The four crooks rounded up an art expert to tell them whether the painting was worth anything. At this point some of the gang had yet to lay eyes on it. One of the four, a car dealer named Bobby Dee, took his first peek. "I picked it up to look at it and said, 'You got to be joking!' I was worried because I thought these people would think we were idiots. I thought this picture was nothing, just a wind-up."

The art expert arrived. "Then this old bloke came in. He was blabbering on about something. He turned round to look at the picture and then he fainted. I thought, 'Bleeding h.e.l.l, it must be something proper.' "

Armed with the delightful knowledge that they had landed something big, the gang recruited a front man to do the talking for them. On a Friday afternoon in April 1990, the director of the Courtauld, Dennis Farr, was working at his desk. The phone rang.

"This is Peter Brewgal," the caller said. "I've got something you haven't seen in a long while. I think you'll be interested."

"Brewgal" rhymed with "bugle." The caller's odd name and his south London accent threw Farr for a moment-when Farr tried to mimic the caller later, he sounded like Alistair Cooke impersonating Sylvester Stallone-but then he caught on: Pieter Bruegel.

Mr. Brewgal offered Farr the chance to buy back his own painting. The price was 2 million.

Farr called the Art Squad. They devised an elaborate sting, starring Charley Hill as a rich and loudmouthed boor who wanted to buy himself a "trophy painting." All such subterfuges proved beside the point. Unbeknown to both the Art Squad and the thieves, a second group of cops had been tipped off as to the painting's whereabouts. They raided a house outside London. In a bedroom, they found the Bruegel wrapped in a pillowcase on top of a chest of drawers, and undamaged despite its wanderings.

21.

Mona Lisa Smile Smile No matter how he tries, Charley Hill has never managed to dispel the Dr. No stories. What do you expect? People always prefer glamorous bulls.h.i.t to mundane truth. They still trundle off to Scotland, for Christ's sake, to look for a sea serpent in Loch Ness.

But a taste for the exotic is not the sole reason that the belief in stolen-to-order art persists. Another is that people are suspicious of naysayers who are, like Hill, perfectly happy to romanticize the good guys but insistent that crooks are nothing more than violent, grubby men. Hill is, after all, a cop. Maybe thieves come in more varieties than he is willing to concede.

And if Hill has never seen anyone who would qualify as a Dr. No, that's hardly conclusive. A billionaire who collects stolen paintings would be unlikely to invite the neighbors in. Even so, names do surface occasionally. "Idi Amin was one of the biggest collectors of stolen art," according to Allen Gore, onetime head of security at New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art. "He had a French connection and took stuff out of Ma.r.s.eilles. He commissioned people to do it."

Maybe. But no one ever produced any evidence to back Gore's claim. (Masterpieces have occasionally turned up in the homes of South American drug lords, but there is no evidence that they were stolen to order rather than purchased legitimately; the paintings seem to be trophies on a par with the helicopters and hippopotamuses that ornament these private kingdoms.) Even Hill admits that there have been thieves who were also collectors and who stole art they particularly coveted. The problem is deciding what to make of such tales. We know that (a very few) thieves have stolen paintings for themselves. Does it follow that there are collectors who commission others to steal particular paintings on their behalf?

Consider the case of Stephane Breitwieser, a French waiter who made headlines around the world in the winter of 2003. Breitwieser was arrested for stealing perhaps $1.4 billion worth of paintings and other art objects for his own pleasure.* Over the course of seven years, he robbed 179 museums in seven countries. He concentrated on small museums, which tended to be poorly guarded, and small objects, which he could tuck inside his coat. Over the course of seven years, he robbed 179 museums in seven countries. He concentrated on small museums, which tended to be poorly guarded, and small objects, which he could tuck inside his coat.

Breitwieser operated in daylight, and his approach could hardly have been simpler. While his girlfriend kept watch or flirted with any guard who happened by, Breitwieser took out his knife, cut a painting from its frame, rolled it up, and walked off with it. The most valuable item in his collection was Lucas Cranach the Elder's Sybille of Cleves Sybille of Cleves, valued at $8 million.

Cranach's painting showed her as a beauty, with red hair to her waist, in an elegant red gown. Sybille had two younger, unmarried sisters, Anne and Amelia. In 1539, in search of wife number four, Henry VIII sent Hans Holbein, his court painter, to paint the sisters' portraits. Henry chose Anne; her portrait now hangs in the Louvre. Holbein may have done his work too well. When Anne arrived in England, Henry was horrified by the true appearance of this "Flanders mare." Only moments before the wedding ceremony, he paused to bemoan his fate. "My lords, if it were not to satisfy the world and my realm, I would not do what I must do this day for any earthly thing." Six months later Henry had the marriage annulled and pensioned Anne off, notably with a castle that had belonged to Anne Boleyn.

Breitwieser stole Cranach's portrait on his twenty-fifth birthday, as a gift to himself. He never tried to sell it or anything else he stole. The art-loving thief stored his loot in his mother's apartment. Often, before he brought his paintings to her, he took them to a local shop where the owner admired Breitwieser's latest "purchases" and helped him choose new frames.

Breitwieser was finally caught when a museum guard in Lucerne, Switzerland, saw him trying to steal a bugle. To protect her son after his arrest (or, by some accounts, to keep authorities from revoking her work permit), Breitwieser's mother set out to hide the evidence. She threw 100 objects into a ca.n.a.l and destroyed sixty oil paintings-including the Cranach-by chopping them into tiny pieces and throwing them out with her kitchen garbage, buried under coffee grounds and egg sh.e.l.ls.

What about a low-rent Dr. No? Would the existence of a character who ordered up small-time thefts make it more likely that somewhere in the shadows lurks a full-fledged version?

Listen a minute to Jim Hill (no relation to Charley), one of the most respected art detectives in Britain. A soft-spoken Scot, Jim Hill has spent the last 20 years doggedly chasing stolen art. Most of it is good but not spectacular, perhaps in the $10,000 range, but his resume includes such coups as the recovery of a 100,000 grandfather clock.

In a business full of men who love telling stories-and love most of all telling stories where they themselves play the starring role-Jim Hill is that rare character who shuns the spotlight. ("Jim doesn't go in for any kind of self-aggrandizing bulls.h.i.t," Charley Hill once observed, in a tone of mingled admiration and puzzlement, as if he were describing a cop who drank nothing stronger than ginger ale.) In the old, swashbuckling movies that Charley likes so much, full of cavalry charges and doomed last stands, Jim Hill would be perfectly cast as a soldier in the ranks, true to his mates and steady at his post. He would have only a line or two of dialogue and would manage a tight smile as a medic fished in his shoulder for a bullet. The injury was, he might concede in his gentle burr, "a wee bit of bother."

So when Jim Hill does does venture on a story, no one disputes him. Twice in his career, he says, he has seen a collector with a private gallery of stolen art. "One gentleman had a secret room off a big workshop, and only he had access to it. Over the years he'd received a lot of stolen property-silver, bronzes, paintings-and he put them in gla.s.s cases all around the room, and he'd sit there, all alone, with nice, quiet music on, in a lovely armchair, and he would just sit amongst all this property, and enjoy having it in his presence. Never used it, never tried to find a buyer. He was quite a wealthy man, and he just enjoyed being in the company of valuable and lovely items." venture on a story, no one disputes him. Twice in his career, he says, he has seen a collector with a private gallery of stolen art. "One gentleman had a secret room off a big workshop, and only he had access to it. Over the years he'd received a lot of stolen property-silver, bronzes, paintings-and he put them in gla.s.s cases all around the room, and he'd sit there, all alone, with nice, quiet music on, in a lovely armchair, and he would just sit amongst all this property, and enjoy having it in his presence. Never used it, never tried to find a buyer. He was quite a wealthy man, and he just enjoyed being in the company of valuable and lovely items."

What about six six Dr. No's, all contemporaries, who were so far from smalltime that each one owned (or so he believed) the world's best-known painting? Early on the morning of August 21, 1911, an Italian carpenter named Vincenzo Perugia crept out of a storage closet in the Louvre where he had hidden overnight. This was a Monday, the day the museum was closed to the public. Perugia had once been employed by the Louvre, and over his clothes he wore one of the floppy, nearly knee-length tunics issued to the hundreds of workmen who maintained the sprawling museum. The outfit rendered Perugia so innocuous as to be nearly invisible. He walked toward the Dr. No's, all contemporaries, who were so far from smalltime that each one owned (or so he believed) the world's best-known painting? Early on the morning of August 21, 1911, an Italian carpenter named Vincenzo Perugia crept out of a storage closet in the Louvre where he had hidden overnight. This was a Monday, the day the museum was closed to the public. Perugia had once been employed by the Louvre, and over his clothes he wore one of the floppy, nearly knee-length tunics issued to the hundreds of workmen who maintained the sprawling museum. The outfit rendered Perugia so innocuous as to be nearly invisible. He walked toward the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa in the Salon Carre and checked to see that no one was nearby. Then he removed the painting from the wall, tucked it beneath his smock, and walked out of the museum in the Salon Carre and checked to see that no one was nearby. Then he removed the painting from the wall, tucked it beneath his smock, and walked out of the museum.

That much is undisputed fact. The rest of the story, depending on the teller, is an ill.u.s.tration of either the perfect crime or perfect nonsense.

As recounted by Seymour Reit in The Day They Stole the Mona Lisa The Day They Stole the Mona Lisa, Perugia was merely a hired hand. The mastermind behind the Perugia was merely a hired hand. The mastermind behind the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa theft was an Argentinean con man who called himself the Marques Eduardo de Valfierno. In tandem with a brilliant French forger named Yves Chaudron, the marques had made a nice living peddling fake old masters to foolish collectors theft was an Argentinean con man who called himself the Marques Eduardo de Valfierno. In tandem with a brilliant French forger named Yves Chaudron, the marques had made a nice living peddling fake old masters to foolish collectors.

In Buenos Aires, the two swindlers had moved beyond the simple selling of fakes and had cooked up an elaborate scheme to sell paintings "off the wall" of the national museum. The marques, who had bribed a guard to keep away, would lead the dupe to an especially fine painting and ask, in a whisper, if he would like it. He recognized, of course, the marques would go on, that he was dealing with a savvy businessman who knew a thing or two about how the world worked. And therefore, to make sure there was no funny business-here the marques drew a handsome pen from his pocket-the customer should take this pen and make some small marks or write some secret cipher on the back of the canvas so that later, when he received his painting, he would know that it was this very one. to keep away, would lead the dupe to an especially fine painting and ask, in a whisper, if he would like it. He recognized, of course, the marques would go on, that he was dealing with a savvy businessman who knew a thing or two about how the world worked. And therefore, to make sure there was no funny business-here the marques drew a handsome pen from his pocket-the customer should take this pen and make some small marks or write some secret cipher on the back of the canvas so that later, when he received his painting, he would know that it was this very one.

One dupe waved the pen aside and instead took out a pocket knife and cut an oddly shaped sc.r.a.p from the edge of the canvas, in the back, beyond the boundary of the painting proper. When the time came, the man explained, he would check to see if the newly delivered canvas was missing a piece that fit precisely with the one he had just removed. The marques was struck almost dumb with admiration. Never had he encountered such cunning.

The scam was that Chaudron had already painted his fake before the dupe ever showed up, and Valfierno had mounted the two paintings together, in the same frame. The real one was in front, where visitors to the museum could admire it, and the fake one behind, where gullible strangers could sign (or cut) it.

Out for bigger game, Valfierno and Chaudron had come to Paris. There Chaudron perfected fake Mona Lisas Mona Lisas while Valfierno cultivated new clients. When he had six suckers with big enough bankrolls and small enough brainpans, Valfierno made his pitch: What would you think of owning the greatest painting in the world? It went without saying, the marques went on, that no one but you could ever see the masterpiece, but, on the other hand, you would know that you alone possessed what no one else could ever own. So the marques said, six times, to six customers. while Valfierno cultivated new clients. When he had six suckers with big enough bankrolls and small enough brainpans, Valfierno made his pitch: What would you think of owning the greatest painting in the world? It went without saying, the marques went on, that no one but you could ever see the masterpiece, but, on the other hand, you would know that you alone possessed what no one else could ever own. So the marques said, six times, to six customers.

Then Valfierno told Perugia, the carpenter, that it was time for him to do his bit. (The theft itself was so easy because the Louvre in 1911 was focused on vandals, not thieves. The Louvre was heavily guarded during visiting hours and virtually defenseless after hours.) Spooked by an attacker who had slashed an Ingres in 1907, the Louvre had decided to build a gla.s.s-fronted box to house the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa. Perugia knew his way around the Louvre because he had been one of the workmen who built the box.

News of the theft stunned Paris, and then the world. The headline in Le Matin Le Matin was a single word in giant letters: was a single word in giant letters: "INIMAGINABLE!" "INIMAGINABLE!" Soon after, Valfierno approached his six clients. Still game? Soon after, Valfierno approached his six clients. Still game?

"Yes" came the answer, six times. Valfierno sold six fakes, each for $300,000, roughly $6 million a copy in today's currency. Then, having perpetrated the perfect crime, he vanished. None of the buyers-supposedly six Americans-knew Valfierno's real name. Nor did Perugia. More than that, the marques had never confided a word to Perugia about the con he had dreamed up. All that Perugia knew was that a well-spoken stranger had hired him to steal the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa-payment to be made later-and he had done so. But, then, not a word of instruction and not a penny in payment! For two years, Perugia fretted and waited. During all that time, the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa lay hidden in a box under the stove in Perugia's apartment. lay hidden in a box under the stove in Perugia's apartment.

Chaudron, the forger, had good reason to keep quiet. And the buyers could not go to the police without acknowledging that they had tried to purchase stolen goods. Nor did Valfierno have to worry about what would happen if the real Mona Lisa Mona Lisa ever surfaced. His victims had no idea how to find him, but what if they did somehow track him down? "Now let's just calm down for a minute and think, shall we?" Valfierno could say. "What would you expect the Louvre to do, after they lost their most valuable painting, except to announce that they had marvelous news and they'd found it again? But you and I know who has the real ever surfaced. His victims had no idea how to find him, but what if they did somehow track him down? "Now let's just calm down for a minute and think, shall we?" Valfierno could say. "What would you expect the Louvre to do, after they lost their most valuable painting, except to announce that they had marvelous news and they'd found it again? But you and I know who has the real Mona Lisa Mona Lisa, don't we?"*

Is the story of the six fakes true? No one knows. By definition, perfect crimes are beyond detection. The source of the story was a journalist named Karl Decker, a flamboyant and much-acclaimed Hearst reporter, who published the tale in the Sat.u.r.day Evening Post Sat.u.r.day Evening Post in 1932. Decker claimed to have known the marques, who told him the story on condition that it not be published until after his death. in 1932. Decker claimed to have known the marques, who told him the story on condition that it not be published until after his death.

Half a century later, in 1981, Seymour Reit's book filled in the picture that Decker's magazine article had sketched. Reit was a well-regarded writer, and the New Yorker New Yorker, the New York Times New York Times, and Art News Art News, among others, praised his book. Robert Spiel, a 20-year FBI veteran who specializes in art crime and the author of Art Theft and Forgery Investigation: The Complete Field Manual Art Theft and Forgery Investigation: The Complete Field Manual, cited Reit's book in his bibliography and wrote that "if you can read only one true story of art crime, read this."

Decker and Reit died years ago, and neither left behind any hint that he had pulled off a hoax of his own. Even so, Reit's credits are curious enough that a skeptic might raise an eyebrow. Though Reit published such straightforward, well-received works as a history of camouflage in World War II, he also wrote children's books. He was, as well, the creator of Casper the friendly ghost. Donald Sa.s.soon, a historian whose Becoming Mona Lisa Becoming Mona Lisa tells the story of how the painting became an icon, dismisses Reit's story as an urban legend. tells the story of how the painting became an icon, dismisses Reit's story as an urban legend.

In any case, Perugia was arrested in 1913, when he tried to sell the real Mona Lisa Mona Lisa to a well-known art dealer in Florence. His motive was unclear. (Perhaps he had despaired of ever receiving any money from the marques.) The dealer contacted the head of the Uffizi, and the two men met Perugia at his shabby hotel in Florence. Perugia rummaged in a homemade wooden trunk, lifted out a bundle wrapped in red cloth, and handed over the to a well-known art dealer in Florence. His motive was unclear. (Perhaps he had despaired of ever receiving any money from the marques.) The dealer contacted the head of the Uffizi, and the two men met Perugia at his shabby hotel in Florence. Perugia rummaged in a homemade wooden trunk, lifted out a bundle wrapped in red cloth, and handed over the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa. Bowled over, the dealer and the curator stammered something about needing to take the painting to the Uffizi for a closer look. Perugia was to stay in his room and wait. As the two men rushed out the hotel door, the receptionist hollered at them to wait a minute. What was that they were carrying? They hadn't stolen one of the hotel's paintings, had they?

At his trial, Perugia defended himself on patriotic grounds. He had taken the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa because it offended his Italian pride that France had possession of such a treasure. Perugia's lawyer maintained that no harm had been done-no one had been hurt, and the painting was intact and even better-known than it had been. The public went along. Perugia was briefly a hero, lauded for his devotion to his native land. The court imposed a sentence of only twelve months, which was reduced to seven on appeal. because it offended his Italian pride that France had possession of such a treasure. Perugia's lawyer maintained that no harm had been done-no one had been hurt, and the painting was intact and even better-known than it had been. The public went along. Perugia was briefly a hero, lauded for his devotion to his native land. The court imposed a sentence of only twelve months, which was reduced to seven on appeal.

The Mona Lisa Mona Lisa story comes with more than enough holes for a cynic like Charley Hill to dismiss it. But Hill has too much respect for history to ignore one story, this one indisputably true, from roughly the same era as the story comes with more than enough holes for a cynic like Charley Hill to dismiss it. But Hill has too much respect for history to ignore one story, this one indisputably true, from roughly the same era as the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa theft. theft.

Adam Worth was the greatest thief of Victorian England. He provides the single unimpeachable example we know of a thief who stole a beloved masterpiece and kept it locked away, for his eyes only. More than a century ago, Worth stole the world's most expensive painting and kept it with him, without ever trying to sell it or telling a soul, for twenty-five years.

The story of Worth's obsession, brilliantly told in Ben Macintyre's Napoleon of Crime Napoleon of Crime, began in 1876, when an American visitor to London bid a record-setting $600,000 (in today's dollars) for Gainsborough's portrait of Georgiana, d.u.c.h.ess of Devonshire.

Georgiana, an ancestor of Princess Diana, was s.e.xy and scandalous, by reputation England's greatest beauty. As notorious in eighteenth-century England as Princess Di would be two centuries later, Georgiana was a novelist, a compulsive gambler, the wife of the stunningly wealthy Duke of Devonshire (in a menage a trois that also included Lady Elizabeth Foster), and mistress to a future prime minister. Georgiana died young, though she outlived her days of glory. "Before you condemn me," she wrote near the end, "remember that at seventeen I was a toast, a beauty and a d.u.c.h.ess."

A century after Georgiana's death, her portrait came up for auction. To judge from the commotion, she might never have been away. Crowds of gawkers clutched their tickets and waited in line at the Thomas Agnew & Sons art gallery on Old Bond Street to glimpse the painting. The Earl of Dudley coveted it, as did Ferdinand de Rothschild. In the end, no one could compete with Junius Spencer Morgan, the American banker, whose winning bid secured the Gainsborough as a gift for his art-loving son, J. P. Morgan. One condition of the sale, which hardly seemed worth mentioning, was that Morgan leave his new acquisition on exhibit a short while before taking it away.

A few weeks later, on a May night in 1876, a small man pried open a window of the Agnew Gallery and climbed inside. He cut Georgiana from her gilt frame, rolled her up, tucked her beneath his coat, and retreated as he had come.

The thief was Adam Worth, an American-born crook of such elegance and elusiveness that he served Arthur Conan Doyle as the model for Sherlock Holmes's nemesis, Professor Moriarty. Worth had a younger brother, John, who shared his lack of morals but not his savvy. At the time of the theft, John Worth was in Newgate Prison on a forgery charge. Adam's scheme was to work a trade: the painting that all London was hunting in exchange for his brother's freedom.

But the plan skidded off course. John Worth's lawyer proved better than anyone had antic.i.p.ated. Before Adam Worth had even opened negotiations for his brother's release, John's lawyer had him out on the street on a technicality, a free man.

That left Adam Worth in a most peculiar spot.

For the next quarter century, Worth kept Georgiana with him. Even when he desperately needed money and the police seemed to be closing in and various shady characters came whispering that they had heard rumors about a certain item that perhaps they might help him with, Worth refused to consider a deal. "He turned them all down, preferring to face disgrace, penury, and imprisonment rather than part with the d.u.c.h.ess," Macintyre writes. "The painting became his permanent companion.... When he traveled, she came, too, in his false-bottomed trunk." At home in London, Worth slept with the portrait under his mattress.

In his old age, when Pinkerton detectives finally had him cornered, Worth at last handed his mistress over. Penniless despite a lifetime's illicit income, Worth bartered the d.u.c.h.ess away for a never-disclosed sum-one account put it at $25,000-and a promise of immunity. The painting, then in the United States, was turned over to the son of the art dealer it had been stolen from originally. The rightful owner took custody of the long-missing portrait and set off for home with it, on the steamer Etruria Etruria, bound from New York to London. Among the pa.s.sengers was one small man with a sad air, no longer able to acknowledge his beloved but secretly accompanying her on one last voyage nonetheless.

Today, Georgiana, d.u.c.h.ess of Devonshire, is back where she belongs. In 1994, the present Duke of Devonshire bought the portrait and installed it in his ancestral home, Chatsworth. In the grand dining room where Georgiana held court in life, she presides triumphantly once again.

22.

Gangsters I Norway, Charley Hill didn't figure he was dealing with a modern-day Adam Worth. Johnsen and Ulving seemed too small-time. But he did worry about who might be behind them. Criminal gangs have discovered that art is easy pickings, and a trail that started with b.u.mblers could well end with gangsters. Let your guard down and you might get your head blown off. Norway, Charley Hill didn't figure he was dealing with a modern-day Adam Worth. Johnsen and Ulving seemed too small-time. But he did worry about who might be behind them. Criminal gangs have discovered that art is easy pickings, and a trail that started with b.u.mblers could well end with gangsters. Let your guard down and you might get your head blown off.

Violent and ruthless, the professionals have none of the endearing inept.i.tude of the small-time thieves. Worse still, from the police point of view, the pros may have more complicated motives for stealing than the amateurs do. If a gang steals a painting to send a message of some sort, and not simply to cash in, the odds of recovering it become even smaller.

The involvement of gangsters in art crime dates from the 1960s and took off two decades later, when the art market exploded.* In May 1969, the Italian police announced the formation of the first-ever art squad. The mission of the grandly named Command for the Preservation of Cultural Heritage, the government proclaimed, was to safeguard Italy's paintings and sculptures. In May 1969, the Italian police announced the formation of the first-ever art squad. The mission of the grandly named Command for the Preservation of Cultural Heritage, the government proclaimed, was to safeguard Italy's paintings and sculptures.

Five months later, thieves in Palermo, Sicily, broke into the Church of San Lorenzo, sliced Caravaggio's Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence from its frame, and vanished. The church had no alarm system. A priest asleep in a nearby room heard nothing. The enormous painting, roughly six feet by nine feet, was one of the last that Caravaggio completed. (His life, filled with tumult, seems too crowded to have left any time for painting. In a six-year span, in his thirties, Caravaggio was arrested and tried eleven times, on charges ranging up to murder. In 1606 he killed a rival in a quarrel over a game of tennis; he died on the run in 1609 at age thirty-nine.) The from its frame, and vanished. The church had no alarm system. A priest asleep in a nearby room heard nothing. The enormous painting, roughly six feet by nine feet, was one of the last that Caravaggio completed. (His life, filled with tumult, seems too crowded to have left any time for painting. In a six-year span, in his thirties, Caravaggio was arrested and tried eleven times, on charges ranging up to murder. In 1606 he killed a rival in a quarrel over a game of tennis; he died on the run in 1609 at age thirty-nine.) The Nativity Nativity had hung in Palermo since 1609. The painting is worth tens of millions, and it has never been seen again. had hung in Palermo since 1609. The painting is worth tens of millions, and it has never been seen again.

At once came rumors-endorsed by the police-that the Mafia was behind the theft. Along with the Mafia tales, the headlines screamed the usual rumors of an elusive Dr. No. "Who would take a painting like that?" scoffed General Roberto Conforti, head of the Italian art squad. "What would even the most unscrupulous art collector do with it? It's huge. You couldn't hang it anywhere where it wouldn't be seen. No, what we suspected from the start was that this was a message from the Mafia. They wanted us to understand that they could take whatever they wanted from wherever they wanted in Palermo, and no one-especially not the police-could stop them. And we think they held on to it as a symbol."

Finally, a quarter-century after the disappearance of the Caravaggio, word came from the Mafia itself. In November 1996, Italy's former prime minister Giulio Andreotti was on trial for corruption. A Mafia pent.i.ti pent.i.ti-a supposedly penitent criminal who had agreed to testify against his former colleagues-was on the stand, hidden behind a screen.

Francesco Marino Mannoia was a dangerous man with a harmless appearance. "Mozzarella," he had been nicknamed, in mocking tribute to his bland manner and quiet voice. Mannoia had a storehouse of knowledge that made him a prized witness for the state. Hidden inside an armored car, he had taken police on a tour of Mafia hideouts and heroin-processing facilities in Palermo. He had turned over a thick account book listing payoffs to politicians and other local bigwigs. Mannoia knew, literally, where the bodies were buried and had flown over Palermo in a helicopter with police, pointing out Mana "graveyards."

It took a month for word of his cooperation with the police to leak. One November evening in 1989, Mannoia's mother, aunt, and sister left their house and settled into the family car. All three women wore black, because they were in mourning for Francesco's brother, a Mafia gunman, who had himself been gunned down by underworld rivals. Mafia lore has it that women are exempt from retaliation. Not so. Hitmen killed the three women and sped off.

Now Mannoia, who was serving 17 years for narcotics trafficking, was on the stand in the Andreotti case. In a trial focused on political scandals at the highest level of government, the theft of a painting two decades before seemed almost incidental. "I've stolen some paintings in my time," Mannoia told the court, in response to a question about his criminal career. "Some modern stuff, and Antonello da Messina. Oh, and remember that Caravaggio that disappeared in Palermo in 1969? That was me, too."

He and his fellow thieves knew nothing about art, Mannoia testified. The Caravaggio was so big that the thieves had folded it to make it easier to carry. "When our buyer saw it," Mannoia said, "he burst into tears and wouldn't take it."

Mannoia may have been lying, for reasons of his own. (The "ill.u.s.trious figure" who wanted to buy the painting and wept when he saw how it had been damaged, according to Mannoia, was Giulio Andreotti, the former prime minister and the very man on trial for corruption.) Still, no one disputes the central claim that the Mafia was tied up in the theft in some way.* "We don't believe that Mannoia was lying," says Conforti, the head of the art squad. "He was telling the truth. Except that, according to our investigations, he was not referring to the Caravaggio but to a similar work that was stolen in a nearby church in the same period." "We don't believe that Mannoia was lying," says Conforti, the head of the art squad. "He was telling the truth. Except that, according to our investigations, he was not referring to the Caravaggio but to a similar work that was stolen in a nearby church in the same period."

The lone indisputable point is that Caravaggio's painting, if it still exists, has never reappeared.

The involvement of the Mafia and other criminal organizations in art crime means that the risks have grown formidable. Once a respite from "real" crime and an almost cozy world unto itself, art theft now carries all the ugly trappings of organized crime.

"These guys are different," says one British art investigator with 30 years' experience, newly returned from his first trip to the former Soviet bloc. "Your average criminal in England, even some of the nasty ones, if they're stung by another criminal, then, yeah, they'll kill him. But the Serbs and the Albanians will kill his family as well. And his kids, and the dog, and the cat. And then burn the house down."

The twin marks of the new era are more violence and more volume. "In Europe," says Lynne Chaffinch, head of the FBI's art theft program, "criminal gangs are moving just ma.s.sive ma.s.sive amounts of art. In Russia, the intelligence people told me they'd identified over forty organized crime groups involved in art theft. At the border, they've caught a whole amounts of art. In Russia, the intelligence people told me they'd identified over forty organized crime groups involved in art theft. At the border, they've caught a whole train- train-load of icons and other stolen art."

With the collapse of the Soviet Union and then the opening of borders to the west, eastern Europe became a free-for-all. Thieves who had quickly caught on to the delights of private enterprise scrambled to loot churches and museums. In the Czech Republic, in 1996, Charley Hill helped break up a ring of art thieves run by former secret police officials who had held power in the bad old days. In the end, Hill and his detective colleagues recovered some two dozen old masters, including such hugely valuable works as Lucas Cranach the Elder's Ill-Matched Lovers Ill-Matched Lovers, which had been pulled off the wall of the National Museum in Prague. The venture climaxed in an armed confrontation between a German SWAT team and a band of Czech thieves headed by a gold-toothed killer named Kittler.

In time, old-style gangsters like Kittler or Martin Cahill, the Dublin crime boss, may come to seem quaint. In 1994 in Frankfurt, Germany, for example, thieves stole two Turner paintings on loan from the Tate Gallery in London. The renowned paintings, Shade and Darkness Shade and Darkness and and Light and Colour Light and Colour, near-abstractions on the theme of the biblical flood, had a joint value in the neighborhood of $80 million. At some point in the several years the paintings were in limbo, they apparently pa.s.sed into the control of the Serbian gangster and warlord known as Arkan. The commander of a private army of several thousand men and a pioneer in ethnic cleansing, Arkan was an indicted war criminal.

A century before, art thieves looked like Adam Worth, the dashing Victorian who fell in love with Gainsborough's d.u.c.h.ess d.u.c.h.ess. By the end of the twentieth century, Worth had given way to the likes of Arkan, who was, in the words of one UN diplomat, "a psychopathic ma.s.s murderer."

He met his end in fittingly violent fashion, gunned down with two bodyguards in the Intercontinental Hotel in Belgrade. The fate of the Turners was happier. Just in time for Christmas 2002, the Tate held a joyful news conference to announce that it had recovered both paintings, only slightly damaged.

PART IV.

The Undercover Game

23.

Crook or Clown?

APRIL-MAY 1994.

The Norwegian police didn't know what kind of crooks they were up against. While Charley Hill negotiated with Ulving and Johnsen, the police continued to work their own leads, to little avail. Looked at from one angle, the thieves-whoever they were-seemed professional. They had vanished at once, which showed planning, and then had stayed out of sight, which showed discipline. The police had squeezed their informants hard and come up empty. No booze-fueled bragging, no rumored deals, nothing. Weeks had stretched into months, and still the only clues the police had turned up, most notably the piece of The Scream's The Scream's frame, had been handed to them. frame, had been handed to them.

But viewed from a different angle, the same facts made the thieves look amateurish. True, they had been quick, but they had made climbing a ladder seem a feat on a par with walking on stilts. They had indeed kept silent, but was that silence a ploy designed to increase the pressure on the police or just a sign of befuddlement? Perhaps the thieves, now that they were in possession of their trophy, were in the predicament of the dog in the cartoon who has, to his astonishment, actually caught the car he was chasing. Now what? Now what?

And what was the moral of the theft's timing? Horning in on the publicity generated by the Olympics was a coup-and a thumb in the eye of the police-but did the thieves' audacity show that they were pros who knew exactly what they were doing? That was the media's theory, based on the idea that the thieves were showing off for their fellow crooks. But maybe the real audience was the great, sensation-loving public. In that case, the theft of The Scream The Scream was not a mark of professionalism but an amateur's "Hey, look at me" bid for attention. was not a mark of professionalism but an amateur's "Hey, look at me" bid for attention.

And uncertainty about the thieves was only the first link in a murky chain. If the thieves who stole The Scream The Scream in the first place had since bartered or sold it to someone else, then any theories about who had originally done what, and why, were all beside the point. in the first place had since bartered or sold it to someone else, then any theories about who had originally done what, and why, were all beside the point.

Once they had sorted through the false leads of the anti-abortion activists and a slew of time-consuming but fruitless tips, the Norwegian police focused on Oslo's small criminal community. In comparison with London or New York, Oslo was cozy and safe-the city's population hovered at around half a million-but serious crime, much of it heroin-related, had encroached even on Norway. At the center of the criminal scene in the 1990s was a group called the Tveita Gang, which was about 200 strong and closely linked with criminals outside Norway. At the center of the gang was a raffish young crook named Pl Enger.

Enger, who was twenty-six when The Scream The Scream was stolen, had been well-known in Norway since his late teens. He wasn't handsome-he had a big, bent nose and his ears stuck out-but he had a disarming grin and a friendly manner. No one would cast Enger as a movie's romantic lead, but he would do nicely as a charmingly ne'er-do-well best friend. Enger had been a professional soccer player for Valerenga, one of Norway's top teams, and had gone on to become perhaps Norway's best-known criminal. "I was not one of the best [at soccer]," he once told the BBC, "but I was one of the best in the criminal world, and I thought it would be more fun to play on the team where I was best." was stolen, had been well-known in Norway since his late teens. He wasn't handsome-he had a big, bent nose and his ears stuck out-but he had a disarming grin and a friendly manner. No one would cast Enger as a movie's romantic lead, but he would do nicely as a charmingly ne'er-do-well best friend. Enger had been a professional soccer player for Valerenga, one of Norway's top teams, and had gone on to become perhaps Norway's best-known criminal. "I was not one of the best [at soccer]," he once told the BBC, "but I was one of the best in the criminal world, and I thought it would be more fun to play on the team where I was best."

In February 1988 Enger and an accomplice stole a Munch painting, The Vampire The Vampire, from the Munch Museum in Oslo. The police launched an all-out investigation. Within a few days they announced they were close to cracking the case. They weren't.

The months dragged on. Growing desperate, the police at one point even sought help from a psychic. Finally, a break: two men on a train had been spotted carrying The Vampire The Vampire. The police raided their apartment. They spotted the supposed masterpiece at once and groaned in dismay. The painting that an excited tipster had identified as the work of one of the twentieth century's greatest and most tormented artists was nothing of the sort. It was, the police soon learned, a spoof that someone had painted in a couple of hours as a prank, for a bachelor party.

Six months after the theft of The Vampire The Vampire, the police arrested Enger and a second man. He had stolen the painting, Enger said, in the vague hope that "maybe some Arabs would be interested" and he could sell it for a fortune. Enger and his accomplice were convicted and sentenced to four years in prison.

That failed theft hardly seemed the work of a master criminal, but Enger did have at least one genuine skill beyond soccer. He had a gift for publicity, a talent for engaging the police in what amounted to street theater, with the ex-athlete himself in the starring role.

In Enger's glory days, he had featured regularly in newspapers and on television. Now, with his soccer career in the past, it took more ingenuity to gain notice. Enger had developed an array of tricks. One of his favorites was to phone the police anonymously and warn them that Enger was up to something shady: Pl Enger had been seen, Enger would whisper, with what looked to be stolen goods. If the police showed up, Enger would howl that he was being hara.s.sed. Then he would report the mistreatment to his lawyer, the lawyer would call in the media, and, if all went well, the ex-con would wake to find his name-and, better, his face-splashed across Norway's newsstands and television screens.

With his conviction for stealing The Vampire The Vampire, Enger was a natural suspect when The Scream The Scream vanished. He had an alibi for the time of the theft, though, and the police had no evidence against him. Enger thrived on the attention. At the National Gallery, he posed for photographers by the spot where vanished. He had an alibi for the time of the theft, though, and the police had no evidence against him. Enger thrived on the attention. At the National Gallery, he posed for photographers by the spot where The Scream The Scream had hung, next to the poster and the handwritten "Stolen" notice that had replaced it. "I didn't steal had hung, next to the poster and the handwritten "Stolen" notice that had replaced it. "I didn't steal The Scream," The Scream," he insisted. "I had nothing to do with the theft." he insisted. "I had nothing to do with the theft."

But as the police scanned tapes from the National Gallery's security cameras, they noticed a familiar figure in the swirling crowd of visitors to the Munch exhibit. Five days before the theft, there was Enger.

Perfectly true, the thief happily agreed, when the police brought him in for questioning. Why shouldn't he visit an exhibit that was the biggest thing to hit Oslo in years? He was, after all, on record as an admirer of Munch.

The cops sighed wearily. Sooner or later, they had learned, Enger was sure to do his best to thrust his way into any case that was likely to draw attention. Like the parents of an incorrigible toddler, the Norwegian police had grown to tolerate what they could not seem to prevent.