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London, England
Monday, August 18
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ART THEFT IS the third highest-grossing criminal activity in the world, right behind drugs and weapons.
Acquiring masterpieces through illegal means isn’t carried out merely for riches. It is much more sinister than that. It is the theft of beauty, of history, and of genius; the stealing of one man’s vision to satisfy another man’s baseness; the raiding of exaltations in exchange for selfishness; the pilfering of magnificence; the degradation of civilization; the denial of the divine rights of all men. Quite simply, stealing art is a crime against humanity.
Had it been written in scripture, it would have been the Eleventh Commandment. Thou shalt not steal the works of man for the works of man are the works of God, so sayeth the Lord.
Only a small percentage of stolen art is ever recovered. Those masterpieces that are returned to their rightful owners have been hidden in basements and vaults and private galleries for decades, unseen by the public, and unavailable to connoisseurs who can only admire their former glory from faded photographs. When this or that work is recovered and restored, it is widely acknowledged by reasonable people that riches are not enough to fill the empty souls of misshapen men.
Simon Brodey was one of those men. He had always been a connoisseur of both talent and beauty. An oil painting or marble sculpture or ancient artifact often married both attributes into a pleasing array of evocativeness, where utility, shape, vision, color, and craft were combined into a tour de force. Having majored in fine arts at George Washington University, Simon knew something about painting. Then he turned his talents to hacking. Coding started as a pastime. Before he knew it, he traded paintbrushes for phishing and phreaking. It paid the bills but did not satisfy his innermost desires.
If he couldn’t paint, he decided, he could deal.
After setting up house in Westminster, he attended shows and galleries, acquainted himself with the local art scene, and acquired an intuitive feel for who was legitimate and who was shady. At one of the galleries, where the art was trifling but the attendees were not, he hobnobbed with acquirers of fine taste. There, he struck up a conversation with the head of a multinational banking concern whose tastes ran to the eclectic and whose mistress of the moment was a flashy bauble hanging onto her benefactor’s arm. Simon was invited to accompany them to an upcoming charity gala as their guest.
He dressed for the occasion. Wardrobe was essential, including the shiny accessory dangling from his arm, a charming lady whose hourly fee was astronomical but whose personality and native good looks drew attention ... yearning on the part of men and jealousy on the part of women. Simon himself didn’t have to be handsome or erudite. He only had to pretend he was by the clothes he wore and the company he kept. His clothes were tailor-made. The company he kept was also tailor-made. Her name was Amber, which matched both her eyes and her hair. She was dressed in designer wear, which showed off her luscious body and set off her magnificent tresses, parted down the middle and hanging just below her shoulders. She was the trophy. He was the trophy buyer, or in this case, borrowed for an evening of splendor to be followed by a night of acrobats. Simon used her once before. She more than lived up to the promise of her keepers. She even acquiesced to his taste for Asian attire, even if she wasn’t. Together, they were a hit.
Having made a splash with pithy comments and the bauble on his arm, the London art scene became his oyster. From that point forward, he only needed to find the pearl within: the singular contact who would introduce him to the upper crust of London society.
At one of the gallery openings for a bourgeois painter possessed of meager artistry but unique vision, which combined bold paint strokes, clashing color choices, and avant-garde subjects, Simon was with Amber as usual. The hostess of the shindig was a woman of no artistic talent. She didn’t have to be talented. She only needed a winning personality, the gift for gab, a knack for schmoozing, and the pluck to make flamboyant statements whether true or not, so long as it sounded as if she knew what she was talking about. Her stocky body type was unappealing, yet she had a way of carrying herself that invited stares. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have been noticeable. But her bright red hair—cut in the shape of a parasol—made her unique. There was a brashness about her that Simon found appealing. She was loud-mouthed and loudly dressed and constantly aware of her surroundings, particularly of men who cast covetous glances her way. She caught Simon on her hook and reeled him in. It didn’t take much. He was equally interested in her, from her maroon lipstick to her startling blue eyes, and finally to the spicy way she looked him over with the camera lens of those eyes. Snap, snap, snap, and within seconds, she had the make, model, year, and specs of Simon Digby-Jones, almost as if she were reading a brochure.
Amber nodded in the girl’s direction. “She likes you.”
“Not my type.”
“She’s exactly your type. Do you want me to disappear?”
“Not quite yet. Let’s wait.”
They waited, strolling around the gallery with other patrons, drinking champagne and munching hors d’oeuvres, and making insipid comments about various artworks.
Eventually the girl came over, saying, “This isn’t his best. I’ll show you the one that is. He doesn’t think so. But I do. I can probably negotiate a deal for you.” She guided them to a corner of the gallery, around a pillar, and into an alcove. “What do you think?”
Depicting a woman who looked familiar, nude and unabashed, the painting was in the Mondrian style, the shapes and colors arranged in a fanciful pattern, umbrellas serving as the central motif.
“Her hair should be red,” Simon remarked. “Not black.”
“It was done when during my black period. His black period, too.” She laughed a hearty laugh, with her mouth open and her head thrown back. She wasn’t being affectatious. This is who she was. She introduced herself with an extended hand. “Molly Steward. And you are ...?”
“Simon Digby-Jones.” Her skin was smooth and silky, and her eyes hypnotic. He couldn’t look away.
“Ooh, straightlaced as they come. I like my men straightlaced. You’re American, aren’t you?”
“How did you guess?”
“Your accent gave you away. It’s what Americans think we Brits sound like. You can drop it for yours truly.”
“Even if you’re not French?”
She laughed heartily. “I do believe I like you, Simon Digby-Jones. I think I like you just fine.”
Amber leaned close. Gave him an eyeful and a knowing smile that said everything. And coolly meandered away.
Molly noticed the byplay and gave him a knowing smile of her own. “Your date ... she’s not a connoisseur?”
Amber was taking a passing interest in a large canvas of a street scene featuring the same model as the umbrella painting. Simon knew she wasn’t into art and didn’t have the vaguest notion of what separated genius from amateur.
“She understands the dynamics,” he said.
Molly assumed a gay expression. “You mean money?”
“She’s very practical.”
“Like me. Like you.”
“She’s a woman of many talents.”
“I’ll bet she is.” She glanced around, pondering, relying on her intuition, or whatever women relied on when picking up a man in the presence of the woman he came with. The tautness of her smile disappeared and became dazzling. “I’m wrapping up here in a bit. Can you hang around?”
She didn’t wait for his answer but turned away and sidled up to a patron dripping in diamonds.
