Art and Antiquities He Recovered
Byline: John Greenya , SPECIAL TO THE WASHINGTON TIMES
If I were an art thief, I'd be glad Robert K. Wittman retired. A one-man band when it came to tracking and recovering priceless (hence the title) treasures, from paintings to eagle feathers to rare Civil War memorabilia, Mr. Wittman built the FBI art-crime team from virtually nothing to a small but world-respected unit. But whenever government officials staged a do to celebrate the recovery of a particularly treasured object - and pat themselves on the back in the process - agent Wittman was in the back of the room, out of the spotlight, protecting his cover of anonymity.
Over the course of his 20-year career with the bureau, Mr. Wittman (or Bob Clay, his pen name) recovered hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of art and antiquities. Among the many noteworthy notches on his belt are paintings by Monet, Pissaro and Picasso, not to mention Rembrandt and Rockwell, a sculpture by Rodin and one of the 14 original copies of the Bill of Rights. He also helped crack the case of a crooked expert on (is nothing sacred?) Antiques Roadshow.
Increasingly, as his reputation grew, Mr. Wittman was asked to help his counterparts in other countries, all of whom had far more support from their governments, especially in Italy, France and Greece, than did Mr. Wittman in his. Some of the best tales in the book involve delicate - and dangerous - operations that came to a head (not always successfully) in a well-bugged suite of a four- or five-star international hotel where Mr. Wittman, as Clay, tried to get the hard guys to incriminate themselves. (Yes, this would make a great movie. I'd cast the always-interesting Leonardo DiCaprio as Wittman/Clay, given his great job in Catch Me If You Can. )
Speaking of interesting, Mr. Wittman's personal background is as intriguing as his eventual exploits. Here's how he opens his chapter The Making of an Agent :
"I'd heard it before, but the slur from the large white woman with an armful of groceries hit me with such force, I stumbled. I squeezed my mother's hand and dropped my eyes to the sidewalk. As the woman brushed past, she hissed again.
I was seven years old.
The scene took place in 1963 in Baltimore, his father's hometown. His mother's was Tokyo; they'd met in the last year of the Korean War. Of himself and his older brother, he writes, We inherited my mom's almond eyes and thin build, and my father's Caucasian complexion and wide smile. Of their mother: She remained mystified by basic American customs, such as the birthday cake. But she certainly recognized and understood the racial slurs.
A neighbor whom the 10-year old Wittman considered the coolest man I knew was a special agent in the FBI's Baltimore division. That impression planted the seed that grew into a unique career. However, the road was anything but straight.
Robert Wittman's dream of becoming an agent stayed on hold for years as he dutifully helped his father in a series of close-but-no-cigar business ventures. …