The Icon Hunter

by Tasoula Georgiou Hadjitofi

  I weep at the sight of it. Looking into the eyes of this artifact I recognize the same sadness present within me. We are fellow refugees, adrift in an unfamiliar place, unable to return home. On the inside I am still that broken little girl who is trying to mend her shattered heart. A heart that witnessed the cruelties brought on by a war and injustice while the rest of the world stood idly by. Looking into the face of the Thaddeus mosaic, it is clear to me that it was cut from a wall.

  Papageorgiou examines the mosaic under the strain of similar emotions. There is a slight trembling in his hands as he looks carefully at the top and the sides of the artifact. He examines the plaster, scrutinizes the paint color, and places it back in the box.

  “It is authentic,” he says.

  Turning to Van Rijn, I say, “Our agreement is for five hundred thousand American dollars. I will have to pay you in Dutch guilders, so let us agree on 487,500 guilders, which is two hundred fifty thousand dollars at a 1.95 average rate of exchange. We agree and call it a day?”

  “We agree,” he says.

  “I will see you on Monday, same time,” I say.

  Van Rijn is staring at me, speechless. He has never seen me cry.

  “You are just as priceless as what is before you, Tazulaah. I hope the Cypriots appreciate you as much as I do.”

  Papageorgiou cringes. As Van Rijn exits, he says, “Don’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth.”

  “He is our only option right now.”

  I load the box carrying the ancient mosaic into my car and drive Mr. Papageorgiou and the sacred mosaic back to The Hague.

  “Listen, the pressure on us both is too great right now. I need to take a day for myself. You do the same. Let’s collect ourselves over the weekend and meet on Monday,” says Papageorgiou, and I agree.

  My parents are visiting me from Cyprus so when I return home, Michael locks the mosaic in the basement safe. My parents, Michael and I, and the children enjoy an evening of dinner and bowling. For a few hours, I enjoy my beautiful family, able to push Van Rijn and my search for the looted artifacts out of my focus.

  Early Sunday morning I am awakened by the sound of a ringing telephone. I glance at the alarm clock, which reads one thirty A.M., before moving into the living room so as not to wake Michael. It’s Van Rijn calling from a hotel room.

  “I have the frescoes spread out all around me, all twenty-seven of them. I wish you were here to see this, Tazulaah. They are beautiful, our beautiful babies. Look at what we can do together.”

  “Twenty-seven? You promised me at least thirty-two!”

  “It was a miracle to get these. What do you expect with your shit budget.”

  “Van Rijn, a deal is a deal.”

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8

  Papageorgiou and I are scheduled to meet Van Rijn later that day at three P.M. at the bank in Rotterdam to receive the frescoes but Mr. Papageorgiou calls me in a panic.

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake. The mosaic is a fake!”

  “You were positive on Friday.”

  Mr. Papageorgiou is the most qualified person to judge the authenticity of an artifact. The panic in his voice tells me that I must act quickly.

  “I will have Michael come from work to unlock the safe. If you still feel it is a fake after you examine it again, I will have Van Rijn arrested, so there is nothing for you to worry about. Please, calm down. I’ll come and get you.”

  I call Polak and tell him that we might need an arrest warrant for Van Rijn for this afternoon in Rotterdam if Mr. Papageorgiou deems the Thaddeus mosaic he sold us to be fake. Michael rushes home, opens the safe, and takes the mosaic out and places it on the billiard table in our basement. Mr. Papageorgiou examines it carefully, and I see a look of relief cross his face a few moments later.

  “I’m so sorry. The mosaic is authentic. The stress of this situation is getting to me.”

  I sit him down in a nearby chair and have the nanny bring us all cups of strong coffee and some cake. I call Polak and tell him no arrest warrant is needed.

  The mosaic is real. These are the extraordinary circumstances we ordinary people find ourselves in. Despite my attempts to make everything appear normal, my parents wonder what is going on. I have been trying to keep it a secret from them but I look up and there they are standing at the door watching us. No words are needed. My mother steps forward and crosses herself three times. My father follows. In Greek, they thank God for the opportunity to have this moment with the Kanakaria mosaic. They get down on their knees and pray.

  I turn to Papageorgiou and say, “This is why we do what we do.” For the first time in two days I see Papageorgiou smile.

  ROTTERDAM, PART II

  Papageorgiou and I arrive early and have lunch at a small café across the street from the bank while waiting for Van Rijn to arrive.

  “I can’t believe he’s an hour late.”

  Van Rijn calls me at four P.M. to tell me he is on his way but it is 4:55 P.M. and he has yet to arrive. Two stretch limousines pull up a few meters away from the café. Van Rijn exits one of the cars followed by a film crew who jump out from the other. He appears to be very drunk and giving them an interview. I have never witnessed him drink anything but espresso before, so in addition to wondering why the hell there is a film crew with him, this comes as a complete shock. The burning sensation in my stomach kicks into overdrive. I take one look at this circus before me and run toward the bank. The film crew is now chasing me.

  “Madame Consul, show us your tears,” the reporter shouts. When he is two feet from me he shoves a microphone in my face and asks, “You purchased a stolen artifact on Friday and you are about to purchase more today. Do you do it as a private citizen, as honorary consul, or as a representative of the Church?”

  “Who are you?” I demand to know.

  “I’m Peter Watson, a lecturer at Cambridge University making a film for Channel Four in the U.K.”

  Making my way into the bank, the manager, who is a friend of mine, is anxious about the commotion we are causing.

  “Tasoula,” says the manager, “I wasn’t expecting this kind of disruption. If I don’t get you into a private room I will be fired.”

  “Stop!” I shout to the film crew, to Van Rijn speaking to the reporter, to the men carrying boxes who are now being diverted into a private room.

  “Mr. Watson,” I say, with authority, “as you can see, I am in the middle of a transaction. If you release your footage you will place me in personal danger and jeopardize the recovery efforts of my country. I will agree to sit down with you on Wednesday to arrange an exclusive interview, but you must keep this between us and agree not to air any footage until we can come to terms.” Mr. Watson, thank God, agrees to my request, and he and his film crew put their cameras down.

  Mr. Papageorgiou, Van Rijn, and I enter the private room, which is now completely stacked with boxes. As he unpacks the frescoes, I find myself unable to hold back the tears again. They are a very different kind of tears than the ones I shed yesterday.

  “I told you they were lovely,” says Van Rijn.

  “I should have you arrested this very moment!” I am so angry with Van Rijn that I can barely contain myself.

  “You swore to me, Tazulaah. You lied!”

  “I didn’t lie. You will not be arrested, but you should be for pulling this stunt with the press.”

  “I had to protect myself and prove to you that the supply of artifacts is not coming from me.”

  “I can’t trust you, Van Rijn.”

  I carefully begin to count the frescoes he’s delivered.

  “There are only twenty-seven. Where are the remaining four? And what will you be presenting to the Church for nothing?” I ask, holding back my rage.

  “I’m good for them!”

  “Have you lost your mind? Your actions confirm that you are unpredictable. You’re not getting paid until you deliver the final four frescoes. Otherwise, no deal.”

  “I need money to buy th
e rest.” I hate to give him anything at this point but I know that unless I do, he won’t continue.

  “I’ll prorate your fee 27/31, and that’s as good as it gets.”

  “You can’t do this to me!” he screams.

  “You are in no position to negotiate. You broke the trust between us the minute you marched in here with a television crew. You’ve put my life in jeopardy and you’re lucky I don’t have you arrested.”

  He gives me the look he always gives me, that of a child being scolded by his mother.

  “Come on, give me all the money. I will bring you four more on Wednesday. But I must get paid, Tasoula.”

  I have the bank pay him the prorated amount in Dutch guilders, and this time I get Peter Watson to sign as a witness when he receives the money.2 I schedule a lunch with Watson the next Wednesday, and I secretly put Mr. Papageorgiou on a plane back to Cyprus. I can’t let Van Rijn know that Mr. Papageorgiou is gone or he will try and sell me a fake.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 11

  For my lunch date with Peter Watson, I ask Michael to join us. There is too much at stake right now, and I can use another pair of trusted eyes to evaluate the man.

  At the Restaurant Plato, on Frederikstraat, around the corner from my office, I learn that Peter Watson is an author and a research associate at the McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research at Cambridge University.

  “I can verify that the artifacts are coming from Aydin Dikmen,” Watson says.

  Watson takes a sip of his coffee. Michael and I have a quick visual connection, and from it I can tell that Michael believes him.

  “Van Rijn is petrified that you’re going to have him arrested once you get what you want.”

  “Do you have the buy on film?”

  “Yes. We placed an undercover camera in the suitcase of one of the intermediaries.”

  “Who are the intermediaries?”

  “Two guys, one named Lazlo the other named Veres—Van Rijn’s men. Dikmen and Van Rijn have been enemies since the Kanakaria trial. Van Rijn had no choice but to do the transaction through intermediaries.”

  “Is Van Rijn on the film?”

  “No he’s negotiating from a hotel room nearby.”

  “If I need a copy of the film to show my government that the artifacts are not out of his stock, would you give it to me?”

  “Yes.”

  The air feels as if it is being sucked out of the room. Van Rijn was cagey about who he was purchasing the artifacts from when he first approached me because he knew I would decline his proposal if Dikmen was involved. Now I have evidence that he is buying from Dikmen, and it changes everything. I strike a deal with Peter Watson. In exchange for not airing the footage for six weeks, I agree to give him an exclusive interview.3 Michael returns to work and Peter Watson accompanies me to the bank in Rotterdam as I withdraw money to retrieve the last four frescoes from Van Rijn. I wrap the balance of Dutch guilders owed to Van Rijn in a plastic bag and place them in my purse.

  ROTTERDAM, PART III

  After Monday’s fiasco, the bank has refused to allow us to continue doing business at their premises. Peter Watson and I arrive at the airport to wait for Van Rijn, who is expected to land in a private plane he hired to deliver the final four frescoes. His flight is delayed. When he finally arrives, he is drunk again and is accompanied by his friend Roger, who owns an antiques shop in The Hague.

  Van Rijn is wearing his hat sideways and holding a bottle of champagne in each hand. Behind him, two customs officers in green uniforms follow closely, pushing his luggage, which contains the four additional frescoes. Van Rijn passes thousand-guilder notes to compensate them for their services. These are the moments I wish I had on film.

  “Here is the address in The Hague where the exchange will take place. Ralph van Hessen runs a public relations company,” I say. “He’s a friend.”

  Van Rijn follows in his limo as Peter Watson and I drive to van Hessen’s offices. When we arrive, Watson’s camera crew is jockeying for position to film us, but Ralph kicks them out. I count the frescoes and pray that they are not fake. I’m in no position to authenticate them, so I must take Van Rijn’s word for it.

  “If these are not authentic, you will be behind bars in no time.”

  “You shake me up, Tazulaah.”

  “Van Rijn, don’t be a drama queen.”

  He shakes his head back and forth and can’t help but to smile.

  “You and I are cut from the same tree,” he says.

  “What tree is that?” I ask.

  “You are the soft, beautiful part of the wood and I am the coarse exterior bark. We both have the same passion for Byzantine art, and that is why we are cut from the same tree. Take a look at these.” He spreads photographs of frescoes, icons, crosses, and the Saint Thomas Kanakaria mosaic across the table. “Come on, you have to ask the old boy for more money and we can get these.”

  “So you can put more money in Dikmen’s pocket? It wasn’t smart of you to film the transaction, you know. Now you either work with the police or my attorney will confiscate that film and I will send both of you to jail.”

  It is the first time that I see Van Rijn turn pale. “There will be no more additional funds for you. I’m calling the police in to work with us, and you will have nothing to say about it. We will get the rest of the artifacts back from Dikmen, but now you’re going to do it my way.”

  “Are you mad, woman?” he says. “You can’t do this to me! I knew I couldn’t trust you!”

  “You have twenty-four hours to make up your mind. You either work with the police and myself or I will confiscate the footage from Channel Four and incriminate you and Dikmen!”

  Van Rijn has a meltdown. “My God,” he shouts.

  “I’ve learned from the best, Van Rijn. Isn’t that what you always tell me? You are the master and I am the student,” I say as he departs.

  Ralph van Hessen says, “Tasoula, if you pull this off, I will organize the biggest press conference the world has ever seen.” I arrive home exhausted and having stomach pains. Michael helps me place the artifacts in our vault, where they will be held until we can transport them back to the archbishop in Cyprus.4

  I notify the archbishop and the attorney general that the artifacts have been successfully secured and that in the process I have acquired video footage taken by Channel Four where Dikmen can be heard as the possessor.5

  At this point I must involve the police. Aydin Dikmen has managed to avoid prosecution by the Cypriot government since 1974, despite the fact that Cypriot authorities believe that he is the mastermind behind the organized looting of churches in northern Cyprus. It’s difficult for the career diplomats and civil servants to fathom that an ordinary woman is in a position to bring Aydin Dikmen to justice.

  Michael and I get a chance to sit down together to enjoy the rest of the evening.

  “You did it,” he says. “I’m so proud of you, Tasoula.”

  The phone rings. It is van Wijnen, the journalist.

  “Remember me?” he asks.

  “Jan Fred, what can I do for you?”

  “I understand that you just purchased a bunch of stolen artifacts from Van Rijn. Would you care to comment?”

  The blood rushes from my toes to my face.

  “There is no comment,” I say. I cannot let him run this article.

  “You know that the magazine goes to print tomorrow night.”

  “Are you trying to get me killed?” I ask.

  “I have an exclusive story about the honorary consul of Cyprus purchasing looted artifacts as a representative of the Church from the shadiest art dealer in the world and you think I’m not going to run this?” he says, sounding exasperated.

  “You’re interfering in government and Church business here, Jan Fred, in addition to placing me and my family in danger.”6

  “I wish I could be more sympathetic to your story. I’ve known about the Thaddeus mosaic since early July when I saw it in Van Rijn’s truck. Don
’t you think I’ve held this story long enough? My editor goes to print tomorrow, so you’ll have to speak with him.”

  “My attorney and I will see you first thing in the morning. I suggest you and your editor hold off on printing the story.”

  Polak and I arrive at the attorney’s offices for the Vrij Nederland magazine, located on Van Eeghenstraat, in Amsterdam, where Jan Fred, his editor, and the same lawyer who represented Jan Fred in the Lans case face each other around a conference table. After informing them that Channel Four and Peter Watson have the video exclusive, we are able to negotiate a deal. Jan Fred and his editor agree to hold the story for six weeks in return for daily updates by phone giving them the exclusive inside story as the events were unfolding as well as the right to print the story first.

  Returning to The Hague, I think about what a roller coaster ride my life has turned into. Now I must catch up on the other existing repatriation cases. Polak informs me that the attorney for the Lanses is inquiring whether the Republic of Cyprus may be open to supporting them in litigation against Turkey to receive compensation.7

  Meanwhile, because we now have evidence on Dikmen, the Cypriot police are involved and waiting in my office for Van Rijn, who is a no-show. I reach out to Peter Watson, assuming that he and Van Rijn are together. Peter tells me that Van Rijn is in a detox facility in Phuket, Thailand, also known as “Sin City.” I question how much detoxing is actually taking place. Without Van Rijn’s presence, the Cypriot police are forced to leave the Netherlands empty-handed.

  I toss and turn at night, wondering if I will ever be able to gain Van Rijn’s cooperation to meet the six-week deadline I negotiated with the media to keep the story quiet. If either one of the stories goes to press, it will destroy what I have been working to accomplish for the last eleven years. Will Van Rijn be able to pull this sting off if he is facing addiction problems? Will he disappear to be by his dying father’s side? The illicit art trade is tied to other criminal networks like drugs and arms as well as terrorist groups. Yet I continue. There is no time for me to look after myself; my eyes are too fixed on the finish line.