whom they had met earlier, and Ali Aboutaam. Reassured, the judge allowed the raid to go ahead. Whereupon Ali Aboutaam—six foot three, balding, heavily built—left.

  As they had approached the Inanna warehouses, on the floor directly below Medici’s, there had been nothing to suggest that the rooms inside would be any different from his. The gallery at Rue Verdaine was plush and elegant.

  Not at the Freeport. There is a word in Italian—“raccapricciante”—which is not easy to translate but means, basically, “it makes your flesh crawl.” And this was the universal reaction of the Italians as they entered Inanna’s offices. “There was a sea of objects everywhere,” says one of Conforti’s men. “It was distressing to see so many objects of culture treated with such violence.” What he meant was that, far from being packed away in cupboards, as Medici had done with his objects in Corridor 17, at Inanna there was absolutely no respect for anything to be found there. “There were gold rings strewn on the floor, in envelopes; there was a wooden Egyptian sarcophagus that had been sawn into pieces; there were glazed ceramics just lying everywhere, jumbles of coins, glass and jewelry; there were mummies leaning against the wall, even mummies of cats; there was material from Iraq, Iran, India, and South East Asia—all scattered over the floor in a huge mess.”

  In the outer rooms, most of the material—the objects just lying around—were not of Italian origin. But in the room farthest away from the door, there were some cupboards, and all the material inside them was Italian. And what did they find among these objects? Two boxes of ceramics from Scrimbia.q

  The Italian objects were photographed, replaced in the cupboards where they had been found, and the cupboards—but not the warehouse—sealed with wax. Whatever their personal opinions of where the non-Italian material had come from, the Carabinieri had no professional interest, and no competence or jurisdiction to take any action in connection with it. When the Carabinieri returned two months later, with the archaeologists, for the technical assessment of the Italian material at Inanna, the rest of the warehouse was empty. Everything else—the Iraqi, Iranian, and Indian material—had all been removed.

  As the Italian cupboards were unsealed and opened, it was now the archaeologists’ turn to feel “raccapriccio.” On closer examination, one of the boxes in the cupboards was found to contain gold rings with the finger bones of the dead still attached to them. Clearly, when the tombs had been looted, the hands and fingers of the long-dead had simply been broken off by the tombaroli, to save time. To Conforti, nothing in his long career showed the sheer barbarity of Medici’s cordata so much as this.

  Suckow said that the warehouse had existed since 1992 and had been created by Sleiman Aboutaam, the father of Ali and Hischam. Suckow had been employed as manager after he had worked on the computers at Phoenix. Suckow said that, in fact, neither Inanna nor Phoenix owned any of the objects in the Freeport warehouse. He said the company existed solely to buy and sell on behalf of others. Its most important clients, he said, were Ariss Ancient Art, Tanis Antiquities Ltd., Sekhmet Ancient Art, and the Galerie Weber of Cologne. Many objects, he said, were sent to Inanna for restoration. The company issued passavants and would send material principally to two restorers in London, Martin Foster and Colin Bowles, and one in New York, Jane Gillies.

  Suckow said he had continued to manage the warehouse even after Sleiman Aboutaam and his wife had been killed in the SwissAir plane crash off Nova Scotia in 1998. Ali Aboutaam came to the warehouse once a week to view the objects that had arrived in the interim and to give instructions about sales. The Italian objects found in the Freeport belonged, he said, to Ariss Ancient Art. He said he knew the names of Fritz Bürki, Giacomo Medici, and Editions Services but had never worked for them. He knew the name of Marion True at the John Paul Getty Museum but couldn’t remember if he had ever met her. He didn’t know the names Christian Boursaud, Hydra Gallery, or Xoilan Trader.

  The raids on the Aboutaams had, in reality, raised more questions than they had answered. What, actually, was their business? If Suckow was to be believed, they owned nothing but just operated a holding company. As the Fleischman checks found in Medici’s warehouse seemed to indicate, they were in reality just a convenient “front” for other people. Their part in the laundering of objects at auction seemed to support such a role, too. The state of their warehouse, and the grisly business of the finger bones inside the rings, seemed to show that they had no real regard for art or ancient artifacts. In their exploitation of the archaeological world, the Aboutaams were just about as cynical as you could get.

  Ferri was aware that the role of the Aboutaams was mysterious, and all the more interesting for that. But, as he put it, “There was no time to follow all the rivers.” He had his priorities and time was passing. His next target was Fritz and Harry Bürki, the restorers in Zurich.

  The raid on their premises took place some months later, in October 2001. This time there were present two of Conforti’s men, four Swiss police, and a Zurich magistrate. The Bürkis’ apartment was on the fourth floor of a tall anonymous building near the main railway station. Once the raiding party had gathered outside the apartment, the senior policeman rang the bell. No reply. They rang again. Still no reply. It was decided not to bludgeon the door open, but instead to send for a locksmith. One of the local Zurich police pulled out his mobile phone and dialed someone the police had used before. As he was dialing, however, the door to the apartment suddenly opened, and Harry Bürki—tall, thin, pale, with black hair and a black mustache—stood there. Had he been listening just inside the door, waiting for them to go away, only to realize that they weren’t going away?

  “Yes?” he said.

  Inside they found
a restorer’s laboratory, “even more technological than Savoca’s,” says one of Conforti’s men, who had seen both.

  But what caught the eye of the investigators was a bag, a battered sports bag. It was tall, made of some kind of canvas, and it had a false bottom—it was less deep inside than it was outside. When they opened up the false bottom, the compartment below was found to contain crumbs of soil. No less interesting, the bag was decorated with the emblem for an Italian football team, Mondragone, a town very near to Casal di Principe. Casal di Principe, it will be remembered from Chapter 1, was where the burst of telephone activity occurred among the tombaroli after the theft at Melfi. Casal di Principe was where Pasquale Camera had a house.

  Was this bag the device used to smuggle objects out of Italy?

  Harry Bürki shrugged his shoulders. He said he didn’t know what they were talking about. He didn’t know what the bag was used for.

  He was asked who lived in the room where the search was taking place.

  “I do.”

  “Where is the bed?”

  He had no answer. There was none.

  At this point, one of the raiding party noticed a room off the entrance hall. It was small, just big enough for a spiral staircase made of wood. “Where does this lead?” asked Conforti’s man, mindful of where the (marble) spiral staircase in Savoca’s house had led.

  “Nowhere,” replied Bürki.

  “We’ll take a look anyway,” said the senior Swiss policeman.

  Upstairs, there was another huge apartment. It had bookshelves with many books. Conforti’s man pulled out one and, by a stroke of luck, it fell open to reveal a passport, Robert Hecht’s passport as it happened, albeit out of date.