Provenance_ How a Con Man and a Forger Rewrote the History of Modern Art - Laney Salisbury [93]
Drewe said that he had worked as an aerospace designer at a secret Israeli installation, and that the Mossad had asked him to help recover blueprints for the Stealth helicopter, documents that had been stolen by the self-same Macaroni restaurateur and his Mafia cohorts, who were planning to sell them to Arab countries.
Quite a yarn, Hill thought. He told Drewe he would be in touch.
Drewe’s sayan claims were far-fetched but not entirely inconceivable. At least one former Mossad case officer had acknowledged the existence of this loose network of Jewish volunteers, who were known only to their spymasters. Drewe had provided accurate information on several other counts: The Stealth was indeed a military innovation available to only a few allied states, and the name and background of the Macaroni owner, a southern Italian who had a minor criminal record for assault, seemed to check out too, although there was no evidence linking the restaurant or its owner to the mob. More significantly to Hill, the de Chirico that Drewe had shown him had been stolen in Turin three years earlier and was valued in the six figures.
Hill’s men discovered in their files that Drewe had also called in another tip: He had denounced a right-wing group that was circulating anti-Semitic “Chanukah cards,” which was potentially a hate crime. Drewe’s lead was under investigation by the Organised Crime Unit.
Hill doubted Drewe’s story about his Mossad connections, but it was his habit to cultivate and run informants, and even an eccentric stoolie like Drewe could be useful. Hill had worked with far more unusual informants in the past. He decided to go ahead with the operation and asked Drewe to set up a meeting with the restaurateur. The professor offered his Mossad contacts to help with surveillance. Hill declined.
On the day of the meeting, with his team in place outside the restaurant, Hill walked into the Macaroni wearing a suit and bow tie. Drewe introduced him to the owner as an American dealer with a reputation for discretion and an elastic sense of ethics.
The sting was in play.
They ate scallops and linguine while Drewe boasted about his extensive art collection and his past donations to the Tate. Hill noted that Drewe was laying it on thick, fluffing his feathers about his “great eye” for art. Then the owner took Hill aside and led him into his private office, where he began pulling artworks from the safe. Hill recognized the stolen de Chirico and the de Pisis. There were other works too, including a dreadful “Dalí” statuette of a woman that seemed sculpted from resin and gilt. Hill said he was interested and would arrange for his restorer to return the following day with £50,000 in cash.
The next day the police moved in and arrested the proprietor. The de Chirico was returned to its owner, but the other works turned out to be fakes. The restaurateur was charged with fraud and then released on bail. When the case finally went to trial, the restaurateur’s lawyers argued that their client was just a hardworking immigrant who had been set up by John Drewe. On the stand, Hill’s star witness—Drewe—became a liability. The case crumbled, and the jury found the restaurateur innocent of all charges.
Drewe disappeared from the radar.
At the time Charley Hill could not begin to understand the professor’s motivation. Years later, when Drewe’s con artistry had been fully revealed, Hill realized the extent to which he’d been taken in.
“I frankly made a mistake,” he recalled. “I was full of arrogance and self-worth after I recovered the Munch. I had been on the news and in the papers, and Drewe had obviously seen them all. He had me over completely.”
Searle vaguely recalled the Macaroni case.