The Medici Conspiracy (61 page)

Later in the trial, Dr. True asked the court to admit as evidence a letter she had sent on December 18, 2006, addressed to Deborah Marrow, the Getty Trust's acting chief executive, Michael Brand, and Ron Hartwig, the trust's spokesman. In the letter, which was read in court, she accused the Getty Trust of having left her to “carry the burden” of the institution's
collecting practices, even though her superiors at the museum and the trust had “approved all the acquisitions made during my tenure.” She faulted the museum for a “lack of courage and integrity” and added that her Getty superiors “were fully aware of the risks involved in buying antiquities” and had still approved her decisions. She argued that the Getty Trust's failure to throw its weight behind her (though it was paying for her defense) had allowed prosecutors in Rome and Greece (see next chapter) to “place squarely on my shoulder the blame for all American collecting institutions and the illicit market.”

Commenting afterward to reporters, Ferri said he thought that, on a first reading, the letter “worked against” Dr. True by suggesting that she had knowingly taken part in the acquisition of illicit artifacts. “She accuses the Getty of having been aware of all her decisions,” he said, adding that she did not avoid dubious purchases. “She did not pop up out of nowhere,” he said, but was “continuing an established practice.”

At much the same time, in early January 2007, the
Los Angeles Times
returned to the attack. Frammolino and Felch reported on a four-month investigation into the so-called Morgantina Aphrodite. This had been, ostensibly, the Getty's most sensational acquisition. More than seven feet high, with a serene marble face and a swirling limestone gown, this, the Greek goddess of love, was acquired by the Getty for a reputed $18 million in 1986. The statue, larger than life-size, is a rare example of an almost-complete cult statue. Some idea of its importance may be gleaned from the wording of Marion True's report to the board when it was being considered for acquisition: “The proposed statue of Aphrodite would not only become the single greatest piece of ancient art in our collection; it would be the greatest piece of classical sculpture in this country and any country outside of Greece and Great Britain.”

But there were early signs of trouble. Luis Monreal, a former director of the Getty Conservation Institute, now working in Geneva as general manager of the Aga Khan's Trust for Culture, said there was dirt in the folds of the gown when it arrived at the museum, and the torso had what appeared to be new fractures, “suggesting that the statue had been recently unearthed and broken apart for easy smuggling.”

The reporters traced other experts who had raised doubts early on and re-created the statue's clandestine route out of Italy. This chain allegedly
involved a certain Renzo Canavesi who, according to a receipt found by a Sicilian investigation, sold the statue to Robin Symes in March 1986, for $400,000.

The chances are the Aphrodite will go back to Italy. The Getty has announced that as their intention. However, should there remain any doubt in the matter, we can quote here from extracts in the Symes' archive, which we have seen and which confirm and amplify various aspects of the matter. The Symes archive shows, for example, that Symes did indeed pay $400,000 for the statue and that it was sold to the Getty for $18 million, with the first installment due in “summer 1992.” A further note added that the sale “coincided with the appointment of a friend . . . as the curator of the museum.” The note also says that the statue was “probably Aphrodite . . . probably from south Italy or Sicily,” and that it was carved originally in pieces but had been damaged when it had been toppled either by an earthquake or vandals. The note added that the statue showed “encrustations” and deposits of “soil.” Most interesting of all, however, is the fact that this file also contained photocopies of Polaroid photographs of the statue, showing how it had originally been pinned together.

One other development since the hardcover version of this book remains to be mentioned. On March 29, 2006, one of the authors, Peter Watson, gave evidence in the trial of Marion True. He recounted an unusual incident that had taken place at a conference on the trade in illicit antiquities, which had been held at the Cotsen Institute of Archaeology at the University of California in Los Angeles, in Spring 2001. The conference dinner had been held at the Getty Museum and during the course of a conversation on Medici and his tradings, Dr.True had referred to him as “Giacomo.” At least two of the fellow diners who heard this reference were disconcerted by Dr. True's familiar tone.

But a much more notable event took place shortly afterward. The authors were standing outside the court room, after that day's proceedings were over, talking to Prosecutor Ferri when his cellphone rang. He listened intently and then looked up. “Marion True's house in Paros was raided today by Greek police.”

I
N SOUTHERN GREECE, spring comes early. Although it was still March 2006, on the island of Paros in the Cyclades the first daisies of the year had broken through and, in the morning sunshine, their white and yellow colors lined the narrow road that snaked from the port of Paroikia up the hill toward the brilliant white village of Glyssidia. Shortly after 11:00 A.M., three cars left the port and quickly reached the point where the tarmac stopped and the dirt road began, sending clouds of dust billowing into the air.

Just short of Glyssidia the cars reached a plateau where there was a high stone wall with a house hidden behind it, and stopped. Eight men got out. Six were policemen, in plainclothes. One was an archaeologist and the last was the local prosecutor. Nobody had a moment to savour the view, which was breathtaking—the islands of Antiparos and Despotico were closest, the latter with its remains of a Doric temple, beautiful but uninhabited. Beyond them the smaller islands of the Cyclades receded into the blue distance.

Captain George Gligoris, head of the Greek Art Squad, had his mind on other things. A witty, handsome man in his mid-forties, Gligoris looks—and dresses—more Italian than Greek. He always wears sunglasses and in fifteen years as an undercover agent hasn't ever worn a uniform. He was anxious that the morning's operation would go well. He approached the gate in the wall, rang the bell, and waited for the housekeeper. Beyond the wall were a number of olive trees and in among them was the house, a house that—he knew—belonged to Marion True, an American woman, and, until very recently, a curator at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles.

The housekeeper let them in. As it happened, there were plenty of people in the house that day because Dr. True had phoned that very morning to tell her staff that she would be arriving in a few days to spend her Easter vacation on the island. The staff were preparing the house for her. “As we entered the living room,” Glirogis recalled later, “I spotted part of an Hellenistic idol placed on a stone windowsill. Surrounding the fireplace I saw that architectural fragments taken from ancient temples or monuments had been ‘built in' to the walls as ornament while a Byzantine icon was resting on a table. The moment I saw them I took a deep breath of relief.”

Gligoris was acting on a tip-off that Dr. True's villa contained unregistered antiquities. Greek law is very severe, but clear. Individuals can possess antiquities only if they are registered collectors, with special permission, or if they declare the antiquities to the authorities. Otherwise they are breaking the law. Paros is a hundred miles from Athens but most of that is the Aegean Sea so it wasn't easy, and it wasn't cheap, for Gligoris to fly his team over. But as soon as he saw the first undeclared objects in the living room, he knew his trip hadn't been wasted.

Then, inside the house, a most extraordinary thing happened. Everything went dark. The sky turned gray, a wind began, the temperature dropped sharply, and all the animals within earshot began making panicky noises. Sheep and goats bleated, turkeys cackled, hens clucked.

It was an eclipse of the sun.

“I took it as a good omen,” said Gligoris. “As if someone was leading me on, as if the twelve gods were on our side, giving me the ‘go-ahead.' As the sun came out again, and we resumed the investigation, one of my men suggested we now had a name for our raid—‘Operation Eclipse.' Yes, but we have a saying in Greece: ‘In addition to Athena's help, you must throw in a hand yourself.'”

They did. They searched the house for many hours. Paros is famous for its beaches, its traditional architecture, and its rich and ancient past, with many archaeological sites dating back to the fifth millennium BC. It is also famous for the snow-white semi-transparent marble that it carries in its bowels—Parian marble was one of the types of stone used in the construction of the sanctuaries at Delos, Olympia, and Delphi. The Venus de Milo, the Praxitilean Hermes, and the Victory of Samothrace are all hewn from Parian marble. No wonder that the house at Glyssidia—built in the traditional Cycladic style, single-story with interlocking stone, painted
white—was Marion True's favorite retreat. She would spend most of her summers there, making frequent visits to the nearby island of Schinoussa to visit Robin Symes, Christo Michaelides, and his family.

A total of seventeen unregistered antiquities were discovered in her house that day of the eclipse, plus the Byzantine icon. There was a poster on display in the living room for the exhibition of the Fleischman Collection, which had been displayed at both the Cleveland Museum and the Getty Museum, under the title, “A Passion for Antiquities” (see pp. 115–118). As one of Gligoris's men remarked, “That's the passion that will lead all these people to their downfall.”

None of the antiquities found in the Glyssidia residence was of particular archaeological significance. But as a curator of antiquities, with so many archaeologists—Greek and non-Greek—passing through her house every year, it is surprising that none of her friends and guests advised Dr. True to take the appropriate steps to make her possessions legal. As it was, the eighteen ancient objects were confiscated and the case referred to the district attorney's office.

The raid was more important than that, however. For the truth of the matter is that the Greek authorities had had Marion True in their sights “for decades,” hoping for a reason to look more closely at her activities. Since the 1980s, reports had started coming into the offices of the Greek art squad suggesting that she had been buying, on behalf of the Getty Museum, whole consignments of Greek antiquities of mysterious provenance—perhaps without any provenance at all. In the years before the Paros raid the Greek law enforcement agencies had twice come close to prosecuting her, but both times their investigations had foundered.

In the early months of 1997, fisherman off the coast of Preveza, a small port on the Ionian coast of Greece, south of Corfu, netted a most unusual catch. It was a bronze statue of an adolescent boy, five feet high, weighing 150 pounds. It was badly corroded and covered with sea shells but even so, its quality was obvious. It was subsequently identified as coming from the workshop of Polycleitus, who, with Myron and Praxitiles, is one of the most admired sculptors of the fifth century BC. This wasn't just any sculpture, but the fishermen didn't know it.