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  “How much?”

  “Five thousand pounds.”

  “Not much for a Rembrandt,” the voice laughed.

  “Ours is a poor gallery,” said Waterfield.

  The voice laughed again.

  “May I tell the police?” Waterfield asked.

  “I would prefer not at this moment,” the voice answered. “There is a need for haste, as there is an interested American buyer coming to Europe on the weekend.”

  Waterfield agreed to fly the next day. The voice said he would call back in one hour with further instructions. Water-field hung up the phone and ran all the way to the bursar’s office at Dulwich College, which at that time was responsible for the gallery. The two men decided to ignore the warning and call the police, who agreed to send an officer to the gallery.

  Meanwhile, the voice called back at 11:15 as promised.

  Waterfield had already arranged his flight to Holland. He would arrive at the airport at noon, and the voice instructed him to take the airport bus to the Schiphol Hilton hotel. The bus was free, he added, consolingly.

  “Could you tell me your name?” Waterfield politely inquired.

  “Müller,” said the voice. It was a common German name.

  Müller provided further instructions. Waterfield should go to the reception desk at the Hilton and ask for Mr. Müller. Agreed. Waterfield hung up.

  The police arrived at the gallery too late for that conversation, but now they attached a tape recorder to his phone. This was 1981, and the tape recorder was big, Waterfield remembered. “It was a low-tech offering. Not much of a secret weapon, but it would do.”

  Then the police left him alone. An hour passed, and Water-field suddenly remembered that his passport had expired the week before. “There was a passport strike in progress!” He made a few phone calls. There was something called a Visitor’s Passport that he could pick up at the post office. He rushed around London to get some passport photos, then to the post office. Success. When he returned to the gallery, he found a message from a Detective Chief Inspector Evans, who was requesting a meeting. He went to see the detective.

  DCI Evans had white hair and a relaxed smile. He coached Waterfield on what to say to Müller. “This whole thing could be a hoax,” the detective warned, and in his opinion it probably was. In case it wasn’t, though, the DCI and another police officer would make the trip to Amsterdam as well. Waterfield was relieved. “This James Bond stuff wasn’t my thing,” he said.

  In Holland, the Dutch police would be the active officers; the Brits weren’t going to be allowed even to observe the meeting. The night before the trip, DCI Evans gave Waterfield this advice: “Get a good night’s sleep.” That was not possible.

  The next morning Waterfield flew to Amsterdam. In the arrivals lounge he caught sight of another British detective he had met, a Detective Inspector Sibley, but he pretended not to recognize him in case Müller was watching. Water-field skipped the free bus ride and hailed a taxi. The taxi driver scolded him for not taking the free bus.

  The Hilton lobby was anonymous, comfortable, and not large. At reception Waterfield asked for Mr. Müller. The receptionist paged the German, but there was no sign of anyone. Maybe it was all a hoax? Waterfield started to relax. He walked a few paces away. Then a stranger appeared beside him. “Mr. Waterfield?”

  He recognized the voice.

  Müller was about six feet tall, receding hairline, overweight, rings of sleeplessness under his brown eyes. His style was garish, his jacket and tie brightly coloured. “Orange is what I remember most,” said Waterfield. The stranger steered the gallery director toward the hotel lounge. It was crowded, but oddly, nobody sat near them.

  Müller told Waterfield that he had a wife and children and that his wife was worried. It was a nice touch, a personal detail that put Waterfield at ease. Maybe this man was just trying to be honest and helpful. Maybe he was just trying to get Waterfield’s painting back. Müller said exactly that: he was an honest businessman who wanted to help the gallery director, and he was prepared to co-operate with the police, but not at this point.

  Müller said he felt he deserved 10 per cent of the painting’s value as a finder’s fee. Ten per cent was the number that Paul had told me dealers received as a hooky price for high-profile stolen items. Like Paul, Müller was a middleman, but he had decided to play a much higher-stakes game than Paul ever would. As Paul pointed out, “You don’t want to do anything that will attract the attention of law enforcement, or the media.” The Rembrandt theft had already done both.

  “I’m not used to dealing with stolen property,” Müller told Waterfield. Müller said that he had been contacted by an intermediary but that even the intermediary did not have the picture. Someone else did—someone he didn’t know.

  “I’ve now seen reports in German and Dutch newspapers suggesting that the value of the painting is one million pounds. One hundred thousand pounds seems like a suitable sum,” Müller said.

  “Is that your price?” Waterfield snapped a little too quickly. The director was repelled.

  “Yes,” Müller answered. “We must hurry as the American buyer coming this weekend is prepared to pay one million dollars. This should be sorted out by the weekend. I would prefer you to have the painting because of my concern for the gallery.”

  Waterfield probed, just as DCI Evans had instructed him: “I need proof that the picture is available before I can persuade my chairman and bursar to pay out. I am willing to believe you, but it is not in my hands. I cannot make out large cheques. I need to know what is on the back of the picture, and I also need a photograph.”

  Müller was irritated. “I do not see the necessity, but I will make a telephone call.” Müller mentioned that he was thirsty. Waterfield felt obliged to buy him a drink. Müller ordered a tonic, Waterfield an orange juice—non-alcoholic choices. Both men wanted to stay sharp.

  Waterfield watched the German businessman leave the lounge to make his phone call. He came back ten minutes later and said, “I can tell you what is on the back of the picture this evening. I don’t think it’s essential for you to have photographs.”

  Waterfield replied, “I think I will need them to persuade my chairman and bursar.”

  Müller said, “I will telephone you this evening with a description of what is on the back of the picture.”

  The two strangers sipped their little drinks across from each other. Waterfield probed again, this time for personal details. Müller said he had graduated from Harvard Business School, had gone on to Cambridge to study English literature, and spoke five languages. He had been an investment analyst. One of his partners had been involved in criminal activities of a vague nature, and Müller had lost a lot of money. It was because he’d lost so much money that Müller wanted the 10 per cent.

  It became obvious to Waterfield that Müller wanted him to leave the Hilton first. Müller suggested that he catch the next plane to London, but Waterfield had other plans: he was scheduled to meet with police. He told Müller he wanted to see the treasures of the Rijksmuseum. So when he left Müller, that’s exactly where he went.

  At the museum Waterfield didn’t quite know how to act. He suspected he was being followed, so he started to walk quickly up and down flights of stairs, looking over his shoulder. He’d turn corners sharply, retrace his steps. He’d walk into a washroom and then leave immediately. Nothing. At the cafeteria he tried to choke down a sandwich, but his appetite had vanished. Finally he used the phone number he’d been given for Detective Constable Bosworth Davies, another British detective who had followed him to Holland.

  The DC was boiling with impatience. “What happened!”

  Waterfield refused to get into details on the phone. DC Bos-worth Davies gave him the number for the Dutch police contacts. Waterfield called them from the same phone and arranged to meet them at another hotel, the Prinsengracht. Evans and Sibley would be there as well.

  It was a sunny afternoon, which felt odd to Waterfield.
He couldn’t enjoy the weather. He strolled along a gorgeous canal to the hotel, where a stranger lounging outside shot Waterfield an almost imperceptible smile then disappeared. Evans and Sibley were waiting upstairs in a room. Waterfield told them what he’d discussed with Müller. The detectives said he should go back to London and wait it out. He took a flight back. At eleven o’clock that night the phone rang and he turned on the tape recorder. It was Müller.

  “Yes, good evening, Mr. Waterfield.”

  “Oh hello, is that Mr. Müller?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, hello.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Müller said, “Well, I have here a few things which were on the back. There were some things they couldn’t read because it was very, very small. They needed a special glass for it but they didn’t have it with them but they could read, um, it’s as follows: XTR ...”

  “Yes.”

  “TMUM...”

  “Yes.”

  “and M... U... N... US ...”

  “Right.”

  “then M... O... I...”

  “Yes.”

  “I... S. And then a separate R. And then the museum, Amsterdam 1952. And that’s on the backside.”

  “Fine,” Waterfield said.

  “Is that correct or... ?”

  It was correct.

  The director insisted on photographic proof of the painting. Müller wasn’t happy but agreed to try. He’d have to phone back. Click.

  Waterfield tried to get some sleep. Life had become absurd. The next morning he carried the tape recorder to work under his arm. He tried to conceal it but it was big. He couldn’t concentrate. He sat around feeling nervous. His phone would ring. He’d turn on the recorder and answer. A friend: “Giles, how are you?” Turn it off. He’d lie. “Great, great. Never better.” Hang up. Wait. Phone would ring. Tape recorder again. An artist. Turn off the recorder. At noon Müller called. Tape recorder running.

  Müller said the photographs should be ready by evening. Waterfield should go home after work and wait at his flat for a phone call with further instructions on where to pick up the photos. Müller warned Waterfield not to talk to the police and added that when Waterfield went to get the photographs he should park his car at a distance from the pickup location. He warned, “Be careful.”

  He called back a few minutes later, wanting to make sure Waterfield wasn’t on the phone with the police. The police, in fact, were at Dulwich Gallery. Waterfield walked back to his flat. The sky darkened, and so did his mood. DCI Evans kept phoning to find out if a meeting place had been arranged. No news. Waterfield waited. His mood sank deeper. Then at 8 PM the phone rang. Tape recorder on. It was the dreaded voice.

  Müller had decided to tell Waterfield a few details about the theft. He said it was an inside job. One of Waterfield’s staff was an accomplice. For Waterfield, who trusted his staff, this was horrible news.

  Then the voice told him to go to the Playboy Club. “Take somebody with you,” instructed the voice, “for your own health.” The London Playboy Club had opened in 1965, after gambling had been legalized. Girls in bunny suits fawned over men as they stared at legs and lost their money. In 1981, the Playboy Club branch Waterfield was told to visit was the most profitable casino in the world.

  When he arrived at the club, these were the instructions: He should ask for the doorman. The doorman would possess an envelope from a man called Leo. Waterfield should collect the envelope and leave immediately. The proof Waterfield was looking for, the photographs of the stolen Rembrandt, would be inside. It was a simple plan. Waterfield hung up. Was somebody from the gallery involved? And he’d been warned about his safety.

  Waterfield went directly to meet with DCI Evans. Evans was in a bright mood and greeted Waterfield warmly. “Well, Mr. Waterfield? I can’t call you that all the time. What’s your first name?”

  “Giles.”

  “Well, Giles, enjoying it, are you?”

  “No, I am not.”

  They went to the Playboy Club. DC Bosworth Davies rode along. Bosworth Davies had been a rugby player at Cambridge, and his pure physical strength reassured the gallery director. Waterfield parked illegally near the club. “For the first time in my life I wasn’t worried about getting a parking ticket,” he told me.

  As Bosworth Davies and Waterfield left the car, a stranger walked past and nodded. “Hi Boz,” said the undercover officer.

  Waterfield entered the Playboy Club. He felt as if he were on stage but didn’t know where the audience was or who they were. He asked for the doorman by the name he’d been given.

  “Oh, he’s away on holiday,” a staff member at the club finally told him. Then the Playboy Club employee pointed to the door. “But try out there.” Waterfield left the club. A small group was gathered near the door.

  “Envelope from Leo?” Waterfield asked them.

  A man looked at him for a moment, then handed Waterfield an envelope. Waterfield took it and walked briskly back to the car. The officers wouldn’t let him open the envelope until they arrived safely at Waterfield’s apartment, which was now feeling a little crowded: nine policemen were camped in his living room. Eight of them were drinking beer. The inspector liked whiskey. Waterfield was nursing club soda.

  Bosworth Davies delicately eased the mouth of the envelope apart, reached inside, and pulled out nine Polaroid pictures. Waterfield couldn’t believe it. Each Polaroid featured the Rembrandt in a different and unglamorous pose. In one, the canvas was propped up behind a rusted sink. In another it leaned on a graffiti-stained wall at the top of a squalid set of stairs. The pictures were somehow pornographic. It was kind of a fuck-you gesture: instead of photographing the painting on a lovely velvet carpet, they’d put it in a dirty washroom.

  There was no doubt, though: Müller’s men possessed the masterpiece.

  Waterfield’s phone rang several times over the next half hour. Each time Waterfield reached for the phone, the inspector warned his men that if they so much as moved while Waterfield was on the line he’d kill them. Everyone clutched their drinks in silence.

  The callers always seemed to be friends of the director, checking in. “I am lucky to have had such great friends. Of course I couldn’t tell them anything.” He felt awkward talking to his friends while nine strange men listened. “Things are fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  Shortly past eleven, Müller phoned. He was angry. Why did Waterfield go to the Playboy Club himself? he wanted to know. He’d been instructed not to “go by himself.” That, it turned out, had been a code, meaning “don’t go in person.”

  Waterfield explained that he hadn’t understood but that he was satisfied with the photographs. Müller was impatient. The men who had the painting in their possession were getting fed up with the whole thing. They were threatening to set the Rembrandt on fire. They would burn it up. He hung up. Another sleepless night.

  Waterfield spent the next day at the gallery, but he was now under the full-time supervision of DC Bosworth Davies. “I’m sure it was partly to keep up my morale,” he told me. Nothing happened. Waterfield went home with his clunky tape recorder and waited by the phone. The phone was his life. It was very claustrophobic. He lived a one-minute walk from the gallery.

  At eleven o’clock the phone rang. Waterfield stalled for time. He told Müller that the chairman of the Dulwich Picture Gallery was in Finland but would be returning to England shortly; until then nothing could be done about the money. The good news, he told Müller, was that the chairman was onside to pay.

  Müller asked if Waterfield could travel to Amsterdam the next day.

  Waterfield made excuses, and Müller was sympathetic. They agreed that Monday might be possible. The idea of Müller coming to London was raised. Müller weighed the risks; Waterfield knew they were high. The police wanted to arrest Müller now. The director played it cool. “Don’t be too eager,” the police had advised.

  Waterfield and Mül
ler wished each other a good weekend, both sounding friendly and warm. Then Müller called back. He’d decided to risk the visit to England, and Waterfield should arrange the ticket. He would arrive at Heathrow airport on September 1 at 9 AM.

  Waterfield drove to the airport to pick him up. In the car with him was David Banwell, the bursar. They sat in Terminal 1 and waited. Müller didn’t show.

  Waterfield phoned the gallery: Müller had called and left a number. It turned out to be for the Schiphol Hilton, in Amsterdam. Müller picked up. He was angry again. When he’d arrived at the Amsterdam airport, the ticket hadn’t been paid for, and it was only a one-way reservation. Waterfield agreed to pay for the full round-trip ticket. It was late morning.

  Müller’s flight arrived at Heathrow Airport at 1 PM, and the three men—Waterfield, Banwell, and Müller—drove from the airport in Banwell’s car straight to Barclays Bank in Dulwich Village. They sat down with the bank manager, who had been briefed in advance by the police. The manager was fascinated by the case and had received permission from his superiors to play along. The bushes outside the bank acted as cover for several police officers keeping an eye on the meeting.

  Point one: Müller wanted a guarantee that there was £100,000 in the Dulwich bank account. The manager confirmed that there was. Actually, the foundation’s account held millions.

  Point two: Müller wanted to know how the money could be made available to him—banker’s draft or cash. If it was a draft, could the draft be rendered void at any point if criminal activity was suspected? They discussed the matter. Müller decided on cash.

  Müller threatened that if anything went wrong, he knew where to find Waterfield and Banwell. The meeting wrapped up at 3:45 with no agreement. Müller flew back to Amsterdam.

  That night he called Waterfield again. He wanted to fly back to London. Waterfield reserved and paid for another ticket. The flight arrived in London at ten the next morning and the three men met in the airport lounge.

  Müller had a new plan. Waterfield was to meet with a new player, an intermediary posing as an art adviser to an American client who wanted to buy the painting for $1.2 million. The extra $200,000 would go to Müller. “It was getting crazy,” said Waterfield.