Crime: To Catch a Thief

Bob Wittman has recovered more than $100 million in stolen art and artifacts, thrown dozens of violent criminals behind bars, and protected the cultural heritage of half a dozen countries. So why does he think he’s going to Hell?

Wittman gasps. He can’t help it. Every single time, he’s surprised anew to see an actual treasure. Wittman can tell, right away, that the painting is a real Brueghel. Still, he makes a show of studying the picture in detail. Part Middle Earth fantasy, part Revelations apocalypse, the surrealist work seems to sing with moral anguish: A pained St. Anthony preaches desperately to contorted semi-humans in varying degrees of distress. It’s weird, nothing Wittman would want to collect — he’s more an Impressionism guy — but it’s still transcendent: more than 400 years old, perfectly crafted, perfectly aged, one man’s perfectly executed vision.

“Do you like it?” Flores asks.

“It’s beautiful,” Wittman says. “And it looks real. Do you want to know how you can tell?”

Flores nods. Wittman leads him into the dark bathroom and pulls out a black light. The Profesor points out Brueghel’s repairs, just visible under layers of newer varnish, and the fine cracks on the surface that show the painting’s age. Flores soaks it all in, grins widely — almost sweetly, Wittman thinks. After a few minutes, they go back into the bedroom, and Flores leans over to count his money. Wittman nods to the officer at the door. “It’s real,” he says.

In an instant, the door flies open, and a throng of Spanish policemen in black riot gear, their machine guns waving, storm into the room. Wittman grabs the painting and leaps across the bed, crouching on the floor to keep it safe. On the other side of the room, the officers shout at Flores, who screams as though he’s been shot. Downstairs, in the parking garage, more officers jump his associate and open his car trunk. Inside, in a neat stack, are seven of the other stolen paintings, including Goya’s $12 million The Swing. Later, police find the rest of the $50 million in stolen works in a beach house, allegedly bound for the collection of a Colombian drug lord. Upstairs, meanwhile, Wittman calls out to the officers:

“Bueno hombre! Bueno hombre! Good guy! Don’t shoot!”

By the time Wittman stands back up, a few minutes later, Flores is already in cuffs, and shouting in indignation. He looks over at Wittman, who can see his disappointment. And once again, the agent feels that familiar pain.