Hot Art (42 page)

We met at the Coffee Mill, a Hungarian restaurant in Yorkville, not far from a gallery that had been burglarized in a smash and grab a few weeks earlier. It had made headlines in the
Toronto Star.
When Czegledi arrived, she was carrying a press package from Interpol. She placed a photograph on the table. It showed a group of about a dozen people from countries around the world standing in the grand atrium of the international police headquarters in Lyon. There she was on the left-hand side of the photo. Czegledi had been asked to become a member of Interpol's new stolen cultural property think tank.

“So you've made it all the way to the top of the international law-enforcement system,” I smiled. “How long did that take?”

“Only a decade,” she said. “I think it can help get things done. It's a step toward changing things.” I thought back: she'd joined the American Bar Association Cultural Property Committee in 2000 and the International Bar Association Cultural Property Committee in 2001; in 2004, she'd opened her own law offices and become the co-chair of the aba Cultural Property Committee. It was clear when we met that she was determined to move up the ranks, to learn, and, as corny as it may sound, to change the world. Now she was associated with Interpol, the highest vantage point on the global law-enforcement totem.

I looked at the picture again, of the group standing on the Interpol insignia, which is embedded into the floor like the cia logo in movies. Then I asked her what they'd discussed at that meeting.

“Here's the thing. . . I can't tell you,” she said, and paused. “But if you go to the website, you can see the press release.” Then she added, “They are very careful with security.” Czegledi mentioned that while she was at Interpol, she'd put in a good word for me. I told her I'd emailed them and they had declined to be interviewed. “I'm not sure if they'll talk to you,” she said. “They don't talk to a lot of press. But you could try emailing them again.” Her advice was correct, and Karl-Heinz Kind granted me an interview. It was the last interview I conducted for this book.

Czegledi and I had first met just days after the United States had invaded Iraq—me with my empty notebook. A few days after our meeting in Yorkville, Osama bin Laden was killed. I watched the celebrations on
TV
that night, live from Washington, D.C., and New York. At Bonnie Magness-Gardiner's office, at the Hoover Building, the word “deceased” was added to bin Laden's photo on the wall in the lobby. Interpol removed him from its most-wanted list. It was strange now to think of the domino effect bin Laden had had on the world of art theft, starting with the invasions of Afghanistan and then Iraq, the pillaging of that country's cultural heritage, and the formation of the
FBI
Art Crime Team—the art detectives of tomorrow.

Before Czegledi had moved to Europe, I'd asked the lawyer the same question I'd asked every member of the law-enforcement community: Are you training someone to replace you? Czegledi thought about it for a moment.

“No,” she said, and gave me a strange look, as if I was missing the point. Our conversation on art theft had been running for more than seven years. Then she asked, “Is your book almost finished, or what?”

After I had been learning from Czegledi for a few years, she presented me at the end of one of our meetings with an antique bronze key. “It's from France. I collect them,” she said. “I give them to people I trust.” The key was heavy, and it looked as if it had once unlocked a giant door, somewhere far away. When I got home I placed it on a shelf in my kitchen, above the table where I write. It's now a piece of art in my home, and it's worth more to me than its monetary value. From Paul's perspective, it probably wouldn't be the prize—if anyone ever comes knocking.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

S
AMANTHA HAYWOOD
, an extraordinary agent and friend. Trena White, a skilled and dedicated editor, and the team at Douglas & McIntyre. My family: Martin Knelman, Bernadette Sulgit, and Sara Knelman. Catherine Osborne, who sent me to investigate a local art gallery burglary; Tom Fennell, who edited the
Walrus
feature; and Christopher Flavelle, who fact-checked that feature. Jess Atwood Gibson, and the Pelee Island sessions. Rachel Harry, who lent me her courage. For guidance and support: Siri Agrell, Shelley Ambrose, Garvia Bailey, David Berlin, Sarah Cooper, Antonio De Luca, Hilary Doyle, John Fraser and Massey College, Graeme Gibson, Jeremy Keehn, Judith Knelman, Deborah Kirshner, Douglas Knight, Anna Luengo, Dave McGinn, Erin Oke, Sylvia Ostry, Jeff Parker, Martin Patriquin, Eric Pierni, Richard Poplak, Rosalind Porter, Graham Roumieu, Bernard Schiff, Jack Shapiro, Paul Wilson, Fiona Wright. The works of Michael Mann and of David Simon, for structure and inspiration. Terence Byrnes, my teacher. Marci McDonald, an investigative journalist who leads by example. Margaret Atwood, for wisdom, and who told me at the right moment: “The only way out is through.” Most of all, thank you to those who were generous with their time and allowed me extensive access to their lives and thoughts, without whom this book would not exist: Bonnie Czegledi, Ricardo St. Hilaire, Richard Ellis, Donald Hrycyk, and Paul Hendry.

HILARY DOYLE

J
OSHUA KNELMAN is an award-winning journalist and editor. He was a founding editorial member of
The Walrus
magazine, and his writing has appeared in
Toronto Life,
Saturday Night,
the
National Post,
and the
Globe and Mail.
Knelman's feature article “Artful Crimes” in
The Walrus
won a gold National Magazine Award. Knelman is also the co-editor of
Four Letter Word: New Love Letters
, which has sold in ten countries. He lives in Toronto.