The Icon Hunter

by Tasoula Georgiou Hadjitofi

  “Do you think I would do this without his support?” I ask. “I’m all yours after this, Michael,” I say, hoping these words will free me from further discussion.

  “No more icon hunting after Munich?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Another child?”

  “Yes, God willing.”

  A part of me does not feel that I should have to negotiate Munich with Michael. There is no refuting that my family has been coming second to my pursuit of Aydin Dikmen.

  Andreas runs into the glass room and jumps into my arms.

  “Mommy!” he cries.

  I smother him with kisses as I always do, and we all walk into the kitchen where my in-laws and my daughter, Sophia, are. Sophia can spend hours playing with a tiny piece of bubble wrap.

  Sophia sits on my lap. As a lone tear runs down my cheek, she tries to stop it with her finger, and she is quite pleased with herself for doing so. It’s moments like this that I wonder if she understands more than I think she does. Her smile makes me laugh, and my laugh causes Andreas to wrap his little arms around my legs. I realize these are the precious moments I am risking.

  “Andreas, mommy loves you even when she must travel for work.”

  He nods in agreement, yet I feel his sadness. “I promise to call you every morning and again before you go to sleep each night from wherever I am.” He buries his little face in my arms. With a big smile, he calls out to his grandmother.

  “Come, Nanny, play dominos with me.”

  “That’s my boy. Give me five!” I say, appreciative of what a cheerful and resilient child Andreas is. He slaps my hand laughing with abandonment. Biscuits and jam rolls from Marks & Spencer fill the countertop. “Mum, please don’t give Andreas too many jelly babies. These English sweets are so full of sugar,” I say, which she acknowledges with her beautiful smile.

  I turn to Michael. “My darling, please help me say good-bye to my other babies?”

  Michael follows me down the flight of stairs leading to our basement. We walk past the bar and billiards room to a floor-to-ceiling vault built into the wall, one of the alluring extras that attracted me to the house. Opening it requires some muscle. Inside sit thirty-two cartons filled with pieces of frescoes from the Antiphonitis church in Cyprus. He picks up the box holding the Kankaria mosaic of Thaddeus and places it on the billiards table facing up. I make the sign of the cross three times and bend down to kiss it and pray.

  Three

  THE SURPRISE

  At a coffee shop just behind customs, in Schiphol airport, Van Rijn sits with a man he calls Lazlo, one of three men who will act as intermediaries in Munich, whom he refers to as his “gypsies.” Dressed all in black with long, dark hair; I sense Lazlo’s uneasiness in meeting me. Van Rijn says, “I’ll be back in a moment with our coffees,” and when he leaves for the self-service counter, I attempt to engage Lazlo in friendly conversation.

  “What do you do when you are not working with Van Rijn?” I ask with a warm and friendly smile.

  “Don’t talk to me,” he says in a tone that sounds close to a growl.

  “Excuse me?” I say, confused by his reaction. He points toward Van Rijn.

  “You talk to him. Never directly to me,” says Lazlo. “That’s the protocol. If you insist on crossing the line—” He runs his finger across his neck making a gurgling sound as if his throat was cut. As he stares me down with his vacant eyes, shivers run down my spine.

  An announcement comes over the public address system. Flight 546 to Munich, Germany, will be delayed.

  Van Rijn returns.

  “Are you carrying the two hundred thousand Deutsche marks ($114,000) that we need?”

  “I would never carry that kind of cash, and don’t you dare question whether or not I’ve done my job. You control your people and I’ll control mine.” Looking at Lazlo, I continue, “That’s my protocol.”

  “The flight is delayed, so come be my lucky girl at the casino,” Van Rijn suggests.

  “Casino! You’re on your own,” I retort.

  Van Rijn says, “You have an obligation to keep an eye on me.”

  Van Rijn, unfortunately, is right. I can’t risk having him out of my sight. I feel compromised just being in his company.

  I look over and see Van Rijn is placing bets at the roulette wheel for a thousand dollars a turn, and losing.

  “Isn’t succeeding in Munich enough of a gamble for you today?”

  At the roulette wheel, the dealer calls 47 black the winner. I hardly know where to cast my gaze when Van Rijn tries to goad me into participating yet again.

  “Come on, girl, give me a number.”

  In the course of a few minutes, Van Rijn loses thousands of dollars. Remembering how my family in Cyprus struggled to begin again after they lost everything in the war leaves me with no tolerance for witnessing such wastefulness. Spending is an addiction for Van Rijn.

  “You sabotage yourself,” I say, alarmed by the fact that he is showing signs of instability en route to complete the sting.

  “You will never get another penny from me or the Church if you go broke here,” I say angrily.

  “Come on, Tazulaah . . .”

  An hour and a half later we arrive in Munich. Once we pass through customs, there is a glass wall leading out to the exit, which provides a clear view into the arrivals area. Van Rijn points to Peter Kitschler and, never having met him before, he says, “There’s your dog, Tazulaah. I can smell him a mile away.”

  Peter Kitschler, chief of the art theft unit of the Bavarian police, is quite tall, with a muscular frame, and his jet-black hair and mustache give him an appearance more Greek than German.

  Kitschler ushers Van Rijn and Lazlo into his car and places me in another car with a curly-haired man wearing a single earring who identifies himself as Helmut, my bodyguard. We check into the Hilton Hotel and make arrangements to meet later in the bar. I find Peter alone.

  “Helmut is in the room next to you. He is your shadow twenty-four-seven.” He points to several different people in the lobby. “There are seventy agents working undercover in the hotel. The telephone lines are bugged. Van Rijn’s room is under surveillance. I want to assure you that we have taken every precaution to ensure your safety,” says Kitschler. That Peter Kitschler has managed to arrange all this in such short time is impressive. Van Rijn and Lazlo join us.

  Kitschler says, “No use of mobiles. Dikmen has links to a large criminal network. We can’t risk them breaking into our conversations.”

  “How many of your men are on board for the sting, Mr. Van Rijn?”

  “Lazlo is aware that this is a sting operation. Veres and Rossi believe it is a legitimate purchase and that I am working undercover for the Cypriots. We thought it best to use the name of Eftis Paraskevaides [an art dealer in London]. Paraskevaides stems from one of the wealthiest families in Cyprus, so Dikmen now believes that Eftis will be purchasing the artifacts to return to Cyprus.”

  “Is Eftis aware that you are using his name as a cover?”

  “No. Eftis has no idea. Dikmen trusts Veres because they have a long history of doing successful deals together so Dikmen will believe whatever Veres tells him.”

  In this art underworld, reputations are not checked in traditional ways. You must have an established trust within the network, as most deals are executed with a handshake. The world-wide web did not exist at this time so access to information was not readily available as it is today. There was little concern that Van Rijn’s cover as Eftis would be blown. The fact that Eftis chooses to work through an intermediary and not deal with the Turk (Dikmen) directly also makes sense, considering the history of feuding between the two cultures. Veres believes this is a straight deal, which will not jeopardize his relationship with Dikmen. He will receive a tidy fee and believes access to Van Rijn’s connections will expand his own business prospects.

  “How are you planning to execute the buy?” asks Peter.

  “Lazlo will be in cons
tant communication with me by phone for the entire duration of the sting,” Van Rijn continues.

  Kitschler says, “I need to see the people involved.”

  “Of course,” says Van Rijn. “Peter, regarding Veres, if anything causes Veres’s trust to waver, Dikmen will feel it. We must not do anything to evoke his suspicion.”

  “And the other men?”

  “Stephen Rossi is the younger, collegiate-looking intermediary who will be acting as Veres’s assistant. Veres will be reporting to Eftis, my alias for the sting.”

  Kitschler says, “Special Operation forces needs photographs of your men to ensure their safety. They will be at the hotel at ten thirty tonight.”

  Peter thinks momentarily and says, “It’s best if we photograph Lazlo separately at the station tomorrow. Veres and Rossi will be photographed tonight under cover.”

  Van Rijn interrupts. “Tazulaah, you’d better keep your distance.”

  “Remember who is in charge. I’m not going anywhere,” I say.

  “Your picture is always in the papers. We can’t take any chances on you being identified and our cover being blown,” says Van Rijn.

  Kitschler says, “Leave this to me.” He turns to Helmut and says, “Tonight in the lobby, you sit at another table with Tasoula. We can pose you as a couple. Your backs will be turned to Van Rijn’s table.”

  “I will still manage to keep my eye on you regardless,” I say, bringing a moment of levity into a tense situation.

  Van Rijn continues, “Dikmen is the godfather of the underworld. He is under the protection of the Serbians and Montenegrins and already has one hit out on me. If he gets wind of my involvement in the sting, I’m a dead man.”

  “The phone call to Eftis will not raise suspicions for Dikmen?” Kitschler asks.

  “No, he thinks that Eftis Paraskevaides is in the hotel with the money, and once the inspection takes place, he’ll release the cash through his intermediaries. Remember that Dikmen is a Turk and Paraskevaides is a Greek Cypriot. Dikmen will understand why Eftis will not consider going to a Turk’s house to buy. Trust me, the bad blood between the Greeks and the Turks goes back to the Ottoman Empire.”

  “When shall we begin?” asks Kitschler.

  “My men have worked all week in preparation. I promised them a lunch tomorrow. Afterward we can go to Dikmen.”

  “But the Cypriot police don’t arrive until tomorrow night,” I say.

  “I can’t hold my men until Monday. It’s tomorrow or never,” says Van Rijn with complete conviction.

  “We are in agreement, then,” says Kitschler. “Tomorrow we sting. Let’s meet down at the station first thing.”

  “I have to make a stop at the bank first to check on the transfer,” I say.

  “I’ll have an officer accompany you,” says Peter. He ends the meeting by saying, “For everyone’s safety, please, no contact with the outside.”

  That evening my bodyguard and I sit with our backs facing Van Rijn’s table in the Hilton Hotel bar. Van Rijn, Veres, Rossi, and Lazlo are drinking heavily and talking about the lavish lunch they will have the following day at my expense. Van Rijn is being the “big man,” cursing up a storm as he shares his adventures.

  “Remember,” he says to them. “Eftis expects to be given a list of preferred items, and he will tell you what he wants to buy. Eftis wants mosaics and frescoes, icons, bibles, crosses; he will buy anything originating from Cyprus and he has very deep pockets. We’re all going to make a bloody fortune because of this guy,” says Van Rijn. The men raise their glasses to him and they all drink.

  Veres asks, “Van Rijn, are you alone here in Germany or do you have a hen in your nest?”

  Van Rijn is only just out of rehab and he’s right back to his old ways.

  Van Rijn makes a final toast with the boys. “Let’s nail this tomorrow. Cheers to Eftis,” he says, as they raise their glasses one last time.

  Helmut escorts me to my hotel room. “No need to worry. We have eyes on you. Sleep well.”

  Once inside my room, I wonder if having “eyes on you” means that the police have cameras in my room.

  I step into the shower and push the curtain closed to ensure privacy when changing into my pajamas as my paranoia peaks. Checking my reflection in the mirror afterward, I notice a rash on the surface of my neck, a pale pallor and heavy bags forming under my eyes. My nervous energy burns more fuel than I can consume in food, and my gaunt appearance is reflective of the hunger I feel for this ordeal to be over. I slide into bed and pull the covers over my head but the sound of my anxious heartbeat prevents me from sleeping. Alone with my fears and anxieties, I remind myself about what I am fighting for as my thoughts drift back to my life in Cyprus before the war.

  FAMAGUSTA, APRIL 1974

  A few blocks from the sea in the most desirable resort district in the Mediterranean, artists, writers, musicians, and poets are drawn to the island of Aphrodite’s birth. It is where Shakespeare set Othello. Hollywood stars and international society types vacation here, but to me, it is simply home.

  I’m fourteen years old, lounging in my baby-doll pajamas at the onset of spring. I feel more drawn to feeding my shoebox of silkworms their diet of mulberry leaves than going to church. As I watch the worms nibble on the leaves for nourishment, I am filled with excitement knowing I will soon witness their metamorphosis, a process that takes twenty to thirty days. The silk generated by the worms will be spun into sheets or a tablecloth that will become part of a wedding dowry, a Cypriot tradition that begins at birth.

  Hailing from a blue-collar, working-class family with limited financial means can limit the caliber of men I have to choose from, so emphasis is placed on the quality of my dowry. My parents instill in me that beauty, intelligence, and a flawless reputation are what will dictate my chances of gaining upward social mobility; they enforce a strict moral compass for me to follow. Turning to the Saint Andreas icon that sits on my bedpost, I pray for added insurance.

  As much as I would like to lounge around the house, it is Holy Week, and the Orthodox are flocking to churches and monasteries in anticipation of Easter. Every year on the first Sunday that follows the first full moon of the spring equinox, we celebrate the resurrection of Christ.

  “Tasoula!” Mother cries a little louder, “you will make us late for church if you don’t hurry.”

  Holy Week, the most sacred time in the Christian Orthodox calendar, is upon us. Every waking moment is a devotional experience as we attend daily morning and evening church services that are choreographed in elaborate detail to portray the circumstances leading up to Christ’s torture, demise, and return to life. This is the culmination of a fifty-day fast, a strict vegan diet that ends with the arrival of Easter. Today being Holy Thursday, we revisit the final moments of Jesus’s life and the collective heart of Cypriot Christians aches all over the world.

  Vasilios, my cousin who is a young novice monk, invites us to attend services at the Saint Barnabas Monastery near the ancient city of Salamis, where he will assist in conducting the oldest form of the Eucharist, The Divine Liturgy of Saint Basil.

  “God doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” I whisper before sliding the shoebox of silkworms back under my bed for safekeeping. In true tomboy fashion, I dress for church in under five minutes.

  “Your sisters have collected the figs, fed the animals, and you turn up at the last minute!” My father, Leonidas, with his classic chiseled features, tries to hide his amusement in vain.

  “How will you ever find a husband with zero interest in household duties?” asks my mother, Andriani, a brown-haired, petite beauty with Socratic wisdom. The matchmakers are always looking to negotiate a young girl’s hand, and a few unflattering observations could be detrimental. Truth be told, my secret goal is to be number one in my class, win a scholarship to study abroad, and travel the world.

  As we drive a short distance from Famagusta, we arrive at a domed monastery surrounded by green cypress trees. Three of the monk
s, Chariton, Stefanos, and Barnabas, are actually brothers in the literal sense, too, and all three have dedicated their lives to the church. Many days, they can be found outside painting icons in the courtyard, but today the Holy Thursday service takes precedence.

  Every Cypriot child is familiar with the story of how our church achieved its independence. According to church tradition, Saint Barnabas’s most dramatic intervention came in the fifth century, a time when Christianity was thriving but also riven by power struggles between different centers of the faith. The church of Cyprus was struggling hard to keep independent from the bishops of Antioch, a powerful city in present-day Turkey with equally ancient Christian roots.

  Luckily, the ecclesiastical fortunes of Cyprus were boosted when Saint Barnabas appeared to Archbishop Anthemios of Cyprus in a dream to lead him to the exact location where the saint had been buried hundreds of years earlier. After digging, the archbishop found a signed gospel of Saint Mathew lying next to the relics of Saint Barnabas. He traveled to Constantinople (now Istanbul) to gift the gospel to Emperor Zenon, who showed his appreciation by affirming the self-governing status of the Cypriot church, which continues to this day.

  As a young girl there is a part of me that would rather be outside exploring nature, but once I step inside and become surrounded by vividly painted scenes from the Bible, my spirit surrenders.

  Skill and devotion to the fashioning of religious images has been one of the glories of Cyprus throughout the Christian era, and it has survived all its vicissitudes. There was a period in Greek Christian history when the emperors and patriarchs wrestled hard with the question of whether it was right to use imagery in prayer. In Islam, for example, pictorial depictions of the divine are forbidden. At certain times the opponents of images prevailed and set about destroying sacred pictures. But Cyprus, helped by its ecclesiastical independence, was able to stay out of the controversy and provide a refuge for iconographers. Byzantine scholars consider Cyprus an “iconography heaven.”