The Icon Hunter

by Tasoula Georgiou Hadjitofi

  “Finding me beautiful after ten years of marriage makes you priceless, my mouse,” I say playfully.

  “You could be the female version of Richard Branson if you would focus your energy on your business instead of the icons.”

  “I need both, Michael,” I say. “And you are doing me a great favor by being here tonight. Imagine a married consul meeting Van Rijn at the bar of des Indes in the evening. . . .”

  “Tasoula, I respect what you do, but your mind is always on the artifacts!”

  Michael is concerned about my obsession with the artifacts, and justifiably so.

  “Michael, I promise to finish this meeting quickly so we can go straight home. By the way, I have a present for you.”

  Michael holds out his hand in a playful gesture, expecting to receive a gift. I lift my skirt to teasingly reveal the edge of a garter peeking out from beneath the hemline. It works. Michael responds with a devilish grin. Leading him out of the lobby traffic into an alcove, I take a moment to reassure him.

  “I hear you, love,” I say. “Understand, Van Rijn is crucial to the capture of Dikmen, who is a supplier of Cypriot antiquities to the international market. Please, don’t ask me to walk away when I’m this close.”

  Michael places his arm around me, his way of confirming that he stands by me, but I sense it is only temporary. We walk past the central marble staircase that has welcomed luminaries such as Winston Churchill, Anna Pavlova, and Mata Hari, as we head for the bar, where Van Rijn awaits us.

  Against the backdrop of plush jewel-tone draperies, we spot him sitting with another gentleman. Van Rijn’s brown hair is trimmed short; his mustache is perfectly manicured, and he wears a cool, calculated demeanor as an accessory to his expensively tailored clothing. His contrasting colored Hermès handkerchief perfectly folded in his suit pocket reveals his flair for creativity. He has the taste and mannerisms of an aristocrat with a touch of gangster thrown in for good measure. He rises to greet us and introduces us to Robert Van Dorn, his financier, who wears a pair of round spectacles usually associated with the look of an accountant. Van Dorn is middle-aged, conservatively dressed, and has a friendly but authoritative demeanor.

  “Madame Consul.”

  “Tazulaah . . . Michael, please sit down,” Van Rijn says.

  “Why did you disappear in the middle of planning the sting?” I ask, with a slight tone of irritability.

  Mr. Van Dorn intercedes, “Mr. Van Rijn is under a great deal of pressure. His father’s health is deteriorating and his girlfriend has left.”

  “Sir, I came here to speak with Mr. Van Rijn.”

  Van Rijn puts his hand up, “Let him finish.”

  Van Dorn continues, “I’m here to assure you that I will help support him through this process. He’s just out of detox and not in a position to handle his finances. His fees should be paid directly to me.”

  “You can witness the deal, Mr. Van Dorn, but I know Van Rijn for ten years now, and I’ve only just met you. I would rather deal with the devil I know.”

  Van Rijn responds with his loud, boisterous, head-turning laugh.

  “Convince me you are stable enough to follow through with Munich,” I say. “You have no idea how much time and money you’ve cost the police and myself!”

  Smiling, Van Rijn inquires, “Are you telling me you care?”

  “Assure me that you have your sanity and won’t bail on me again.”

  “I’m serious, Tazulaah. My men have been negotiating for days. I can’t hold them up any longer. If we don’t move now, we risk losing the artifacts. You must trust me.”

  I try to gauge if there is a trace of authenticity in his words. I have placed everything on the line to execute this Munich sting. The one variable that I cannot control is Van Rijn.

  “I need Munich to be a success just as much as you do,” he says. “If we don’t put Dikmen behind bars, he will finish me. Isn’t that enough motivation? Besides, I need a favor.”

  Van Rijn does nothing without an ulterior motive.

  “My father . . . He’s dying.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

  “He’s read all the negative news about me through the years. I want to show him I can be the man he wants me to be. Please, speak to him. Tell my father I am helping the Cypriots to recover their artifacts. He will believe it coming from you.”

  “Does he know me?” I ask.

  “I speak to everybody about you, Tazulaah.”

  I didn’t see this coming. Van Rijn and I never speak about personal issues. There is a sense of urgency in his tone. His father’s terminal illness, if true, would give him motivation to frame his former partner. But will it be enough to keep him sober until the mission is completed?

  “Deliver Dikmen and the treasures, and I will speak to your father, but not a moment sooner. Your terms.”6

  “A fee of two hundred fifty thousand dollars plus expenses paid. I also want a month in a Cyprus hotel.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “To recuperate before I move to Australia to start a new life.” He leans across the table and looks at me with his piercing eyes. “Immunity from prosecution for me and my men with the Germans and the Cypriots. I don’t want your country coming after me for working with Dikmen in the past, and I don’t want the Germans to implicate me for helping you now. My gypsies don’t even know this is a sting. They believe it’s a real buy,” he says.

  I finish taking my notes. Our eyes lock onto each other’s. He takes a sip of espresso.

  “We need two hundred thousand Deutsche marks ($114,000) for the exchange with Dikmen. This money is returnable to you once it is confiscated by the police.”

  I jot down his words.

  “One more thing,” he adds with a slight smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “You will be my hostage, or do you prefer, ‘my guarantor’?”

  Michael’s body language tells me he does not appreciate Van Rijn’s comment. “Shall we finalize the deal tomorrow morning and decide when to travel to Munich?” he asks.

  I turn to Van Rijn with all the swagger I can muster. “You expect me to gain the cooperation of the Church, the government, the Cypriot and Bavarian police without knowing what we can expect to recover?”

  “Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, you’ll get your list.”

  I agree.

  “Now the golden couple can get on with their evening plans,” he says, as he stands to see us off.

  OCTOBER 7, 1997

  Driving to my office situated close to the city center and government buildings, I think back to ten years earlier when I first founded Octagon, my IT services and professional manpower company. The company’s immediate success shifts my image from refugee to “wunderkind.” I go from working to survive to gaining my financial independence and giving the naysayers, who see refugees as a financial burden on society, something to ponder. The combination of business acumen and a desire to help my family back in Cyprus drives my ambition, but it is my instinct to seize the right opportunity at the perfect time that seals my success. It worked when I was founding Octagon, and now I am hoping it will serve me well once more.

  I learn this morning that my pursuit of Aydin Dikmen and the return of the artifacts is coming at a steep price. The interim manager I hired to run the day-to-day operations of Octagon is using my contacts to boost his career while Octagon’s profits dwindle under his supervision. Michael is right. When I focus my energy on my business it soars, but my attention is spread thin and Octagon’s profits are falling.

  While wearing the multiple hats of mother, wife, entrepreneur, and consul provides me with the mental stimulation I crave, I can no longer ignore the cost of “having it all.” I am living in a state of constant turmoil, pulled between my responsibilities and the devotion I feel to seek justice for my native country. Michael believes that the Cypriot government should be doing the work that I am doing as a representative of the Church of Cyprus, but the Cypriot government does not see repa
triation as a priority. Gaining Van Rijn’s cooperation to take down Aydin Dikmen in a sting operation is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I feel that this is something I cannot turn away from.

  My sense of urgency is driven by the fact that these sacred treasures that Dikmen holds in his possession are more than just inanimate objects to the people of Cyprus. They are the vehicles through which our prayers are conveyed. Every inch of interior space of an Orthodox church is covered with paintings, mosaics, frescoes, and icons depicting scenes from the Bible that welcome us into a heavenly domain so that we may revitalize our faith. The creative process for the artists themselves is a spiritual one. They fast and go into deep prayer to commune with God before they begin and during the process. Passages of the Bible are brought to life through the interpretation of these artists, whose pure state of creation exposes the nature of their own souls in producing these works.

  Bringing these artifacts home to Cyprus will help to restore the identity of refugees displaced by war, like me. I feel a personal sense of responsibility, a calling that supersedes all logic and rationale, and goes beyond politics and ambition. My sense of injustice drives me to reclaim what was looted from Cyprus, and I will follow this vocation wherever it may lead me.

  Buzzing my assistant on the intercom, I work the tasks at hand to secure my departure for Munich.

  “Get me the archbishop, please.”

  His Beatitude Chrysostomos I, Archbishop of Cyprus, was appointed the spiritual leader of the Church of Cyprus in 1977 after the death of Archbishop Makarios III.

  The archbishop and I share the same goal. We believe that every time a looted artifact is repatriated, it brings hope to the Cypriot people. The archbishop has an approachable ease about him.

  “Your Beatitude,” I say, “good morning. Are you alone?”

  The archbishop treasures his collection of musical clocks and boxes, most of which have been given to him by visiting dignitaries. Chiming sounds play in the background at regular intervals, adding an element of surrealism to our fraught dialogue.

  “The attorney general hasn’t reached out to me yet,” he says. “Is the MFA [Ministry of Foreign Affairs] aware of what is happening?” he asks.

  “You know how politics works,” I respond. “If Munich’s a success the attorney general’s office will claim the credit, and if it fails they will blame it on the actions of a ‘rogue consul.’”

  “Who will be looking after your family while you’re gone?” he inquires.

  “My in-laws are in town for my niece’s wedding and they will stay on while I’m in Munich.”

  “Just a moment please,” he says. The muffled sound of people bidding him farewell as they exit his office can be heard.

  “Parakalo,” (Now I am alone) he whispers.

  “Your Beatitude, Van Rijn is ready to go. Do you approve of my making a deal with him?”

  The archbishop’s voice is calm and reassuring.

  “The Church is behind you,” he says. “I worry for your safety. Is there anything I can do?”

  I remain silent, not wanting to show the underlying terror I feel hiding just beneath the surface. “You are not alone, Tasoula. God is looking out for you.”

  Ending the call, I feel an enormous sense of responsibility. Not everyone within the hierarchy of the Church agrees with the archbishop’s decision to place his trust in me. The archbishop is risking his reputation should the Munich operation not deliver on its promise to bring the artifacts home. There are ambitious Cypriot clergy who will use any failure in Munich to create public doubt about his leadership.

  Arriving at the Hotel des Indes for my meeting with Van Rijn, I find the reception area surprisingly empty. “Would you please ring the room of Lexicon?” I say to the young man behind the desk, using Van Rijn’s requested alias.

  Van Rijn rarely uses his real name. He carries multiple identity cards and checks into the finest hotels using false documentation. Van Rijn tips generously, gaining the trust of establishment management. He wears the façade of a wealthy man, parading himself as a descendant of Rembrandt Harmenszoon Van Rijn, the masterful Dutch painter and etcher, in order to lure wealthy purchasers into his field of play. He baits buyers, tantalizing their inner greed until they willingly follow him into his web of deceit. Van Rijn even sold a Rembrandt self-portrait to a Japanese museum by posing as a descendant of the painter.

  Yet, here I am about to make an important deal for my country in partnership with him. Despite his reputation, I do believe that he can and will lead me to Dikmen’s inventory, but it will be up to me to prevent him from sabotaging us both until we execute the sting.

  Van Rijn arrives and ushers me to a table in a corner of the lobby. His jacket is neatly draped over an empty chair next to him, most likely concealing a recording device.

  “My ‘gypsy’ and I leave for Munich on the four o’clock flight,” he says, kicking the meeting into high gear.

  “What do you mean ‘gypsy’?” I ask, and then it dawns on me that he is talking about leaving for Munich today. “Van Rijn, there is no time for me to make arrangements,” I say, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel.

  “You better get busy,” he responds, as if what he is requesting is reasonable.

  “You’re mad!” I say, unable to prevent my voice from escalating. “I have a business, children, and a husband to deal with, plus Interpol, the German and Cypriot police to coordinate.”

  He looks at his watch with no attempt to conceal his smugness.

  “Time is not on your side.”

  This tug of war for power in the relationship keeps me in a state of constant vigilance.

  “What are you guaranteeing in exchange for your fee, Van Rijn? Unless you give me a list, we go nowhere.”

  “The Saint Thomas and Andreas Kanakaria mosaics, a dozen frescoes, and two icons, one of which has its eyes gouged out. That’s the minimum, but you’ll get more.”

  “You realize your fee depends on delivering what you promise. Are we clear?”

  Van Rijn nods in agreement.

  “Just to confirm: you are guaranteeing the Andreas mosaic?”

  “If the Andreas is not in Dikmen’s apartment, you’ll have Dikmen to tell you where it is. Your Bavarian police will find far more than what you hold me to the fire to guarantee, I assure you.”

  “Four P.M., then,” I say, never taking my eyes off his. “Don’t you dare disappear again.” Several weeks ago, in the midst of planning the sting operation, Van Rijn disappeared. I vowed to manage him moving forward, placing my own reputation at risk.

  In a race against the clock, I speed toward my home in the The Hague, while dictating last-minute instructions to my assistant over a mobile telephone.

  “Book a ticket on the four o’clock flight to Munich. If there are passport renewals, reschedule them for next week. And, Ellen, please call and connect me with Sergeant Serghiou of the Cypriot police.”

  “He is on the line, Mrs. Hadjitofi.”

  Sergeant Serghiou is the supervisor of Officer Tassos Panayiotou, one of the two Cypriot police officers joining me in Munich.

  “Sergeant Serghiou, Munich is on for today. Can you get the next flight out?”

  “Impossible! There are no direct flights from Larnaca to Munich. Even if the police leave now, they can’t arrive until tomorrow night. Surely Van Rijn can give us a day,” he says.

  “He’s demanding I fly with him and his ‘gypsy’ intermediary. I will try to delay things on my end,” I say.

  “For God’s sake, Tasoula, these are dangerous men. You can’t be on your own.”

  “Have the Bavarian police book me on a different floor from Van Rijn and his men and give me round-the-clock protection.”

  “Tassos and Marios will be there soon,” says Serghiou. “I pray for you.”

  What if something does happen to me in Munich? Aydin Dikmen supposedly has an order out to have Van Rijn killed. Will I become fair game if it’s revealed that I orchestrated t
he sting with him? Who will tell my story if I don’t survive?

  This makes me think that I should have witnesses who can speak for me in case things go terribly wrong in Munich.

  I telephone my younger sister Yiola in Cyprus.

  “I’m involved in something very big, but I can’t talk about it. What I do, I do for Cyprus.”

  “Please, you must tell me. I won’t repeat a word of it to anyone,” says my sister.

  I cut the conversation short because I must not place Yiola at risk.

  Next, I telephone Marina Schiza, a respected cultural reporter from Cyprus who has written several stories about my repatriation work through the years. I give her the same cryptic message with an additional request.

  “If I don’t return, there are those who will attempt to tarnish my good name and reputation. I’m counting on you to tell my story,” I say.

  “Give me something more, Tasoula!”

  “I can’t.”

  I also leave a message with Kyriacou, a news presenter for Logos TV in Nicosia. Now I feel confident that the people I have informed will let the truth prevail should something happen to me.

  Pulling into my driveway, I notice that the acorns and changing fall leaves have blanketed my garden and pond and need blowing. The scent of wet earth from a recent rain follows me as I make my way into the garage and up the back spiral staircase that leads to the kitchen. My Cypriot father-in-law, Kyriacos Hadjitofi, and my sweet, blond, blue-eyed mother-in-law, Violette, are in town visiting us from London and are in the midst of having their afternoon tea. I head for the glass room just off the kitchen, which overlooks our gardens and is my favorite place in the house. Michael looks up, surprised to see me.

  “You’re home early. What’s up?” he says.

  “I leave for Munich on the four o’clock. How can we manage this, love?”

  “Of all times, Tasoula, my parents are here!”

  “Let’s be thankful they are here with us and that you are as well. If this happened next week, you would be in Russia and I would be unable to go. It’s a blessing, Michael.”

  “Is the archbishop backing you up on this?” he asks.