Artifice Read online

  “It seems Horst Schendler`s name is frequently mentioned when important pieces of art suddenly go missing from museums, or disappear from private collections. But nothing has ever been found to incriminate the man. Nevertheless, the Swiss authorities keep an ever-watchful eye on Herr Schendler`s movements.”

  We made our way back to Tamworth`s office. A young woman was busy on a keyboard in the other part of the L-shaped room.

  “So what is Schendler`s background? How would he know so much about the theft of art and cultural artefacts stolen by the Nazis?”

  “Perhaps, you are not aware that he is a died-in-the-wool German. He is not Swiss, though he could be mistaken for Russian. He was much involved with them in earlier years.

  “Let me give you a quick rundown of his past life. Horst Schendler is fifty five. He tries to cast himself in the mould of the aristocratic teuton of yesteryear. The inbuilt disdain for his fellowman evident in the curling lip, the gaze in his cold, grey eyes, searching and dismissive. Though not immediately obvious, he does bear the semblance of a Heidelberg scar on his right cheek. Those acquainted with him – bear in mind, no one knows him well – glimpse someone who is calculating, well-read, and intelligent. Few are aware that he is also highly unscrupulous.

  “Born in the Walderstrasse quarter of Leipzig in the days of separation, Schendler had the good fortune to attend the Moscow State University at the same time as Vladimir Potanin. When Potanin became a Communist Party official, regulating overseas trade in the 1980s, he employed Schendler to undertake roving commissions, including dealings with banks in Zurich and Vaduz. Schendler learned his craft well. When Potanin founded the Oneximbank, Schendler helped establish the bank`s subsidiary in Switzerland. Predictably, in the process, he amassed his own sizeable fortune.”

  Tamworth sipped his coffee.

  “I have learned from various sources, mainly the more dubious side of the law, that Schendler`s interest in cultural artefacts stemmed from his encounter with one Bedros Azadian, an Armenian selling such articles. At that time they were mainly Roman and Greek rings, bracelets, cups, bowls, and statuettes. Horst enquired after larger pieces, and Azadian started providing animal and human figurines, modelled human skulls, and statues acquired from the archaeological site of 'Ain Ghazal, a Neolithic settlement near Amman in Jordan. From this, Schendler gradually built up his discreet trade in ancient artefacts, fine art and jewellery.”

  Tamworth continued. “I found out, from someone who lives in Vitznau, that Schendler saw the house he wanted and created such problems for the then owner, he was glad to sell it at a ridiculously low price. I`ve had a close look at it. It`s a large property, set in about three hectares of stout perimeter walling. It comes complete with far-reaching views across Lake Lucerne, and a helicopter landing pad. He uses this to fly to Zurich, Vaduz, and on occasion to Milan. Sometimes he takes a helicopter across the lake, though most often he goes by launch to Buochs Airport, where he keeps a twin-engined Piper Seneca for travel to more distant parts.

  “I think I mentioned,” said Tamworth, “he has quite a few people working for him. A recent appointment has been someone of a similar mindset, a fellow called Peter Engel. Or should I say Pyotr Engelgardt. Another highly dubious character from Moscow. Schendler would do well to watch his back.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, he has people, agents, working in many of the key European cities. They feed information back to Schendler about items he might like to acquire, their location, and their vulnerability to theft. Schendler masterminds their release, and seeks out potential buyers.

  “A useful summary, Mr Tamworth. I think… ”

  “Why don`t you call me Roger? It`s shorter, trips more easily off the tongue.”

  I nodded. “I`m Alan. So tell me, Roger, should I accept that the four paintings belong to him, or is he playing games now my grandfather is dead?”

  “They`re probably his. Or rather, stolen from some institution or individual who can`t call in the police because they were stolen to order in the first place. What I didn`t mention, Alan, is that the Swiss contacts I spoke to believe Schendler has also been party to several killings. There isn`t any proof. He probably had others do the dirty work, but the police have very strong suspicions. So, if you are going to hold back on the paintings, be aware that you might be added to his hit list.”

  “Hmm… good point. I have the paintings at the moment, and they are safely tucked away.”

  I did not mention where they were safely tucked away. They were in the apartment in London.

  “They could well be stolen property, and were handed over to my grandfather for safe keeping until the heat died down,” I ventured. “Though, I haven`t heard reports of their theft, so in all likelihood the people they were taken from can`t afford to call in the authorities. I wonder what would happen if I gave them to Schendler?”

  I answered the question myself. “I suppose I would be breaking the law, committing an act of commission, even dragged into his future schemes.”

  Chapter 9

  “He will be arriving at the hotel in New York on the twenty third, four days from now… No, the sword will be delivered to his suite the following day, so may I suggest you wait until then, Mr Franchetti… what hotel? The Plaza on Fifth Avenue. . . Not at all, sir, goodbye.”

  Smiling to himself, Peter Engel put down the receiver of the public telephone in Lucerne railway station. An untraceable call. Now to catch the train to Basel and the TVG to Paris with the artefact tucked safely in his overnight bag.

  *

  At the Gare de Lyon, he took a taxi to the sixteenth arrondissement, and alighted before an elegant nineteenth century building shielded from Avenue Foch by tall iron railings.

  Shown into the salon by a manservant, he was informed the gentleman would be with him shortly, and asked if he would welcome any refreshment.

  “Not at that moment,” Engel replied.

  Ten minutes later the door opened to admit a short, full-figured man. As he walked towards him, Engel noticed he dragged one leg slightly. Close up his round face was surmounted by thick, grey hair, and underlined by a well-tended goatee beard.

  “Monsieur Engel, I am pleased to meet you. You are delivering the trinket, I believe.”

  The collector smiled and rubbed his hands.

  Engel opened the overnight bag and carefully removed an object in a thick, blanket-like wrapping. He peeled back the layers to reveal the `trinket` - an early Egyptian basalt bust of Tuthmosis lll, set on a delicate marble stand. It was no more than twelve centimetres in height, yet Engel knew that at auction it had sold for a quarter of a million dollars.

  The collector almost drooled over the bust as he took it in his hands.

  “I`ve coveted this for the past twenty years, and now, at last, it is mine. It`s remarkable, isn`t it? Such craftmanship, such skill. Tell Monsieur Schendler I am in his debt.”

  Then his features portrayed a degree of anxiety.

  “No one will come and take this from me, will they? I mean it is now mine, is it not? I paid good money for this ancient relic.”

  “No, you have our word, Monsieur. As long as you do not flaunt it in public.”

  “No one… at least only very few, will admire it among my collection. Tell me, I want to add a painting to my gallery. Could you possibly arrange such an acquisition?”

  “Which one do you have in mind, Monsieur LeMaître?”

  “I want to acquire one of Henri Rousseau`s jungle paintings. He is a painter I have long admired.”

  Chapter 10

  “Come in Mr Schendler. You are just in time. They are about to show the news on television. Come, sit by me.”

  Horst Schendler was not in the mood to be pleasant. He had been in his hotel suite, waiting to supply a Japanese businessman with a seventeenth century Katana Samurai sword, when the door had burst open and three dark-suited men walked in. Schendler knew immediately whom they represented.

  “We want you to come with us, Mr S
chendler.”

  “Sorry, not at the moment. I am awaiting a visitor.”

  They advanced on him and lifted him bodily from the low chair. He was a big man, weighing over two hundred pounds, yet it was done effortlessly.

  “You have ten seconds to decide to come quietly. Which is it to be?” said the leader of the trio. The soft tone gave notice of their intentions more effectively than a raised voice.

  “OK… OK… I`ll get my coat.”

  *

  Schendler took the proffered chair. The guards arranged themselves in the background, standing in front of the doors and windows.

  “So, Herr Schendler, what do you think we shall learn from these archaeological exploits?” questioned Signor Franchetti. “I wonder what they will say about the missing find?”

  Schendler frowned. “I’ve no idea. I expect they’ll say they only discovered one of them.”

  “Do you know, I don’t believe they will. You see I was listening to an earlier news report. The presenter referred to two items. Now, Herr Schendler, how can that be when I have one of them? Tell me.”

  “There must be some mistake. Without doubt you’ve got an authenticated version. The provenance says so.”

  “Yes, the provenance was very convincing. However, I am led to believe analysis of the clay used in its creation seemingly suggests it is a recent copy. How do you answer that?”

  Schendler felt the floor give way beneath him.

  “Er… if it… were a fake, naturally I would return your money. But it’s not! It can’t be!”

  He was grasping at straws.

  “Just watch the TV, Herr Schendler.”

  It was the highlight of the national news programme. They devoted much of the allotted time to the events that had taken place. Significantly, the camera zoomed in on two antiquities. The presenter asked the obvious question.

  “You`re sure these are the real deal? They are the actual clay objects discovered on the mount?”

  “Without a shadow of doubt,” confirmed the expert. “In fact we were burgled early on in our studies. Fortunately, the thieves mistakenly took one of the pieces we had made to test ancient methods of drying and hardening the clay.”

  Schendler`s world shrank around him. He had, unknowingly, foisted a counterfeit on the collector.

  “Mein Gott! I didn’t know it! I didn`t know it wasn`t the real thing!”

  “I believe you, my friend,” murmured Franchetti. “But you have upset me. I’ll tell you why. Passing off a fake, strangely enough I regard as caveat emptor. The price one sometimes pays for naïveté. But you see, I boasted to my friends that I’d acquired one of the original pair. Now they`ll know I’ve been fooled by a German in a shiny suit. Even that I might have forgiven.”

  He stood up suddenly, and raised a finger.

  “But these recent revelations I can`t forgive. The item you sold me was, I thought, an honest symbol of the divine hand. The announcement that they are nothing like the commands on which we base our beliefs has caused me to question my religion. Where would we be in this world without the strength of our religion, eh? What kind of world is it where God`s commandments turn out not to be worth the clay they are written on? We heed the doctrines handed down to us, Herr Schendler. For that we need certainty. We need a God we can believe in. You, and others, have been instrumental in destroying my religious convictions. For that there is a price to pay.”

  He nodded to his guards, and stalked from the room.

  *

  The news flash first appeared on Eyewitness News, on WABC –TV`s lunchtime transmission. Thereafter, the news item was picked up by most of the other channels.

  `A decapitated body had been discovered on the banks of the Hudson River in upstate New York, near the town of Mariandale. It was not so much the fact that the head had been gruesomely severed from the body, but the fact that the murder weapon, held vertically in the victim’s hands, was a priceless Katana Samurai sword.`

  *

  “Not at all, Mr Franchetti . . .It was only right that you should know. . . Of course, sir, it would be a pleasure to do business with you. Good night, sir.”

  Despite being woken at three o`clock in the morning, Peter Engel was delighted to receive the call. Schendler`s removal had been calculated even before their meeting in the Luzerner PrivatBank on Mühlenplatz in Lucerne.

  Having opened an account, Engel had persuaded the assistant bank manager, with a two hundred Franc note, to introduce him to Schendler.

  Horst Schendler was surprised that the pair had so much in common.

  When they met the third time, Schendler offered Engel a job. He knew as much as Schendler about the money market, its movement, off-shore banking, rapid transfer and, the art of laundering. With his devotion to acquisition and trading in precious items, Engel could be a most welcome addition, acting as his money-man.

  Schendler believed him to be a German like himself. He had cultivated his Berlin accent, and woven a story of his birth and education in the city. All very plausible, and what few checks were made did little to reveal his true origins.

  In fact, Peter Engel, originally, Pyotr Engelgardt, was a Muscovite. Showing promise at university, he had engineered a well-conceived career path. Coupled with his ambition was a ruthlessness streak, which allowed for no one to stand in his way. While he could be most agreeable in company, a good conversationalist, and lend a ready ear, beneath his exterior charm was a callous disregard for others.

  Initially, he had worked for Boris Berezovsky, one of the more celebrated, Russian entrepreneurs. He readily assumed the role of right hand man, engineering Berezovsky`s links with the rampant corruption in the Russian car industry, and the Chechen Mafia.

  Engelgardt also organised the banking arrangements for Berezovsky, when he financed Viktor Yushchenko’s 2004 Ukrainian presidential election campaign. This was arranged via banks in Liechtenstein where he took up residence.

  In the process, Engelgardt managed to siphon off a sizeable amount from this and other such ventures. However, when Boris Berezovsky told him of his assassination scares, feeling vulnerable, Engelgardt moved himself and his bank accounts from Vaduz to Lucerne, and reappeared as Peter Engel, a Swiss German national.

  Working for Schendler did not stop him from engaging in other pursuits.

  Engel maintained close links with certain Russians, and was instrumental in bringing about Berezovsky`s death, when he was found hanged at his home in Britain in 2013. Not only did he receive monetary reward, he overcame the possibility that his erstwhile employer would discover how much money he had actually diverted into his own accounts.

  However, working for Schendler, while demonstrating his abilities with finance, Engel has neither a deep appreciation of artistic endeavour, nor, seemingly, much of a preparedness to learn.

  *

  His first move was to notify those working for the Schendler organisation that the king was dead, long live the king. Engel was assuming control. All would continue as in the past. He moved into the manor in Vitznau, got rid of the staff working there, and brought in Russian replacements.

  Shortly afterwards, he invited all those involved in the Schendler system of acquiring antiquities, artefacts and fine art, and the many operating in the major cities around the globe, to come to Vitznau for a meeting. What Engel wanted was to identify, close-at-hand, were those who might foment unrest, or create trouble for him now he had assumed Schendler`s mantle as well as all his trappings.

  *

  Nothing came of the meeting. No one presented a threat, thus no one was earmarked for removal. Along with a substantial bonus, those who had a close rapport with clients were to inform them of the changed circumstances, and it would be business as usual, providing the same discreet service.

  Engel now concentrated on following up several new prospects. He had one in particular in mind. Schendler had briefly mentioned a likely commission from a group of like-minded businessmen in the south of France.

&nb
sp; He had found the outline details in Schendler`s safe, to which, unbeknown to his former employer, he had long enjoyed access. Making a call on a satellite phone, he arranged the trip to France, agreeing the day, the time and the place.

  *

  They arrived within twenty minutes of each other. Each time the guards carefully inspected the occupants of the helicopters against their manifests, before allowing them to make the short walk to a large, imposing building.

  Situated on the Avenue Douine in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, it had a view across the bay towards Monte Carlo and Monaco, without being embroiled in the glitz and glamour of the Principality.

  The host welcomed his visitors. He knew each of them personally: friends as well as rivals. They were four Greek shipping magnates, wealthy beyond imagination, and committed to their country - particularly during its current, economic crisis.

  After lunch they settled in a room, ostensibly away from prying eyes and ears. Konstantinos Ioannidis, the tycoon who had brought them together, outlined the reason for calling the meeting. Firstly, as their country`s crisis worsened, their business sector, which controlled almost a quarter of world shipping, still remained untouched by their homeland`s savage, economic downturn. So much so, they were now regarded as pariahs, living in luxury while their fellow countrymen became more and more impoverished.

  However, there was a way to redress the balance. To inject a greater regard by everyone for their country`s traditions, artistic achievements, and business endeavours.

  Ioannidis had a plan, and he was committed to bringing it about. For the moment he was not prepared to give further details, other than to say it would require a great deal of money. Ioannidis was willing to invest a considerable sum in the project; but if all agreed it a worthwhile venture, then it would be appropriate for others to make significant contributions.