Priceless

toward Patrick. The cop was alone, but plenty of colleagues wandered nearby in disguise—sweeping a storefront, walking a dog, sitting at a bus stop.

The thieves and the cop met by the beach.

Over the radio, someone gave the order.

A force of twenty policemen converged, weapons drawn and with overwhelming force, tackling Patrick, the friend with the grenade and—well done!—the undercover cop, too, preserving his identity and possibly mine.

IT WAS 2 A.M. in Philadelphia, but Pierre called anyway to fill me in. The French police found all four paintings in the blue van. They were in good condition.

He asked me about Sunny and Laurenz.

Laurenz wouldn’t be charged with a crime, I said, because he wasn’t involved in the Nice deal.

Sunny would be arrested at dawn at his home near Fort Lauderdale, I said. The press releases would start flowing in the afternoon.

AMERICAN GRAND JURY indictments can be written two ways.

There is a short form: A one- or two-page double-spaced vague statement of the law violated. The short form is preferred when the case is routine or when the government wants to deflect attention from an ongoing undercover aspect of the case.

Then there is the long-form indictment: A multipage, detailed document with a long narrative, a “speaking indictment” that summarizes the crime and every meeting between the accused and the undercover officers. Prosecutors almost always use the long-form indictment when they plan to convene a press conference. They do this because the rules require them to stick to the facts contained in the indictment. The more titillating facts they stuff into the indictment, the more they can repeat in front of the television cameras.

I didn’t see the American paperwork in the Nice case until after the indictment was unsealed and the press release went out.

I was disappointed but not surprised. Although Sunny was charged with just one felony count, prosecutors detailed the case in a long-form indictment that included my role as an undercover agent. The prosecutors didn’t mention the link to the Gardner investigation, or use my name, but the way they wrote it, they might as well have. If Sunny’s associates truly held the Gardner paintings in Europe, they now knew to never trust me, or anyone else connected to Sunny. The public indictment, posted on the Internet, left no doubt that I was an undercover FBI agent.

Angry, I called Pierre to let him know of the screwup.

Pierre said, “Like I say, everybody wants a piece of the cake and wants to have their face in the picture.” Everyone wanted credit.

We joked about supervisors for a few moments, and I reminded him that he was on his way to making general. We spoke about when we might see each other next, dancing around the big question.

Finally, I said, “Pierre, do you think we had a chance?”

“You mean for the Boston paintings?”

“Yeah.”

“Absolument,” he said. “We have a good idea who has them. We know to whom Sunny was speaking. But now that we arrest Sunny and say Bob is FBI, the case is gone. We will not have this chance again for many years. Perhaps you will get to try again?”

“No, I’m done,” I said. “I retire in three months.”

“Who will take your place?”

I hesitated because the query hit a raw nerve. I was eager to help train and brief my replacement, but the FBI didn’t seem to be grooming anyone.

I said, “I don’t know, Pierre. I don’t know. It’s a good question.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

UNDERCOVER WORK IS BY NATURE OFTEN SENSITIVE and dangerous. For me, the risks were part of the job, and the thieves I arrested now know my true identity. They do not, however, know everything, and I think it’s best left that way. Most of all, I don’t want to jeopardize the fellow law-enforcement officers and others who risked their lives to help me. Many of the criminals we caught are not gentlemen thieves; they are thugs who I fear would not hesitate to retaliate against my friends. To protect my colleagues’ identities and to protect certain FBI methods, I have omitted or slightly altered a handful of details. The essence of what happened remains unchanged.

Priceless is a memoir, not an autobiography or expose. It’s my version of what happened—no one else’s. Much of this book is based on what I recall. My collaborator, John Shiffman, and I strived to reconstruct events as accurately as possible. We reviewed news accounts, government reports, art crime books, art history books, personal notes, video, photographs, and receipts—as well as official and unofficial documents and transcripts. We revisited crime scenes and museums in the United States and Europe. To re-create dialogue during several stings, we reviewed surveillance audio, video, and transcripts. We also leaned on friends and family to help re-create conversations and provide critical context. I thank them again for helping me craft a memoir that hews as closely as possible to the truth.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

October 5, 1979.

SINCE WE OPENED EVERY CHAPTER WITH A DATE, IT makes sense to begin the acknowledgments with the most important date in my life—the day I met my wife, Donna, the person without whom I would not be the man I am today. She has led when I followed, given me her strength when I was weak, and carried me when I couldn’t walk, through trial and tribute. Without her, the stories in this book and the lines of my life could not have been written. Thank you, my love, for choosing and believing in me for all of these years. We have lived this tale together.

My three children—mature, quiet, and studious Kevin; boisterous, outgoing, and sure-of-himself Jeffrey; intelligent, beautiful, apple of my eye Kristin—have been a grand source of inspiration. They have taught me many things, not the least of which is the importance of staying focused to devotion to a cause, and to family. I am proud to say they are all better people than me. My parents, Robert and Yachiyo Wittman; my brother, William D. Wittman and his wife, Robin; and my uncle Jack Wittman and his wife, Doris, taught me to aim high and encouraged me to pursue my ambitions. Thanks also to Donna’s family—her mother, Geraldine, and father, William T. Goodhand Sr.; her brother, William T. Goodhand Jr., and his wife, Susan—who stood by me during the bad times as well as the good.

This book would not have been possible without the help of many individuals. First and foremost is John Shiffman, my cowriter. He is brilliant and I think this will be the start of a long and successful book-writing career for him. It was my pleasure to help him fulfill a dream. His wife, Catherine Dunn Shiffman, worked diligently to ensure that we stayed on course and kept the book accessible. My agent, Larry Weissman, and his partner, Sascha Alper, who believed in me and the project from the beginning, were instrumental in seeing it through. Rick Horgan and Julian Pavia, my editors at Crown, are true gentlemen and made many insightful edits and excellent suggestions.

At the FBI, I owe a special debt of gratitude to Linda Vizi for her help and counsel throughout the years. I would also like to thank my former squad supervisors—John Louden, Tom Dowd, Mike Thompson, Henry James Sweeney, Mike Carbonell, and John Kitzinger. It was my pleasure to serve under them. The Special-Agents-in- Charge of the Philadelphia office during my tenure—Bob Reutter, Bob Conforti, Jeff Lampinski, Jack Eckenrode, Jody