The Icon Hunter

by Tasoula Georgiou Hadjitofi

  We spend the days making plans for our future; it is apparent that we both wish to start a family. I recall how lovingly Michael described his family on our first date, especially his relationship with his identical twin, Andrew. If he could only love me half as much as he loves Andrew, I thought, he will make a great husband. Michael and Andrew have been inseparable since birth. They studied the same subjects, chose the same jobs in the same industry, and their ways of thinking are also in sync. Marrying Michael meant I had to find my own space in our relationship without interfering in their relationship, which was little to ask in the face of the fact that I had found my soul mate.

  We dine at the Al Bustan Palace, which was originally built to host the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) summit in 1985. The exotic setting creates the perfect ambiance for a romantic dinner, and an opportunity for me to wear my gray sari. The Arabian décor and its location overlooking the sea of Oman has us both feeling amorous. We sit opposite each other, lost in each other’s eyes but restrained from displaying any affection in public. We leisurely enjoy a dish of prawns and lobster the like of which I’ve never tasted before. As I turn to glance at two local men dressed in white thawbs (cotton robes) and keffiyeh (head scarves) drinking alcohol-free beer at the next table, I feel my sari loosen.

  “Michael,” I say, in a bit of a panic, “will you excuse me, please?” As I stand to go to the ladies’ room, the sari unravels. I quickly sit back down.

  “My dress is coming apart,” I whisper from across the table. I can tell by his expression that he does not realize that seven meters of fabric are about to drop to the floor. At least I am wearing my matching lace undergarments, but they are not meant for public display.

  “Put your arm around me and walk me to the ladies’ room.”

  “Physical contact is forbidden, Tasoula, we mustn’t!”

  “Michael, my sari is one piece of silk which is now coming undone! I have no petticoat on! Please! I will be naked in two seconds if you don’t act now!”

  He jumps to his feet, and he escorts me to the restroom with all eyes upon us as our risqué behavior creates quite a stir among our fellow diners. The dress continues to unravel with every additional step, and I’m sweating profusely despite the air conditioning. I enter the restroom just in time as my sari drops to the floor; I am, luckily, out of public view. We cried with laughter imagining what might have happened if things had not gone our way.

  The climax of our vacation is sleeping in a tent under the stars at Ras Al Hadd, a remote village in the Ash Sharqiyah district. At the beach we witness the magnificent, endangered sea turtles (chelonia mydas) nest under the light of a full moon. We watch shadows rising from the froth of the waves, the turtles gradually making their way to the sand where they will lay their eggs. The sound of their digging and breathing mixed with the breaking waves becomes the lullaby that rocks us to sleep.

  In the early morning hours just before sunrise newly hatched baby turtles make their way through an obstacle course of predators, like birds and foxes, to arrive at the sea. They mark their place of nesting, and after they travel around the world, they will know to return to the same place. This brings my thoughts back to the artifacts, my need to return home to Cyprus, and the art trafficking predators who are preventing the artifacts’ return. We make love and fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms under a star-filled sky, knowing it will be three months before we feel each other’s warmth again.

  I am met with a firestorm of activity in The Hague upon my return, causing me to work endlessly for weeks to catch up with the demands of my business and my responsibilities as honorary consul. Kyprianou is looking for debt collectors in the Netherlands, something to do with tracking down a missing John the Baptist artifact. Van Rijn has called multiple times looking for me.2 He leaves his contact information with my assistant, which signals to me that I am earning his trust. Roozemond sends a letter to me, copying the Cypriot authorities, in which he states that he has received no reaction from either Kyprianou or myself regarding his request for a list of Cypriot stolen artifacts for his registry.3

  In a faxed letter to Kyprianou, I express my concern about providing any dealer with our archive list of looted artifacts, wondering if it would prove to be hazardous to us. If a dealer is in possession of looted artifacts they know what they have. By gaining access to our records, dealers will be privy to what evidence we do and do not hold. Once they realize that our inventory does not reflect every artifact belonging to Cyprus they will have an opportunity to legitimize unlisted looted artifacts they may be holding.4

  After Kyprianou gets my fax, he calls. “You are turning into quite an investigator.” He laughs. “Should I worry about you, Tasoula? When you hang around with criminals you begin to develop a criminal mind.”

  “You have to know your enemy to beat them at their own game,” I reply.

  My low energy and queasiness over the last few days make me wonder if I might have caught a bug in Oman, so I schedule an appointment with my doctor. An impatient Van Rijn finally reaches me.

  “Is there something urgent?” I ask.

  “One hour, at the usual?”

  I call one of my employees who is also an old friend into my office.

  “Do me a favor, Pim, go to the des Indes, turn left in the lobby, and you will see Van Rijn sitting at a table. Watch who he talks to, and who stops by his table, if he sets up a tape recorder, things like that. When I arrive, pretend you don’t recognize me, but leave after me to make sure I am safe.”

  I stop off to take a few tests at the doctor’s office and arrive for my meeting with Van Rijn, who startles me with a kiss on the cheek just outside the hotel entrance.

  I look around for a camera, wondering if this ambush will come back to haunt me. Arriving at his usual table, he wastes no time getting to business.

  “You are glowing! Were you on vacation with Michael?”

  “What did you call me here to discuss, Van Rijn?”

  “If the American judge does not rule in your favor on the Goldberg case, I want to discuss the possibility that I might side with your government on appeal,” he says with candor. Van Rijn is placing his bets with both Peg Goldberg and the Cypriots to cover his losses. Whether the case goes to appeal or not, my government will never make a deal with him. All we are after is his information and I place my bet on litigator Kline.

  “Why would you want to do that, Van Rijn?” I ask.

  “Well, if your government pays me ten thousand Dutch guilders ($5,250) a month, I can inform you of the whereabouts of your icons, and for a bit extra I might be able to share some insights into the Goldberg side of things, to help you win the case.”

  “I’ll pass your proposal on to Mr. Kyprianou. What were you doing in Cyprus after the war?”

  “I was in business there for many years,” he says.

  “How did Aydin Dikmen get access to the churches in the occupied area?” I ask.

  “It pays to have friends, Tazulaah.”

  “How did he get past the Turkish military?”

  “He’s a member of MIT Special Forces.” Meaning Milli Istihbarat Teskilati (National Intelligence Agency, Turkey).

  “He also moved freely in the southern part of Cyprus?”

  He had an understanding with a few officers which gave him a free pass to go where he wanted.” Van Rijn smiles. “I like your persistence.”

  “Dikmen must have had a small army of people working for him.”

  “A bunch of guys. You don’t need to be smart to steal an icon from an empty church.”

  “How did he pass the stolen artifacts through customs?”

  “Cash in hand opens closed doors.” Van Rijn lights a cigarette and takes a very long drag. “Dikmen had the goods . . . I had the clients . . . we joined forces.”

  He lights another cigarette while the first is still burning in the ashtray. “Will your government appeal?”

  “Only my government knows.”

  “Get
word to Kyprianou. I want to strike a deal.”

  “Is there anything else?” I ask.

  “Nothing equals the beauty of Byzantine art. I want you to know that I do admire and love these pieces too, although we may love them for different reasons.”

  “If you love them and know what they mean to people, why do you sell them?”

  After a long pause, he says, “You are different than the others in your government. What escapes me is what you are after.”

  “Mr. Van Rijn, destroying the churches and selling our sacred artifacts is selling the soul of my people. We pray with these icons daily. It destroys the fabric of our village life when we don’t have access to them. These artifacts are priceless to us, but not in monetary value.”

  His eyes read me to detect if I’m telling the truth.

  “Dikmen duped me, too, you know. He swore to me that the church of Kanakaria was destroyed.”

  “Give me the information?” I ask.

  “Do I look like a charity? Get Kyprianou to make a deal; then we can talk.”

  “If you are turning your life around, as you say, no strings attached?”

  Van Rijn shakes his head. “It is bad manners to look a gift horse in the mouth.” His icy stare shows me that he can turn on me at any moment.

  “And Aristotle said, ‘Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.’ My gift to you,” I say, before making my exit.

  He treats me as if I am his student. What his ego fails to let him see is that I plan to win this game.

  After sending a quick fax to Michael Kyprianou to report on the meeting, I make my last call to Thomas Kline, who thanks me for retrieving such useful information.5

  On August 3, the church bells ring across the island of Cyprus in celebration. An Indianapolis court in America has ruled in favor of Cyprus and against Peg Goldberg, calling the Church of Cyprus the legal owners of the sixth-century Kanakaria mosaics.6 The case goes to appeal.

  The bug I thought I picked up in Oman is not a bug at all. I am several weeks pregnant with my first child, and I see this pregnancy as a sign to turn to Saint Andreas for help. When faced with the challenge of delivering a son after having three daughters, my mother turned to Saint Andreas, who answered her prayers several months later when she gave birth to a son whom she named in his honor. In my case, it will be to recover the artifacts in his name. If I have a boy, I’ll also name him Andreas, as my mother did before me.

  To add to the spiritual significance, I know that Van Rijn knows the whereabouts of the Saint Andreas mosaic. I will turn to Saint Andreas for help to recover the priceless sixth-century mosaic created in his image. My search to find it is as much for my mother as it is for Cyprus.

  Eight

  CHASING TRUTH

  THE HAGUE, 1989

  Carrying another life within me expands my awareness about the miracle that is the human body. With minimal morning sickness and signs of pregnancy, I continue to juggle my multiple roles with relative ease. I’m also excited that Michael will return to The Hague permanently at the end of the year and we plan to purchase the apartment Michael was living in Wassenaar, an exclusive town adjacent to The Hague. Motherhood energizes me, and Michael is taking on my symptoms as well. I feel the baby kick and imagine that it is just as excited about meeting Michael and me as we are in anticipation of welcoming it into this world.

  As the Turkish government begins importing thousands of Turkish nationals into the occupied area of Cyprus, a directive is sent to closely examine requests from Turkish Cypriots for passports. I switch roles and perform my duty as an honorary consul when my assistant alerts me that there are Turkish men seeking passport renewals without a scheduled appointment. To her surprise, I agree to see them.

  The men enter dragging their old, beat-up suitcases behind them. One with a slight frame takes a step forward.

  “Xρειάζομαι βoήθεια παρακαλώ,” (I need your help, please) he says in Greek.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. Please, sit down.” Turning to my assistant, I say, “Order lunch for these gentlemen and bring us some Turkish coffee, please.”

  The fact that the man with the slight build speaks Greek is a good indication he is a Turkish Cypriot, as most Turkish nationals are not fluent in Greek.

  The hollowness in their eyes reflects deep loss, a look that I am familiar with. The one with the slight build reaches for a piece of his luggage and feels around the exterior of the bag until he finds a self-made slit, invisible to the eye, on the underside of his bag.

  “Denktash [then President of the unrecognized Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus] forbids us to use our Cypriot passports.”

  “Then how did you get into Holland?” I ask.

  He removes a piece of silver foil from the slit in the suitcase and opens it to reveal a Cypriot passport in his name about to expire.

  “We traveled with the TRNC passport first by boat to Turkey. Then we took a bus to Holland, and we show our Cypriot passport to the Dutch authorities.”

  The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is not recognized by any government except Turkey, so these men would have been barred from entering Holland had they not had Cypriot passports. I continue to ask the men to describe the village they come from to test the authenticity of their Cypriot citizenship. To my surprise they came from Agios Iacovos, a village in the occupied area just a few minutes away from Mandres, where my extended family lived. With lunch now set at the conference table, I motion for the men to join me there. They bow their heads in respect before we sit down to dine together.

  “Tell me about the church in Mandres, the village next to yours,” I say.

  “I have seen nothing,” he says.

  “I’m interested because I am from Famagusta. You have my word on that.”

  He relaxes. “It became a target. Some people say it is the soldiers who steal, and others say that when the Greeks fled they took their icons with them.”

  “What do you believe?” I ask.

  “I believe that war makes people do desperate things. We are also not happy with what is happening in the occupied area. We have no future there. Most of us Turkish Cypriots have left the island,” he responds.

  “Please understand that I depend on my government to check your information before I can continue.”

  “What can you do when war takes your job and the pennies you spent a lifetime earning? The foreign diplomats and rich outsiders come to Cyprus to buy them. Even the soldiers take them.”

  “In Mandres, Turks and Greeks also lived together. My mother taught Turkish Cypriot girls how to sew in the village. She even speaks Turkish.” These men, know the devastating impact of war. “It’s important that I know what is happening in the occupied area in regard to churches and archeological sites.”

  The man with the slight build takes center stage.

  “Men come and take objects away from the church by truck.”

  “Do the United Nations soldiers not see any of this?” I ask, reminding myself that while some Cypriots are able to live side by side peacefully, a steady flow of intercommunal violence in 1964 along the line separating Greek and Turkish quarters in Nicosia (later known as the Green Line) prompted the United Nations to send in a Peacekeeping Force (UNFICYP). After the 1974 invasion, the UN Security Council mandated the force to remain in Cyprus to support the ceasefire and to serve humanitarian efforts. “How could this take place in their presence?” I ask again.

  The man lowers his head as if he carries the shame for the situation solely on his shoulders. “The UN soldiers see, but then look the other way,” he responds. I appreciate the courage it takes for this man to speak so openly to me.

  “Where are you staying?” I ask.

  “Most nights we go to the park,” he answers. I feel for these men. Their lives were also destroyed by the invasion. Despite the political situation and the mistrust created betwe
en our two cultures, I can’t blame every Turkish Cypriot for the invasion of Cyprus. As honorary consul it is my duty to serve every Cypriot equally. My instincts tell me these men are legitimate Cypriots, but I will take the confirmation process further. I decide to put the men up in a hotel and pay for their dinner at my personal expense. I give them my business card with the hotel information handwritten on the back of it.

  “Tonight, you are my guests. Rest, enjoy, and call me at this number in the morning.” Their animated expressions reflect their appreciative disbelief.

  “Madame Consul, we will repay your generosity. You can count on us to relay news from the occupied area,” says my new friend.

  “Thank you,” I say as I scribble my private number on another card.

  “Call me whenever you hear of something happening to the churches or monasteries. I’m as much your consul as any Greek who knocks on my door.”

  I watch my assistant escort the men from my office and immediately call my good friend Mohammed, the owner of a Turkish coffee house in Amsterdam. Mohammed first reached out to me two years ago to help a friend of his who was falsely imprisoned. I came to the aid of the man as I would any Cypriot, and word of my fairness soon spread through the Turkish Cypriot community living in the Netherlands and beyond. Mohammed then became my go-to person for confirmation of who is and is not a true Turkish Cypriot. His wide access to connections both in Cyprus and Turkey provides me with a reliable network to weed out those seeking false citizenship. His in-depth knowledge has never steered me wrong. Although Nicosia would have approved the passports, many of the records were destroyed during the war. If the requesters did not already have identity cards, it was left to our discretion whether or not we should issue passports.

  “They are Cypriots, from Agios Iacovos in Cyprus,” he says.

  “I knew I could count on you, Mohammed. Hearing your voice reminds me that we have not shared a coffee for some time.”

  “My wife and I will visit you and bring boregi [Turkish pastry roll filled with cheese and coated with syrup]. Good day, Madame Consul.”