Priceless (39 page)

I’d already read the French police file and knew the story well. But as Patrick related his tale, I reacted with awe at his cleverness and derring-do.

As a favor to Pierre, I began by pushing hard for the Sisley and Monet. Pierre sought these above the others because they were property of the French national government, on loan from the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. The Brueghels were owned by the city of Nice and less valuable.

Patrick opened the negotiation by valuing the paintings at $40 million. I told him he was crazy, that the four paintings were worth no more than $5 million on the open market, which meant they were worth $500,000 tops on the black market. We negotiated for more than ninety minutes in the foul hotel room, with its dingy drapes and air stale with cigarette smoke. The air conditioner didn’t work and I didn’t dare flip on the ceiling fan because I worried it might gum up the hidden camera and microphone.

Patrick was a fierce negotiator and I found myself in an unusual position. In other cases—with the Rembrandt in Copenhagen, the Geronimo headdress in Philadelphia, the Koplowitz paintings in Madrid—I’d been able to offer any amount, knowing I’d never
have to pay the money. But here, it was possible we might let the money for the Nice paintings walk—
if we were near certain it would lead to the Gardner paintings
.

As the afternoon waned, Patrick dropped his offer from $4 million to $3 million. Patrick was hungry to cash in. He’d planned this great heist, pulled it off, and all he had to show for it was four pretty pictures that could land him back in prison. He’d said he’d left the Nice paintings in France and had come only to talk. But what he if was lying? What if he had the paintings close by? Could he be tempted by a bag of cash? And what of the Gardner paintings?

I threw out a couple of options.

What if I gave Patrick $50,000 cash on the spot for the four Nice paintings with the balance due after I sold them? If I didn’t sell them, I told Patrick, I’d return the paintings and he could keep the $50,000. He said no.

OK, I said, what if I gave him the $50,000 for just the Monet and Sisley? He could keep the other two while I tried to sell them. Again, Patrick said no.

I gave it one last try and swung for the fences. On the chance that Sunny had lied, and that Patrick somehow had access to the Gardner paintings, I made a proposal. I pointed to my friends from Miami on the bed and told Patrick that they had a boat moored on the coast here, ready to smuggle the paintings back to Florida. Now, I said, Sunny knows I’ve got $30 million sitting in the bank, cash ready to be wired the moment I receive the Vermeer, the Rembrandt, and the other Boston paintings. So while I’m here, I said, why don’t we just do that deal too, and put all the paintings on the boat?

Sunny looked away from both of us, quiet. Patrick switched from French to English. He said, “You want Vermeer? I’ll get you Vermeer.”

“Can you get it?” I asked.

“No problem,” he said confidently. “I get anything you want. I
find you one. There are many Vermeer.” He was offering to steal one for me.

“No, I don’t want a new one—they’re too hot,” I said. “I want an old one, missing for many years.”

Patrick nodded. “I sell you paintings from Nice. Then we talk more with Sunny.”

“Right,” I said. “OK.” So Patrick had no access to the Gardner paintings. But Sunny, I still believed, was using the Nice sale to test me. If I could win his trust with this buy, we still had a chance.

Patrick and I negotiated for another hour and finally settled on a tentative price for the Nice paintings, a little less than $3 million.

Patrick took a long drag on his cigarette. He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth, toward the translator. In English, he said, “Bob, very important, we would like business but very quiet business. You understand what I say?”

“I understand.”

“Very, very quiet.”

“Silencieux,”
I said.

“Voilà,”
Patrick said and stubbed out his cigarette.

A
FTER
B
ARCELONA
, I never saw Sunny or Patrick again.

We spoke by phone in code but once we settled on the price I told them to work out the logistics with the undercover FBI agents in Miami. I was a financier, I explained, not a smuggler.

Four months later, when Patrick and a French friend visited Sunny in South Florida, I told them I was too busy to see them. My colleagues in Miami treated Sunny, Patrick, and their friends to one last party aboard
The Pelican
, and they set the final handover of the Nice paintings for June in Marseilles. The French were still refusing to allow me or any other FBI agents to go undercover in Marseilles, and Sunny knew better than to meet with anyone but me. Luckily, Patrick was calling the shots now, and he was dumb and desperate
enough to agree to deal with my buyer in Marseilles—who was, of course, a SIAT agent, a member of the French undercover police.

The final takedown was imminent.

O
N THE MORNING
of June 4, 2008, a blue Peugeot van pulled out of a garage in Carry-le-Rouet, a tiny coastal Riviera town west of Marseilles. A compact beige jalopy followed close behind, Patrick at the wheel.

Undercover French officers watching nearby radioed ahead, noting that the van was heading southeast, as expected. The vehicles wove through downtown Marseilles on side streets, doubling back to avoid detection in Wednesday morning rush-hour traffic. But they did not shake Pierre’s surveillance men. How could they? The French police knew precisely where they were headed. The thieves were on their way to meet a SIAT agent, a man they believed to be working for me.

When the van and the jalopy reached the old harbor, they headed for the Corniche John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the picturesque road that hugs the rocky Riviera coast, rising fifty feet above the lapping waves of the glimmering Mediterranean Sea. The gangsters with the paintings came armed for battle. One of the men in the van brought an automatic weapon. In the small car that followed, Patrick carried a Colt .45 under his jacket. His passenger, a hulking man with shoulder-length blond hair, gripped a Czech-made hand grenade.

The vehicles snaked their way past the four-star Pullman Marseille Palm Beach, a mod-style hotel cut into the seaside beneath the roadway. Pierre and a small army of French police officers were coordinating the sting from the Pullman, two hundred meters from the takedown site, staffing a command center with a SWAT team and, in case it was necessary, a suitcase full of euros.

Beyond the Pullman, the thieves’ cars rolled into a valley flanked by curved public beaches and a dog track, and anchored by a series
of boardwalk by-the-sea pubs and shops, a spot the police chose because it was easy to block all exits. It was still early—the morning sun still growing from the eastern hills, casting a warm orange glow across the wind-whipped beach—and so the thieves found plenty of free parking on the street.

Patrick and his friend with the grenade stepped out on the sidewalk and stretched, fifty meters from the sea. The guys in the van stayed put.

The French undercover officer waiting to authenticate the paintings began walking down the sidewalk, toward Patrick. The cop was alone, but plenty of colleagues wandered nearby in disguise—sweeping a storefront, walking a dog, sitting at a bus stop.

The thieves and the cop met by the beach.

Over the radio, someone gave the order.

A force of twenty policemen converged, weapons drawn and with overwhelming force, tackling Patrick, the friend with the grenade and—well done!—the undercover cop, too, preserving his identity and possibly mine.

I
T WAS 2 A.M
. in Philadelphia, but Pierre called anyway to fill me in. The French police found all four paintings in the blue van. They were in good condition.

He asked me about Sunny and Laurenz.

Laurenz wouldn’t be charged with a crime, I said, because he wasn’t involved in the Nice deal.

Sunny would be arrested at dawn at his home near Fort Lauderdale, I said. The press releases would start flowing in the afternoon.

A
MERICAN GRAND JURY
indictments can be written two ways.

There is a short form: A one- or two-page double-spaced vague statement of the law violated. The short form is preferred when the
case is routine or when the government wants to deflect attention from an ongoing undercover aspect of the case.

Then there is the long-form indictment: A multipage, detailed document with a long narrative, a “speaking indictment” that summarizes the crime and every meeting between the accused and the undercover officers. Prosecutors almost always use the long-form indictment when they plan to convene a press conference. They do this because the rules require them to stick to the facts contained in the indictment. The more titillating facts they stuff into the indictment, the more they can repeat in front of the television cameras.

I didn’t see the American paperwork in the Nice case until after the indictment was unsealed and the press release went out.

I was disappointed but not surprised. Although Sunny was charged with just one felony count, prosecutors detailed the case in a long-form indictment that included my role as an undercover agent. The prosecutors didn’t mention the link to the Gardner investigation, or use my name, but the way they wrote it, they might as well have. If Sunny’s associates truly held the Gardner paintings in Europe, they now knew to never trust me, or anyone else connected to Sunny. The public indictment, posted on the Internet, left no doubt that I was an undercover FBI agent.

Angry, I called Pierre to let him know of the screwup.

Pierre said, “Like I say, everybody wants a piece of the cake and wants to have their face in the picture.” Everyone wanted credit.

We joked about supervisors for a few moments, and I reminded him that he was on his way to making general. We spoke about when we might see each other next, dancing around the big question.

Finally, I said, “Pierre, do you think we had a chance?”

“You mean for the Boston paintings?”

“Yeah.”

“Absolument,”
he said. “We have a good idea who has them. We know to whom Sunny was speaking. But now that we arrest Sunny and say Bob is FBI, the case is gone. We will not have this chance again for many years. Perhaps you will get to try again?”

“No, I’m done,” I said. “I retire in three months.”

“Who will take your place?”

I hesitated because the query hit a raw nerve. I was eager to help train and brief my replacement, but the FBI didn’t seem to be grooming anyone.

I said, “I don’t know, Pierre. I don’t know. It’s a good question.”

U
NDERCOVER WORK IS BY NATURE OFTEN SENSITIVE
and dangerous. For me, the risks were part of the job, and the thieves I arrested now know my true identity. They do not, however, know everything, and I think it’s best left that way. Most of all, I don’t want to jeopardize the fellow law-enforcement officers and others who risked their lives to help me. Many of the criminals we caught are not gentlemen thieves; they are thugs who I fear would not hesitate to retaliate against my friends. To protect my colleagues’ identities and to protect certain FBI methods, I have omitted or slightly altered a handful of details. The essence of what happened remains unchanged.

Priceless
is a memoir, not an autobiography or exposé. It’s my version of what happened—no one else’s. Much of this book is based on what I recall. My collaborator, John Shiffman, and I strived to reconstruct events as accurately as possible. We reviewed news accounts, government reports, art crime books, art history books, personal notes, video, photographs, and receipts—as well as official and unofficial documents and transcripts. We revisited crime scenes and museums in the United States and Europe. To re-create dialogue during several stings, we reviewed surveillance audio, video, and transcripts. We also leaned on friends and family to help re-create conversations and provide critical context. I thank them again for helping me craft a memoir that hews as closely as possible to the truth.

October 5, 1979
.

S
INCE WE OPENED EVERY CHAPTER WITH A DATE
,
IT
makes sense to begin the acknowledgments with the most important date in my life—the day I met my wife, Donna, the person without whom I would not be the man I am today. She has led when I followed, given me her strength when I was weak, and carried me when I couldn’t walk, through trial and tribute. Without her, the stories in this book and the lines of my life could not have been written. Thank you, my love, for choosing and believing in me for all of these years. We have lived this tale together.

My three children—mature, quiet, and studious Kevin; boisterous, outgoing, and sure-of-himself Jeffrey; intelligent, beautiful, apple of my eye Kristin—have been a grand source of inspiration. They have taught me many things, not the least of which is the importance of staying focused to devotion to a cause, and to family. I am proud to say they are all better people than me. My parents, Robert and Yachiyo Wittman; my brother, William D. Wittman and his wife, Robin; and my uncle Jack Wittman and his wife, Doris, taught me to aim high and encouraged me to pursue my ambitions. Thanks also to Donna’s family—her mother, Geraldine, and father, William T. Goodhand Sr.; her brother, William T. Goodhand Jr., and his wife, Susan—who stood by me during the bad times as well as the good.

This book would not have been possible without the help of many individuals. First and foremost is John Shiffman, my cowriter. He is brilliant and I think this will be the start of a long and successful book-writing career for him. It was my pleasure to help him fulfill a dream. His wife, Catherine Dunn Shiffman, worked diligently to ensure that we stayed on course and kept the book accessible. My agent, Larry Weissman, and his partner, Sascha Alper, who believed in me and the project from the beginning, were instrumental in seeing it through. Rick Horgan and Julian Pavia, my editors at Crown, are true gentlemen and made many insightful edits and excellent suggestions.