Page 8 of The Picasso Heist

THE SECRET TO convincing anyone of anything comes down to a single moment of clarity.

It might be a sentence, certain words artfully strung together, or maybe a gesture or a demonstration of some sort, something that transcends the limits of language.

I had told Anton Nikolov about my plan and what it would require. I’d shown him a picture of the painting, and he had commented that it was clearly no ordinary Picasso—it was extraordinary.

Still, he wasn’t sold. There was one aspect of the plan he had doubts about, serious doubts, and there was nothing more I could say to him to change his mind. Someone else would have to do it for me.

Mr. Nikolov, I’d like you to meet Wolfgang.

I wasn’t so much released as furloughed from Nikolov’s home to my SoHo apartment.

I slept for a few hours, showered, and skedaddled over to the Museum of Modern Art, better known as MoMA, hurrying so I could be there at the appointed time, ten a.m. For the record, Nikolov did the appointing.

“Don’t be late,” he added after telling Blaggy to give me back my phone, “and don’t even think of not showing up. ”

I had no intention of doing either.

A few minutes before ten I’m standing on the second floor of MoMA’s David Geffen Wing with my plus-one, Wolfgang. At ten on the dot, Nikolov arrives with his plus-one, Blaggy.

“Jesus Christ,” says Nikolov, looking Wolfgang up and down. “Is anyone over thirty these days?”

I’d already tipped off Wolfgang about the whole shut-up-until-spoken-to thing, including the part about not falling for Nikolov’s opening it-doesn’t-count-as-being-spoken-to comment. Not only does Wolfgang remain silent—he barely blinks. Wolfgang is super-chill.

“Your biggest concern is the forgery,” I say to Nikolov. “So, like I told you last night, it’s best that you see for yourself.”

“See what, exactly?” asks Nikolov.

“What Wolfgang can do. His talent,” I say.

Admittedly, Wolfgang doesn’t look like a world-class forger. He’s too young and too grunge, although I do think his muttonchop sideburns are pretty cool. Not many guys can pull that off.

“Is that actually your real name?” asks Nikolov. “Wolfgang?”

“That depends,” he says. “Is that actually a real Picasso behind you?”

Both Nikolov and Blaggy turn around and stare at the painting ten feet away. “Are you telling me it isn’t?” asks Nikolov.

“Go ahead, take a closer look,” says Wolfgang.

Everything about the painting says Picasso, from its characteristic cubism to the small brass plaque underneath that literally states that it’s a Picasso. Nikolov and Blaggy walk over to the wall. They stare at the painting; they read the plaque; they stare some more. Wolfgang and I join them.

“You’d never know,” I say. “In fact, the museum doesn’t even know.”

Wolfgang points to the plaque. “See how it’s on loan from the Rubenstein family, Thaddeus and Camilla?

Well, good old Thaddeus sure enjoys the big charitable-contribution tax break he receives for loaning out the painting, but there’s one problem.

The dude really likes the painting. Loves it, actually.

So much so that he was willing to pay me to re-create it so he could keep the original at his home in Malibu, where I’m told he often just sits and gazes at it for hours on end. ”

Blaggy, who hasn’t made a peep up to this point, can’t help himself. “Bullshit,” he says.

“Yeah, I know, right? It all sort of sounds like bullshit,” says Wolfgang. “But do me a favor, big guy, will you? Take a slight step to your left. And Mr. Nikolov, if you could do the same.”

“Why?” asks Blaggy.

With one word, Nikolov shows that he didn’t get to be the boss by accident. “Cameras,” he says.

“That’s right. Don’t look but there’s one up in the corner at three o’clock, and another directly over my right shoulder,” says Wolfgang.

I slide over to block the camera behind us. “Got it,” I say as Blaggy and Nikolov move to block the one off to the left.

Wolfgang casually glances around. I know what he’s doing. He’s waiting for the perfect amount of foot traffic behind us, enough bodies in motion to eliminate a clear sight line of what he’s about to reveal.

“One of the most notorious modern forgers is a German by the name of Wolfgang Beltracchi,” he says, maybe to fill the time. “Beltracchi sold over a hundred fakes; his work was near impeccable. Then he made a mistake and got arrested.”

“What was the mistake?” asks Nikolov.

“He sold a piece that was supposedly painted by Heinrich Campendonk in 1914. The problem was, a specific kind of paint Beltracchi used in his forgery didn’t exist until 1920.”

“That’s a dumb mistake,” says Nikolov.

“Very much so. But I’ve always loved the name,” says Wolfgang. “You see, the whole trick to this game is never being known, and yet there exists this overwhelming desire to leave your mark. A psychiatrist might even say that Beltracchi wanted to get caught, you know, subconsciously.”

“What about you?” asks Nikolov.

“What about me?” asks Wolfgang.

“Can you leave your mark without getting caught?”

The crowd of passersby grows thick in that instant and Wolfgang reaches into his pocket, pulls out a handheld, filtered shortwave black light, and flashes it over the bottom corner of the canvas. For a split second the image of a howling wolf appears.

“Holy shit,” says Blaggy.

“Fuckin’ A,” says Wolfgang, walking away. “Have a nice day, gentlemen.”