Chapter 27: THE DUTCHMAN REVEALED
Diana spread the photographs across the conference table like cards in a high-stakes game. Thirty-seven images, captured across two nights of surveillance, showing the faces of everyone who'd entered or exited the Red Hook warehouse.
"Facial recognition got us eighteen hits," she said. "Most are known associates of various art theft rings. Small-time players. But this one..."
She tapped a photograph at the center of the array. The older man from the loading dock, his features captured in sharp detail.
"Curtis Hagen. Dutch-American, born 1949 in Amsterdam. Suspected in over forty art forgery cases across Europe and America. Never convicted. Various aliases: Heinrich Weber, Marcus van der Berg, the Dutchman." Diana looked up. "He's a ghost. Interpol, NYPD Art Crime, the Carabinieri in Rome—everyone's been after him for thirty years. No one's gotten close."
The conference room fell silent as the team absorbed the information. Neal, seated across from me, studied Hagen's photograph with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"I've heard of him," Neal said slowly. "In certain circles, he's a legend. Some people say he's the greatest forger who ever lived."
"He's certainly the most successful," Peter replied. "Diana, what do we have on his methods?"
"Meticulous. He doesn't just copy paintings—he recreates them. Period-appropriate materials, authentic aging techniques, documentation that passes expert scrutiny. His forgeries have fooled Christie's, Sotheby's, and half a dozen major museums."
I thought about what Christine Vale had told us. The left-handed brushwork masked to appear right-handed. The attention to detail that bordered on obsession. Hagen didn't just forge art—he reimagined it, creating works so perfect that they became their own kind of truth.
[INTEL COMPILED: CURTIS HAGEN PROFILE]
[THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME]
[NETWORK CONNECTIONS: EXTENSIVE]
[PRIORITY: PRIMARY TARGET]
"The warehouse operation," I said, drawing attention back to practical concerns. "What's our assessment?"
Diana switched to a different set of photographs—the warehouse interior, captured through long-range lenses during our surveillance.
"Based on what we observed, they're running regular inventory transfers. Art comes in, gets processed—probably swapped with forgeries—then goes back out to various destinations. We tracked three outgoing vehicles to galleries across the city."
"Three galleries we know about," Peter corrected. "There are probably more."
"Agreed. This is a fraction of the total operation."
The room fell into planning mode. Peter outlined the approach: continued surveillance, financial investigation, international cooperation with Interpol. The goal wasn't just Hagen—it was his entire network.
"Estimated timeline for takedown?" Jones asked.
"Two weeks minimum," Peter said. "We need to map the distribution channels, identify all the participants, get freeze orders on the accounts Dark flagged. When we move, I want to sweep up everyone involved."
Two weeks. I ran the calculations silently. Two weeks for the FBI to complete their preparation. Two weeks during which Vance's "special inventory" might arrive. Two weeks during which I'd need to decide how to handle the Hartley connection I'd been hiding.
The meeting continued for another hour—assignments distributed, timelines established, contingencies discussed. Professional law enforcement work, methodical and thorough.
But I kept thinking about the network underneath the network. The V.A. initials in Holt's records. The connection between Hagen's operation and Hartley's gallery. The larger conspiracy that the FBI didn't know existed.
Soon, I told myself. When the timing is right, I'll reveal everything.
After the meeting broke up, Neal found me at my desk.
"The Dutchman," he said, settling into the chair across from me. "I've met people who've seen his work. They talk about it like it's sacred."
"Sacred?"
"The level of skill involved." Neal's voice carried something complex—admiration mixed with something darker. "To create forgeries that perfect requires genuine artistry. In another world, he could have been a legitimate master."
"But he chose crime."
"He chose crime," Neal agreed. "The question is why. With that talent, he could have made a legitimate career. Money, recognition, a place in art history."
I thought about choices—my own, Neal's, all the small decisions that led people down criminal paths. In my first life, I'd been ordinary. In this one, I was becoming something else.
"Maybe legitimacy wasn't enough," I said. "Maybe he wanted something more."
"The thrill?"
"The control. Legitimate artists depend on critics, galleries, the taste of buyers. Forgers control their own success. They decide what's real and what isn't."
Neal was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "You've thought about this."
"I think about a lot of things."
"The witness—Christine Vale. Her protection came through. Official channels." Neal's voice dropped. "But you had a backup plan, didn't you? Something you could have done yourself."
The question cut close to truths I couldn't share. James Thornton's identity, waiting in my mental inventory. The system's capabilities that no one knew existed.
"I always have backup plans," I said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you."
Neal studied me for a long moment. Then he smiled—not the performance smile, but something more genuine.
"You know what I've learned about you, Dark? You're not what you seem. And I mean that as a compliment."
"From you, I'll take it."
The afternoon brought paperwork and coordination—the unsexy reality of major investigations. I spent three hours updating financial analysis, cross-referencing Hagen's known associates with transaction records from the Liechtenstein accounts.
The connections multiplied the deeper I dug. Shell companies feeding into shell companies. Payments routed through a dozen countries before reaching their destinations. The architecture of a criminal empire designed to be invisible.
And at the center of it all, the initials I kept finding: V.A.
Vincent Adler. The man from the show's future timeline, already building his empire in the present.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number—or rather, a number I recognized as belonging to a particular burner phone.
Mr. Thornton. Special inventory arriving next week. Would you be available for a private viewing?
Gerard Vance. The invitation I'd been waiting for.
I stared at the message, weighing options. Accepting would deepen my infiltration of Hartley's network. But it would also create conflict with the FBI operation—if Vance was connected to Hagen, which I strongly suspected, any movement on the Thornton front could compromise the larger case.
Tuesday evening would work, I typed back. I look forward to seeing what you've acquired.
The response came quickly: Excellent. 7 PM at the gallery. Dress appropriately.
I deleted the messages and set the phone aside. Two weeks until the FBI raid. Five days until Vance's special viewing. The timelines were converging, and I'd need to navigate both carefully.
The evening found me at June's brownstone, settled in Byron's leather chair with a glass of wine and a growing sense of complexity.
The investigation was reaching its critical phase. Hagen identified, network mapped, takedown approaching. If everything went according to plan, the FBI would sweep up most of the major players within two weeks.
But I knew things they didn't. The Hartley connection. The V.A. involvement. The larger conspiracy that stretched beyond art forgery into something darker.
Patience, I reminded myself. The long con takes time.
I thought about Neal's question—why Hagen had chosen crime over legitimacy. The same question applied to me, in a way. I could have played this straight. Could have given the FBI everything I knew from day one. Could have been the perfect cooperative witness.
Instead, I'd built identities, cultivated marks, run parallel investigations that served my own purposes as much as federal ones.
Because legitimate isn't enough. Because I need control over my own survival.
The justification felt hollow even as I formed it. But the alternative—complete transparency, total vulnerability—felt worse.
My phone buzzed again. Sara this time.
Still on for Saturday? I found a place with excellent pasta.
Looking forward to it, I replied.
Another thread in the web I was weaving. Sara, who suspected I was hiding things but chose to trust me anyway. Neal, who recognized a fellow builder of masks. Peter, who'd given me space to work while watching carefully for betrayal.
How many relationships could one person maintain? How many secrets before the architecture collapsed?
I finished my wine and set the glass aside. Somewhere above me, Neal was probably studying his own files, running his own calculations, planning his own moves in the game we were all playing.
Two weeks, I thought. Two weeks until everything changes.
The Dutchman was out there, forging his masterpieces. Vance was preparing his special inventory. Adler's organization continued to operate in shadows the FBI couldn't see.
And I sat in the middle of it all, holding threads that could bring down empires or unravel everything I'd built.
The long con required patience. But patience had limits.
Soon, I'd have to choose which version of myself to be.
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