The Rescue Artist.

A True Story of Art, Thieves, and the Hunt for a Missing Masterpiece.

by Edward Dolnick.

PROLOGUE.

JUNE 2004.

The mismatched pictures stare down from the wall of the tiny office: Vermeer, Goya, t.i.tian, Munch, Rembrandt. Ordinary reproductions worth only a few dollars, they are unframed and of different sizes. Several dangle slightly askew from tacks jammed in the wall. The originals hung in gilt frames in the grandest museums in the world, and tourists made pilgrimages to see them. Each was worth millions, or tens of millions.

And, at some point in the last several years, each was stolen. Some were recovered-the tall man who arranged this small display is the one who found them-and some are still missing. The "curator" of this odd collection dislikes anything that smacks of statistics, but he is haunted by a melancholy fact: nine out of ten stolen paintings disappear forever.

In the world of art crime, one detective has an unmatched resume. His name is Charley Hill. The aim of this book is to explore the art underworld; Hill will serve as our guide. It is odd and unfamiliar territory, dangerous one moment, ludicrous the next, and sometimes both at once.

We will look at many tales of stolen paintings along the way in order to learn something of the territory in general, but the story of one world-famous work-The Scream, by Edvard Munch-will serve as the thread we follow through the labyrinth. A decade ago, Hill had no more connection with that painting than did any of the millions who recognized it instantly from reproductions and cartoons.

On the morning of February 14, 1994, a phone call changed all that.

PART I.

Two Men and a Ladder

1.

Break-in.

OSLO, NORWAY.

FEBRUARY 12, 1994 6:29 A.M A.M.

In the predawn gloom of a Norwegian winter morning, two men in a stolen car pulled to a halt in front of the National Gallery, Norway's preeminent art museum. They left the engine running and raced across the snow. Behind the bushes along the museum's front wall they found the ladder they had stashed away earlier that night. Silently, they leaned the ladder against the wall.

A guard inside the museum, his rounds finished, basked in the warmth of the bas.e.m.e.nt security room. He had paperwork to take care of, which was a bore, but at least he was done patrolling the museum, inside and out, on a night when the temperature had fallen to fifteen degrees. He had taken the job only seven weeks before.

The guard took up his stack of memos grudgingly, like a student turning to his homework. In front of his desk stood a bank of eighteen closed-circuit television monitors. One screen suddenly flickered with life. The black-and-white picture was shadowy-the sun would not rise for another ninety minutes-but the essentials were clear enough. A man bundled in a parka stood at the foot of a ladder, holding it steady in his gloved hands. His companion had already begun to climb. The guard struggled through his paperwork, oblivious to the television monitors.

The top of the ladder rested on a sill just beneath a tall window on the second floor of the museum. Behind that window was an exhibit celebrating the work of Norway's greatest artist, Edvard Munch. Fifty-six of Munch's paintings lined the walls. Fifty-five of them would be unfamiliar to anyone but an art student. One was known around the world, an icon as instantly recognizable as the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa or van Gogh's or van Gogh's Starry Night Starry Night. In poster form, it hung in countless dorm rooms and office cubicles; it featured endlessly in cartoons and on T-shirts and greeting cards. This was The Scream The Scream.

The man on the ladder made it to within a rung or two of the top, lost his balance, and crashed to the ground. He staggered to his feet and stumbled back toward the ladder. The guard sat in his bas.e.m.e.nt bunker unaware of the commotion outside. This time the intruder made it up the ladder. He smashed the window with a hammer, knocked a few stubborn shards of gla.s.s out of the way, and climbed into the museum. An alarm sounded. In his bunker, the guard cursed the false alarm. He walked past the array of television screens without noticing the lone monitor that showed the thieves, stepped over to the control panel, and set the alarm back to zero.

The thief turned to The Scream The Scream-it hung only a yard from the window-and snipped the wire that held it to the wall. The Scream The Scream, at roughly two feet by three feet, was big and bulky. With an ornate frame and sheets of protective gla.s.s both front and back, it was heavy, too-a difficult load to carry out a window and down a slippery metal ladder. The thief leaned out the window as far as he could and placed the painting on the ladder. "Catch!" he whispered, and then, like a parent sending his toddler down a steep hill on a sled, he let go.

His companion on the ground, straining upward, caught the sliding painting. The two men ran to their car, tucked their precious cargo into the back seat, and roared off. Elapsed time inside the museum: fifty seconds. In less than a minute the thieves had gained possession of a painting valued at $72 million.

It had been absurdly easy. "Organized crime, Norwegian style," a Scotland Yard detective would later marvel. "Two men and a ladder!"

At 6:37 A.M A.M. a gust of wind whipped into the dark museum and set the curtains at the broken window dancing. A motion detector triggered a second alarm. This time the guard, 24-year-old Geir Berntsen, decided that something was was wrong. Panicky and befuddled, he thrashed about trying to sort out what to do. Check things out himself? Call the police? Berntsen still had not noticed the crucial television monitor, which now displayed a ladder standing unattended against the museum's front wall. Nor had he realized that the alarm had come from room 10, where wrong. Panicky and befuddled, he thrashed about trying to sort out what to do. Check things out himself? Call the police? Berntsen still had not noticed the crucial television monitor, which now displayed a ladder standing unattended against the museum's front wall. Nor had he realized that the alarm had come from room 10, where The Scream The Scream hung. hung.

Berntsen phoned his supervisor, who was at home in bed and half-asleep, and blurted out his incoherent story. In midtale, yet another alarm sounded. It was 6:46 A.M A.M. Fully awake now, Berntsen's supervisor hollered at him to call the police and check the monitors. At almost precisely the same moment, a police car making a routine patrol through Oslo's empty streets happened to draw near the National Gallery. A glance told the tale: a dark night, a ladder, a shattered window.

The police car skidded to a stop. One cop radioed in the break-in, and two others ran toward the museum. The first man to the ladder scrambled his way to the top, and then, like his thief counterpart a few minutes before, slipped and fell off.

Back to the radio. The police needed another patrol car, to bring their colleague to the emergency room. Then they ran into the museum, this time by way of the stairs.

The policemen hurried to the room with the ladder on the sill. A frigid breeze flowed in through the broken window. The walls of the dark room were lined with paintings, but there was a blank spot next to the high window on University Street. The police ducked the billowing curtains and stepped over the broken gla.s.s. A pair of wire cutters lay on the floor. Someone had left a postcard.

The day of the crime was no ordinary winter Sat.u.r.day. February 12 marked the first day of the 1994 Olympic Winter Games, held in the Norwegian city of Lillehammer. For Norway in general, and for its leading political and cultural figures in particular, this was a rare chance to bask in the world's admiring notice.

The opening ceremonies, a happy and controversy-free spectacle, were expected to draw 240 million television viewers. To most of that mult.i.tude, the word "Norway" called up only the vaguest a.s.sociations. Snow. Fjords. Pine trees. Reindeer, maybe. Blondes, perhaps, or was that just Sweden? Asked to name a famous Norwegian, most people would draw a blank.

In the minds of the Norwegian establishment, the Olympics were a chance to begin to dispel that ignorance. When viewers around the world turned on their TV sets, they would see a national coming-out party. They would see Norway at its best.

Instead, they saw a celebration marred by shock and outrage. "In this beautiful scenery," lamented the minister of culture, "it is hard to imagine that such evil things could take place."

The thieves had no such somber thoughts. When they s.n.a.t.c.hed The Scream The Scream, they had left a postcard for the authorities to find. It showed a painting by the popular Norwegian artist Marit Walle, who specializes in cheerful, cartoon-like scenes of everyday life. Walle's Raging Hormones Raging Hormones, for instance, depicts two gray-haired matrons at the beach, binoculars to their eyes, ogling young hunks. The thieves had made their choice as carefully as shoppers in search of the perfect birthday card. They had settled on a Walle painting called A Good Story A Good Story. It shows three men laughing uproariously, red-faced, pounding the table, gasping for breath. On the back of the card one of the thieves had scribbled, "Thanks for the poor security."

The security was worse than poor. "All the windows were locked," the National Gallery's director, Knut Berg, told reporters. "We didn't figure that thieves would climb through broken gla.s.s. There was a lot lot of gla.s.s. I wouldn't have dared to go through all that gla.s.s." of gla.s.s. I wouldn't have dared to go through all that gla.s.s."

National Gallery officials, it soon became clear, had made a string of bad decisions. The Scream The Scream had been moved from its customary setting on the National Gallery's third floor to the second floor. That was more convenient for visitors, since it was closer to the street, but more tempting to thieves as well, for the same reason. Knut Berg had been museum director for twenty years, and for twenty years he had done battle with the politicians who controlled his budget. Now, on the brink of retirement, he had orchestrated a can't-miss crowd-pleaser. As he watched his installers put the show together, Berg had bustled about happily, beaming with antic.i.p.ation. had been moved from its customary setting on the National Gallery's third floor to the second floor. That was more convenient for visitors, since it was closer to the street, but more tempting to thieves as well, for the same reason. Knut Berg had been museum director for twenty years, and for twenty years he had done battle with the politicians who controlled his budget. Now, on the brink of retirement, he had orchestrated a can't-miss crowd-pleaser. As he watched his installers put the show together, Berg had bustled about happily, beaming with antic.i.p.ation.

His security chief was more wary. "From January through May 1994," he had instructed the museum guards in a memo, "Edvard Munch paintings will be exhibited on the first floor [the second floor, in American usage] in rooms 9, 10, and 12. Cameras ... should be monitored throughout the night. The night guard should vary his routine and should keep a special eye on the outside walls of the exhibition area. This is a unique exhibition, on the first floor, and we expect it to draw extra attention."

Bringing The Scream The Scream nearer to ground level was a blunder, and installing the painting next to a window that opened on the street compounded it. Making matters worse still, the windows of the old brick museum had no protective bars and were made of ordinary, rather than reinforced, gla.s.s. nearer to ground level was a blunder, and installing the painting next to a window that opened on the street compounded it. Making matters worse still, the windows of the old brick museum had no protective bars and were made of ordinary, rather than reinforced, gla.s.s. The Scream The Scream was not bolted to the wall but hung from a wire, just like an ordinary painting in an ordinary home, without any connection to the alarm system. was not bolted to the wall but hung from a wire, just like an ordinary painting in an ordinary home, without any connection to the alarm system.

The thieves had prepared carefully. Some of their scouting was surrept.i.tious. They had found, for example, that the night guard finished his rounds at about six in the morning and then retreated to his desk. But they carried out much of their research at leisure and in the open, joining the stream of visitors enjoying the "Festival of Norwegian Culture." The museum's cameras were out-of-date, they saw, and left some vital areas uncovered. In room 10, there were no cameras at all.

Like most good planners, the thieves kept things simple. They focused exclusively on The Scream The Scream, resisting the temptation to pick up other baubles along the way. Nor did they bother with cutting phone lines or disarming burglar alarms or any such electronic skullduggery. Speed was the key; if the thieves could get in and out quickly enough, the best alarms would provide little more than background noise.

For several nights before the theft, workmen at a construction site near the National Gallery had left a ladder lying in plain view. In the dark of night a few hours before the museum break-in, the thieves walked off with it. (The building site happened to be at Norway's largest newspaper, Verdens Gang Verdens Gang. For crooks with a taste for publicity, it was a sweet touch that a newspaper whose job would be to shout out the story had itself played a bit part in the break-in.) The day before the heist, the thieves stole two cars, a Mazda and an Audi. Both were in good condition and roomy, well-suited to fast driving and awkward cargo. The Mazda was the getaway car. The thieves drove a few blocks to where they had parked the Audi and transferred The Scream The Scream to the second car, in case anyone at the museum had seen them flee. Then they split up and drove off in different directions. to the second car, in case anyone at the museum had seen them flee. Then they split up and drove off in different directions.

Within hours, everyone with a television set, in every country in the world, knew about the theft. In Norway, while excited reporters chattered for the cameras, chagrined officials at the National Gallery picked out a gift-shop poster of their lost masterpiece. The day before, The Scream The Scream had reigned in glory. Now a cheap poster in a flimsy frame hung in its place. Beneath the poster, a hand-lettered sign read simply: had reigned in glory. Now a cheap poster in a flimsy frame hung in its place. Beneath the poster, a hand-lettered sign read simply: STOLEN! STOLEN!

2.

Easy Pickings Norway's museum officials had made two far-reaching mistakes. The first was a failure to focus on details. Buoyed by lofty thoughts about the glories of great art, the National Gallery had paid too little heed to mundane questions of security. The second mistake was a failure of imagination. No one would be audacious enough, museum higher-ups had a.s.sured one another, to steal a painting that any buyer would immediately know was stolen.

It's not that anyone in the art world denies the existence of thieves. Even the smallest museum hires security guards. But the subject is so unseemly, and the yoking together of the words "art" and "crime" so much a joining of the sublime and the grimy, that the art community tends to avert its eyes and hope that the whole nasty subject will go away. Which is fine with the thieves.

For art crime is a huge and thriving industry. Crime statistics are always dodgy, but Interpol, the international police agency, reckons that the amount of money changing hands in the art underworld comes to between $4 billion and $6 billion a year. On the roster of international illicit trade, art crime is number three, trailing only drugs and illegal arms. In Italy alone, where it is common for a tiny village to boast a church with a fifteenth-century altarpiece, police say that thieves make off with a museum's worth of art each year.

The bulk of what is stolen is good but not great (since that is easiest to resell), but cherished masterpieces disappear, too, and at an alarming rate. In all the world there are only 36 Vermeers. Of that tiny number, three-The Concert, The Guitar Player, and Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid- Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid-have been stolen in recent years.*

Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid was s.n.a.t.c.hed off the wall of a sprawling Irish mansion, found a week later in a cottage 200 miles away and returned to its owner, then stolen from the same owner a second time a dozen years later. In London, thieves have stolen the same Rembrandt portrait four times. was s.n.a.t.c.hed off the wall of a sprawling Irish mansion, found a week later in a cottage 200 miles away and returned to its owner, then stolen from the same owner a second time a dozen years later. In London, thieves have stolen the same Rembrandt portrait four times.

Within the span of a few months in the spring and summer of 2003, thieves stole two sixteenth-century masterpieces, each one worth $50 million or more. In May, thieves clambered up scaffolding outside Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Museum and made off with an elaborate gold and ebony saltcellar by Benvenuto Cellini-"the Mona Lisa of sculptures," according to the museum's distraught director. In August, two well-dressed, well-spoken thieves in Scotland bought 6 tickets and joined a tour of Drumlanrig Castle, which houses a renowned art collection. A few minutes later they put a knife to the throat of the guide, pulled Leonardo da Vinci's In August, two well-dressed, well-spoken thieves in Scotland bought 6 tickets and joined a tour of Drumlanrig Castle, which houses a renowned art collection. A few minutes later they put a knife to the throat of the guide, pulled Leonardo da Vinci's Madonna of the Yarnwinder Madonna of the Yarnwinder off the wall, and strolled away with it. A pair of tourists from New Zealand happened to be visiting the castle, video camera in hand. They heard an alarm and then nearly collided with a man climbing over the castle wall. "Don't worry, love," one thief said. "We're the police. This is just practice." off the wall, and strolled away with it. A pair of tourists from New Zealand happened to be visiting the castle, video camera in hand. They heard an alarm and then nearly collided with a man climbing over the castle wall. "Don't worry, love," one thief said. "We're the police. This is just practice."

"When the second man came over the wall," the couple later told police, "we felt something was going on." Then came a third man over the wall, "carrying something under his arm." The thieves ran past the pair of gawking tourists (who filmed the entire encounter), climbed into a VW Golf in the visitors parking lot, and disappeared.

The value of the stolen Madonna Madonna, one of only a dozen oil paintings by Leonardo, is almost incalculable. The experts' guesses range from a low of $50 million to a high of $235 million, a figure that more than doubles the current record for the highest price ever paid for a painting.

A museum of stolen masterpieces would rival any of the world's great treasure houses of art. The Museum of the Missing would fill endless galleries; the collection of paintings and drawings would include 551 Pica.s.sos, 43 van Goghs, 174 Rembrandts, and 209 Renoirs. Vermeer would be there, and Caravaggio and van Eyck and Cezanne and t.i.tian and El Greco.

The a.s.saults on art come from every direction. In Paraguay, in July 2002, thieves tunneled for 25 yards beneath the street, surfaced in the National Fine Arts Museum, and disappeared with five old masters with a combined value of well over $1 million. In Oxford, in December 1999, a cat burglar smashed a skylight in the Ashmolean Museum, slithered down a rope, and ran off with a Cezanne worth $4.8 million. In Rome, in May 1998, thieves opted for a "stay-behind," one of the simplest and most widely employed tactics. Late in the day, three men entered the National Gallery of Modern Art and hid behind an exhibition curtain until after closing time. When the visitors had gone home, the thieves emerged from hiding. Brandishing guns, they grabbed three guards, forced them to shut off the alarms, and tied them up. Fifteen minutes later, the thieves walked out the front door. They carried with them two van Goghs and a Cezanne, with a combined worth of $34 million, as well as $860 in cash, from ticket receipts.

If a stolen painting does reappear, it tends to surface in an incongruously humble setting, like a bewitched princess in a Brothers Grimm story who wakes up in a woodcutter's cottage. In 1989, for instance, the superintendent of an apartment co-op in Queens found a stolen Manet still life called Bouquet of Peonies Bouquet of Peonies, valued at up to $5 million, hidden in the bas.e.m.e.nt behind a washing machine.

But most stolen art is gone forever: the overall recovery rate is about ten percent. The lone bit of good news is that the better the painting, the better the odds it will someday be found. For the greatest paintings of all-which are the hardest for thieves to unload, since they can never find legitimate buyers-there is the most reason to hope.

Most often, thieves leave the pizzazz to Hollywood. The pros go more for brute efficiency than for style. The biggest art theft of modern times could hardly have been simpler. On March 18, 1990, in Boston, two armed men in police uniforms and dime-store black mustaches showed up at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum at 1:20 in the morning. The museum is small and elegant, and maintained today almost precisely as it was a century ago. The thieves pounded on a side door and shouted to the guards that they were investigating reports of a disturbance inside the museum grounds.

The guards opened the door, and the two "policemen" rushed in and overpowered them. It took only a minute. The guards were art school students with scarcely any security training, earning $6.85 an hour. (In the excitement of the moment, they forgot the central lesson they had been taught: "In the middle of the night you don't open that door for G.o.d himself.") The thieves left the guards handcuffed and gagged in the museum bas.e.m.e.nt. The guards calmed down quickly, so much so that investigators later suspected they were high at the time of the break-in. One guard fell asleep while bound in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

With the guards out of the way, the thieves disabled the alarm system-which was not much of a safeguard in any case, since it sounded only inside the museum itself-and wandered through the galleries for eighty minutes on a private shopping spree. They helped themselves to a dozen paintings and drawings, among them Vermeer's Concert; Concert; three Rembrandts, including his only seascape and an exquisite, stamp-sized self-portrait; Manet's three Rembrandts, including his only seascape and an exquisite, stamp-sized self-portrait; Manet's Chez Tortoni; Chez Tortoni; and five charcoal sketches and water-colors by Degas. (They stopped a moment to take the video ca.s.sette from the security camera, as well.) The choices were eccentric, or ignorant-the thieves s.n.a.t.c.hed a bronze eagle from atop a Napoleonic flagstaff but left t.i.tian's immensely valuable and five charcoal sketches and water-colors by Degas. (They stopped a moment to take the video ca.s.sette from the security camera, as well.) The choices were eccentric, or ignorant-the thieves s.n.a.t.c.hed a bronze eagle from atop a Napoleonic flagstaff but left t.i.tian's immensely valuable Rape of Europa Rape of Europa untouched. Even so, they fled with treasures worth $300 million. untouched. Even so, they fled with treasures worth $300 million.

"Tell them you'll be hearing from us," the thieves called to the guards as they left, but no one ever has. In the world of art crime, the Gardner paintings are the holy grail.

Thieves are opportunists, always on the lookout for goods lying around unprotected. Museums, churches, art galleries, and isolated country houses make tempting targets, and not only because art connoisseurs respond to art crime with the fluttery dismay of a Victorian hostess whose guests have unaccountably spoken of s.e.x.

The point of museums, the reason they exist, is to display their treasures to as many people as possible. Banks, which safeguard literal treasure, have it far easier. They can hide their money in underground vaults with foot-thick doors and protect it with armed guards and fortress-like security, and no one will complain. In comparison with even middling banks in midsized cities, the world's best museums are as open as street fairs.

Security is neglected, too, because even the greatest museums face chronic money shortages. In the autumn of 2003, at the Tate Modern, the most popular art museum in Britain, restroom cubicles displayed a notice thanking an anonymous benefactor for the funds to buy toilet paper. Britain's National Gallery is scarcely better off. "We do not get from government even the basic operating costs of this place, what it costs to open the doors, turn the lights on, and look after the collection," the director laments. Museums can always choose to invest in more guards and better alarms, but money spent on security is money not available for the museum's true mission.

In the United States especially, museum guards are poorly paid and poorly trained. One large security company looks at how much McDonald's pays its employees in a given region and then offers its museum guards fifty cents an hour less than that. "The people protecting our art," says security specialist Steven Keller, "are the ones who couldn't get jobs flipping burgers."

Some museums have have swallowed hard and installed costly state-of-the-art alarm systems and motion detectors and taken on more guards. But as security has grown more robust, thieves have grown more brazen. If museums are locked and monitored by electronic alarms at night, thieves don't give up; they simply walk through the front doors during the day. Or, depending on the setting, they smash their way through ground-floor doors in SUVs. They may well carry guns, and horrified visitors and shocked (and unarmed) guards scarcely slow them down. swallowed hard and installed costly state-of-the-art alarm systems and motion detectors and taken on more guards. But as security has grown more robust, thieves have grown more brazen. If museums are locked and monitored by electronic alarms at night, thieves don't give up; they simply walk through the front doors during the day. Or, depending on the setting, they smash their way through ground-floor doors in SUVs. They may well carry guns, and horrified visitors and shocked (and unarmed) guards scarcely slow them down.

From a criminal's point of view, a world-renowned painting is a multimillion-dollar bill framed and mounted on a poorly guarded wall. On a bl.u.s.tery spring day in May 1998, at about lunchtime, a visitor to the Louvre entered room 67 and approached a small oil painting by Corot, a landscape called Le Chemin de Sevres Le Chemin de Sevres that depicts a quiet country road. Working quickly but calmly in the seldom-visited room, the thief removed the painting from its frame, left the frame and its gla.s.s intact on the wall, and hurried off. (For a thief, the size of a painting is crucial. The great majority of stolen paintings are small, because they are easy to hide and to carry.) that depicts a quiet country road. Working quickly but calmly in the seldom-visited room, the thief removed the painting from its frame, left the frame and its gla.s.s intact on the wall, and hurried off. (For a thief, the size of a painting is crucial. The great majority of stolen paintings are small, because they are easy to hide and to carry.) About an hour later, a tourist noticed the empty frame and informed a guard. Security ordered all the doors of the sprawling museum shut. Springing that slow-motion trap took ten minutes. Then, with the thief long gone, museum guards searched each of the museum's thousands of visitors. The thief has never been found.

The daylight theft of the $1.3 million painting spurred an official investigation and the firing of the Louvre's chief of security. (Two years later, as the bureaucratic battle dragged on, he was still living rent-free in an apartment in the Louvre.) The investigators' findings would have made Pollyanna despair. The Louvre had only an approximate idea of how many artworks it owned and how many people it employed. Built 800 years ago as a palace and converted to a museum two centuries ago, the immense complex is an endless and hard-to-patrol maze. Closed-circuit cameras did not cover the entire museum (room 67 was not monitored), and the camera systems in different wings of the museum worked independently and could not be scanned from a central location. Security at the Louvre was so poor, the report noted, that "it would be easier for a thief to steal one of its 32,000 exhibits than it would be to take an item from a department store."

Why bother with banks?

3.

Whodunit?

FEBRUARY 12, 1994.

In Norway, it seemed as if every police officer in the nation was searching for the thieves who had taken The Scream The Scream. Exactly how the crooks planned to cash in on the masterpiece was unclear, but one of their motives was unmistakable: the theft was a jeering insult, a raised middle finger directed at Norway's cultural and political elite. No mere economic crime, this was personal, a what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it taunt from criminals flaunting their cleverness.

That was the point, police a.s.sumed, of timing the crime for the Olympics, when 2,000 reporters were jostling for a story. It explained the choice of The Scream The Scream, one of the modern world's most recognizable images. It accounted for the mocking note and the ladder-a gleaming, twelve-foot-long calling card-left defiantly in place.

For the thieves this was multimillion-dollar fun. Just forty minutes after the break-in, the phone rang at Dagbladet Dagbladet, one of Norway's major newspapers. It was 7:10 A.M A.M. The caller asked for the news desk. "You have to get to the National Gallery," she said. "Something amazing has happened-somebody stole The Scream The Scream and they left a postcard that said 'Thanks for the poor security' " and they left a postcard that said 'Thanks for the poor security' "

"Who is this?"

No reply.

"Who's calling?"

The tipster hung up.

At 7:30, the National Gallery's security chief made a melancholy phone call to Knut Berg, the museum's director. "There's been a burglary. They took The Scream." The Scream." Neither man needed to spell out for the other just how bad the news was. Neither man needed to spell out for the other just how bad the news was.

At the same moment, many of Norway's highest government officials were together on a private bus headed to Lillehammer to partic.i.p.ate in the opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games. The mood was cheery and, bearing in mind how early it was, almost festive. Then came the crackle of a news bulletin on the radio. When the bus pulled in to Lillehammer, it was besieged by reporters shouting questions about The Scream The Scream.

Answers were scarce. Back in Oslo, television reporters flocked to the National Gallery to film their stories. "All we know for certain," a stunned Knut Berg admitted, "is that, to our sorrow, what could not happen has happened."

It had happened before, although never to The Scream The Scream. In 1980, only a few years into Berg's tenure, a drug addict had walked into Norway's National Gallery in the middle of the day and walked out with a Rembrandt. He found a buyer for the drawing, a small study of a man's head, and pocketed about $10,000, some five percent of the work's true value. French police recovered the drawing in Paris six weeks later.

In 1982 thieves once again entered the National Gallery during the day. This time they hid in a storeroom and emerged in the middle of the night when the guards were in another part of the museum. They grabbed a Gauguin, a Rembrandt (not the one stolen in 1980), a Goya, and five other works, pa.s.sed them out a window to colleagues, and escaped. The theft led National Gallery officials to install additional alarms and outside cameras and to build the bas.e.m.e.nt alarm station where the guard would later sit, unmindful of the television monitors, as The Scream The Scream was pa.s.sed out the window. was pa.s.sed out the window.

In 1988, thieves broke into the Munch Museum in Oslo, only a mile or two from the National Gallery. There they stole The Vampire The Vampire, perhaps Munch's second best-known painting. Women in Munch's work are sometimes desirable, often dangerous, and usually both at once. The Vampire The Vampire depicts a red-haired woman biting, or perhaps kissing, the neck of a dark-haired man sprawled face-down before her. depicts a red-haired woman biting, or perhaps kissing, the neck of a dark-haired man sprawled face-down before her.

The thief had none of the artist's subtlety. He simply broke a window, grabbed the painting, and ran. The alarm sounded, but by the time the guard had hurried from the far side of the building, he found only broken gla.s.s and a blank spot on the wall.

In 1993, the National Gallery was. .h.i.t again. With the Olympics less than a year off and plans for the blockbuster exhibition already underway, this was a hard-to-miss warning. The thieves struck on August 23, in daylight. While one shift of guards replaced another, and while a television crew filmed in another room, someone walked off with Munch's Study for a Portrait Study for a Portrait, which depicts a sad-eyed young woman looking abstractedly into the middle distance.

The work, valued at $300,000, was not protected by an alarm, nor was it in a room watched by security cameras. In response, the National Gallery beefed up its security yet again. This time the museum was safe, Knut Berg declared. During the day, the guards would spot any thief trying to make off with a painting, and at night the museum was as secure as a fortress.