Flawless: Inside the Largest Diamond Heist in History (34 page)

As for the diamonds, many of them would, in all likelihood, eventually make their way back to Antwerp. It was a painful irony for the heist victims to consider, but there was no way around the fact that the Diamond District was the obvious place to process and sell the diamonds, particularly the rough stones, since eight out of every ten rough diamonds found throughout the world go through Antwerp.

“Dealing in stolen diamonds is relatively easy, if you know where to go with those diamonds,” explained Patrick Peys. “Unfortunately, we know that stolen diamonds can be sold. If you get it for a cheap price, and you are sure that they can’t be identified, you get profit. And as always, there will be people in the diamond business that want to make an easy profit.”

With billions of dollars’ worth of diamonds coursing through the Diamond District’s offices and factories every year, the chance that any but the most unique stones would be recognized was infinitesimal. The biggest problem faced by the School of Turin was the sheer quantity of diamonds to unload.

The smaller pieces of rough could have been exported to India or China for processing into gemstones, but the larger pieces of rough had to come back through Antwerp, according to Denice Oliver, the insurance investigator.

“The De Beers Sight had just come in (shortly before the heist) and they had a lot of the specials,” Oliver explained. “The specials are the really big rocks and you have to figure out how you’re going to cut them. The equipment to deal with the specials only exists in Antwerp. So a lot of the manufacturing today goes off to China, to India, because the labor is cheaper there. [But] the only place you have to process these goods is in Antwerp, the bigger goods. Once they have been processed, you can’t recognize them anymore. One way or another, these goods are flooding back into the market.”

As for the polished diamonds, they could be sold without any need to change their appearance, unless the thieves wanted to shave off a tiny bit so that they could be certified by one of the labs. If that were the case, it would then be impossible to identify a diamond as having been stolen; once it’s been altered on the polishing wheel, it’s a different diamond. But the School of Turin would hardly have had to bother; the authorities didn’t circulate a list of stones that had been looted from the Diamond Center and, therefore, most merchants wouldn’t have known what to look for, even if they were being careful not to buy stolen goods.

It’s inevitable that honest dealers unknowingly helped traffic the School of Turin’s loot from one merchant to the next, until a stolen diamond ended up in someone’s engagement ring. There’s even a chance that some ended up back in the Diamond Center’s vault along the way, mixed into the stock of one of the diamond companies that moves thousands of stones a year. Such a stone could even end up in the same safe deposit box from which it was stolen in the first place.

Notarbartolo, Finotto, Tavano, and D’Onorio had been caught, convicted, and incarcerated for pulling off the greatest heist of all time, but they managed to keep all the loot. Many would consider five or ten years in a Belgian prison to be a reasonable trade for a lifetime of riches.

During the course of the investigation, detectives in both Italy and Belgium scoured the men’s assets and found that they were as disciplined in their expenditures as they were in robbing high-security vaults. As his sparse studio apartment attested, Tavano clearly didn’t give in to the temptation to flaunt his share of the take with lavish expenses. Notarbartolo had been smart enough to put all of his assets in Crudo’s name. Falleti noted that all Notarbartolo owned was a dog, and the dog died while he was in prison. The only clue as to what one of the thieves planned to do with the money was gleaned from D’Onorio’s ill-fated trip to Cape Verde; apparently he at least considered investing some of his share of the loot in real estate.

Reluctant as they were to admit it, detectives in both Italy and Belgium had come to believe that their chances of recovering the stolen items were near zero. “We would give an arm to get them,” Peys said. “But I can hardly imagine that there is some evidence somewhere . . . According to me, this case is finally closed.”

Most of those who were robbed arrived at the conclusion that they wouldn’t see their property again. “I think they gave up,” Claes said of the robbery victims. “They don’t have any illusion anymore. Maybe some of them still hope, deep in their hearts, that [the loot] might still show up. I’m really very curious what they did with it. And the people who have it now, what are they doing with it?”

The question of where the loot went would remain even after all the men were released from prison. Both the Mobile Squadron and the diamond detectives planned to keep a close eye on the convicted men’s activities after their release.

“If Notarbartolo gets out of prison and starts a shop in diamonds or something like that, we will certainly try to investigate,” Peys said. “But, I mean, Notarbartolo isn’t an idiot. He knows quite well what we are going to do and what he can do and cannot do. But I can’t imagine what he’s going to do.”

This was hardly idle curiosity. Many a successful thief—not to mention drug dealer, prostitute, and anyone else who made a living off of unreported cash—has wondered how to spend their ill-gotten gains without attracting the attention of the police. To see the danger criminals face in spending illegal cash wantonly, one need look no further than Al Capone, who was arrested and jailed for tax evasion because he couldn’t prove a legitimate source of income for his lavish lifestyle.

Notarbartolo and the others also have to worry about the possibility of retribution. Avoiding the police was one thing, but the School of Turin also need to worry that their victims might take matters into their own hands. Diamonds can pay for a lot of nefarious services and there are no shortages of shady characters on the fringes of the industry. It’s hardly out of the question that a merchant who lost millions to the thieves will consider hiring a few former Mossad agents or African mercenaries to recover his losses outside of legal channels.

“A lot of those victims, they are angry,” Peys said.

Notarbartolo and the others could follow the paths of thieves before them and relocate to a country that wouldn’t question the source of their income. Since 9/11, however, the world has become a much smaller place for those wanting to hide funds from the authorities. Fewer countries than in the past turn a blind eye to wealthy foreigners who want to lie low. The countries that do pose a whole different set of concerns, primarily kidnapping and extortion.

It is hard to imagine Notarbartolo living anywhere but near Turin. For one thing, it will be safer than other options, as it’s better to be well respected among local thieves, who look on him as an idol, than to risk becoming a target for less impressed gangs in foreign countries. Besides, Turin is home, even though much has changed since he’s been in prison. For one thing, Crudo sold the house in Trana and moved to nearby Giaveno. And for another, Notarbartolo’s manufacturing business in Valenza and the jewelry stores in Turin were either closed or sold to new owners. Even the smoky taverns, where the School of Turin’s plots were formulated, are no longer smoky; while Notarbartolo was in prison, Italy passed a law banning smoking in public places, including the cafés.

He would have to start over to build a legitimate business, one that would satisfy the taxing districts and generate what looked like a legal income to keep the police at bay. Of course, it would have to be something wildly profitable, something that would allow him to enjoy the life of luxury he’d had to delay.

Sitting in prison in Hasselt, Notarbartolo had plenty of time to come up with just the right business plan: He would capitalize on his reputation as the most infamous thief in the world to partner with a major jewelry distributor. In preparation for this second act, the master thief spent his days behind bars sketching designs for his own line of jewelry.

He would call it “Diamonds by Leonardo.”

EPILOGUE

Tess:
You’re a thief and a liar.

Danny:
I only lied about being a thief. But I don’t do that anymore.

Tess:
Steal?

Danny:
Lie.

—
Ocean’s Eleven
(2001)

“I may be a thief and a liar. But I am going to tell you a true story.”

—
Leonardo Notarbartolo, quoted in
Wired

The loot was gone, the crooks were in prison, and the case was closed, but for Gust Van Camp, the indignation remained. He had followed the investigation closely as it unfolded. At first, he had been excited that his discovery of the garbage had provided the detectives with the clues they needed to break the case open. Once the Belgian press suggested that the suspects had ties to the Mafia, however, he feared for his safety.

As the case wore on, any residual fear on Van Camp’s part was replaced by profound resentment. It seemed to him that everyone involved had forgotten about him. He had hoped for a reward or at least some public recognition for the important role he’d played in helping detectives quickly identify the perpetrators. Instead, he hadn’t even been given so much as a thank-you from anybody for helping bring the School of Turin to justice.

While the diamond detectives received the credit, all Van Camp got was a steady stream of reporters asking to be shown the thieves’ dumpsite. After duly expressing his annoyance, he usually complied, always ending his guided tour with the same refrain: had he known at the time of his discovery how the authorities would have treated him, he wouldn’t have called the police in the first place. Van Camp even took to asking visiting reporters to pass a message to the man he called “Mr. Bartolo.” He wanted to apologize to the Italian for landing him in jail.

One day, Van Camp’s bitterness got the best of him. If no one was coming to Vilvoorde to thank him, he was going to track someone down in Antwerp to demand it. Without bothering to change clothes from what he generally wore to patrol the forest, he drove to Antwerp with his wife and dog in tow.

Of all the different peoples and cultures to be found on the streets of the Diamond District, none stood out as much as Van Camp and his small entourage that day. He strode with purpose down Schupstraat in his rubber boots and faded camouflage T-shirt with his dog bounding happily at his heels. His only concession to city life was that he left his double-barreled shotgun at home.

When he reached 9–11 Schupstraat, Van Camp walked past the smokers loitering under the heavy awning and pushed through the plate glass doors into the Diamond Center. He told the security guard sitting in the enclosed glass booth that he wanted to speak to the manager, explaining in his heavily accented rural Flemish that he wanted to be thanked for solving the robbery that had happened there.

But when the guard informed Julie Boost about this unusual visitor, she was not in the thanking mood. The last person she wanted to talk to about the diamond heist was some rube in muddy clothes looking for gratitude. Rather than expressing her simple thanks in order to be done with him, Van Camp, his wife, and his dog were asked to leave the building.

Boost had good reason for refusing visitors with an interest in the heist: A number of victims had filed a lawsuit against the Diamond Center, alleging that its negligence had enabled the School of Turin to plunder their boxes in its vault. Anything she said could potentially be used as ammunition by the suit’s plaintiffs or possibly further upset the tenants who had been robbed.

Boost, therefore, avoided talking about the crime—and that included saying “thank-you” to the man whose dedication to a clean forest led directly to the conviction of four of the perpetrators. And so, after a hearty argument with the security guards, Van Camp left the Diamond District more resentful than ever.

Patrick Peys was all too familiar with Van Camp’s ire; he too had been pestered for an official thanks, but protocol prevented the police from acknowledging Van Camp’s contribution to solving the crime. Belgium’s strict rules forbidding the police from discussing cases extended to recognizing the citizens who helped solve them. Nevertheless, while he waited for the next big heist that would send him and his fellow detectives racing to the Diamond Square Mile, Peys took the time to address this final lingering detail of the great Diamond Center robbery. Turning to his computer, he spent some time creating an elaborate document marked by fancy fonts and official language.

It was a certificate of sorts, an expression of gratitude extended on behalf of the federal diamond detectives to August Van Camp, for meritorious service in the assistance of a criminal investigation. Peys didn’t have the authority to express official gratitude on behalf of the government, but he suspected that Van Camp wouldn’t mind, even if he knew the difference.

Peys was right; Van Camp was happy to be recognized at last for his role in solving the heist of the century.

But he still would have preferred a reward.

Litigation aside, Boost had another reason for refusing to discuss the heist: the nagging questions of how the School of Turin knew the combination to the vault door and whether anyone on the Diamond Center’s staff was involved.

Of those who knew the code at the time of the break in, Jacques Plompteux was the only one who had left the employ of the Diamond Center between the heist and autumn 2009. Boost still managed the building; Jorge Dias De Sousa was still the head caretaker; Grünberger was still Boost’s boss. All—including Jacques—were thoroughly investigated, to no avail.

“The thing that . . . had never been resolved and that is still a question unanswered is: was there any cooperation from the inside?” Patrick Peys pondered while discussing the case in the fall of 2008. “That’s actually a major question in this case, because you have [perpetrators] who are very specialized, but they do need a certain knowledge for that. Inside knowledge, you would say. I can assure you that that was investigated very thoroughly. The simple fact is, if you don’t find any evidence or major indications that there was some inside cooperation, then there wasn’t. In this case, nobody was prosecuted and, in all honesty, I wouldn’t know who to accuse or who to prosecute.”

The only people who could say for certain whether one of the Diamond Center’s staff had been involved in the heist were generally happy to leave the mystery unsolved. There was little reason for the School of Turin to reveal any of its secrets while four of the perpetrators were behind bars; after all, police believed there were others involved who had not been identified and who were therefore never brought to justice. The smartest move was to keep their secrets and do their time.

And yet, while still in prison, Notarbartolo couldn’t resist the temptation to tell his story—for a price.

During a face-to-face meeting at the Hasselt prison in Belgium in September 2008 by one of these authors, Notarbartolo attempted to negotiate payment for the exclusive right to tell his story. There was already a six-figure offer on the table, he claimed, from a California-based movie production company called Underdog Inc. If the authors could either beat the price Underdog was offering or guarantee that a Hollywood studio would pay for his life rights in order to make a movie about the heist, he promised to tell “the greatest story.” (Notarbartolo had made a similar offer to at least one other journalist in 2008, an American filmmaker producing a documentary about the heist.) The authors of this book declined to pay for an interview with Notarbartolo, citing a conflict of interest in making a financial arrangement with a source for his cooperation.

At times during the meeting, Notarbartolo—who had lost his modest paunch in prison and was lean and fit, sporting a thin white-whiskered soul patch that ran from his bottom lip to the tip of his chin—seemed desperate to make any sort of deal, no matter how specious. Unsuccessful in his effort to start a bidding war over his story, Notarbartolo offered to tell the authors his tale in exchange for a signed guarantee granting him a very small percentage of the eventual book’s royalties. Under the terms he proposed, in which his take would only kick in after the authors had earned a completely unrealistic amount from sales, he would probably have never seen a dime. But Notarbartolo wasn’t a stupid man; he probably didn’t expect to earn much from the arrangement. What may have been even more valuable to him would have been a document he could show to authorities if anyone questioned his source of income once he was released from prison. An official contract signed by two American authors promising him a percentage of book sales would probably satisfy most inquiries about how he could afford certain luxuries in life.

Again, the authors declined to enter into any financial arrangement with Notarbartolo and the meeting ended amicably.

Soon after the prison meeting, the authors received word from Antonino Falleti and Jo-Ann Garbutt (Falleti’s girlfriend after his divorce from Judith Zwiep) that Notarbartolo had signed a deal with
Wired
magazine reporter Joshua Davis that “satisfied his [Notarbartolo’s] commercial needs,” according to their e-mail. Davis is the author of a book titled
The Underdog,
and a company named “Underdog Inc.” is registered with the California Secretary of State with a business address that’s the same as Davis’s home address in San Francisco. In the e-mail, Notarbartolo’s friends asked the authors to discontinue contact with them and Notarbartolo; whatever the arrangement with Davis, it seemed to include an exclusivity provision.

In its April 2009 edition,
Wired
published Notarbartolo’s largely uncontested account of the crime under the headline “The Untold Story of the World’s Biggest Diamond Heist.” The article did not include any information about how or whether Davis satisfied Notarbartolo’s “commercial needs” in exchange for a series of interviews Notarbartolo granted Davis while in prison. But, in an online video interview with Davis that ran on
Wired
’s Web site as a supplement to the article, Davis credits his own journalistic doggedness in getting Notarbartolo to talk.

The article notes that Notarbartolo “refused to discuss his case” with any journalists other than Davis during the time he was incarcerated. However, while in jail, Notarbartolo himself placed calls to reporters in Belgium, Italy, and the United States. For example, he asked
ABC News
producer Simon Surowicz to fly from New York to Belgium in order to discuss his case. Notarbartolo also made contact with these authors through his friends in the Netherlands. During our meeting with Notarbartolo at the Hasselt prison, he made it clear that his story was available to whoever was willing to pay the most for it.

The climax of the
Wired
story was Notarbartolo’s claim that the plot to rob the Diamond Center was really a conspiracy of Jewish diamantaires to rip off their insurance companies. Notarbartolo said that the safe deposit boxes the School of Turin broke into had been emptied in advance by diamantaires in on the plot. In Notarbartolo’s version of events, the thieves themselves ended up getting scammed. It was a twist worthy of Hollywood.

In his telling, Notarbartolo had rented an office and a safe deposit box in the Diamond Center without any intention of robbing the place. It was only after he was an established tenant, he said, that he was approached in 2001 by a Jewish diamantaire (whom Notarbartolo refused to identify) about the feasibility of ripping off the Diamond Center’s vault. For a fee paid by this man, Notarbartolo secretly photographed the vault, assessed the security, and concluded it was impossible to rob.

This mysterious financier disagreed and, just as in
Ocean’s Eleven
, built a full-scale replica of the vault from Notarbartolo’s photos. Once inside,
Wired
reported, “Notarbartolo felt like he had stepped into a movie.” During this first visit inside the replica vault, the diamond dealer introduced Notarbartolo to three of his accomplices, all of whom happened to be Italian. The men were to rob the vault, then meet up with their backer at a rendezvous spot in Italy afterward.

In the context of the
Wired
article, Notarbartolo didn’t name any of the men who were in on the plot, but referred to three of them as The Genius, The Monster, and Speedy. Considering the traits of the others arrested for the crime, these aliases clearly referred to D’Onorio, Finotto, and Tavano, respectively. To those familiar with the case, it was as if a fat man, a redhead, and a tall guy had been convicted of robbing the Diamond Center and Notarbartolo attempted to disguise their identities by calling them Chubby, Carrot Top, and Stretch.

There was another man involved whom Notarbartolo referred to as the King of Keys. Those familiar with the School of Turin knew that Aniello Fontanella’s nickname was the Wizard with the Keys, and Giovanni Poliseri’s were John the Tunisian and the King of Thieves. The character in Notarbartolo’s tale was further described, in Davis’s words, as an “older” man who “looked like somebody’s grandfather,” which was suggestive of Poliseri. Fontanella was in his mid-fifties at the time, the same general age as the rest of the School of Turin. Poliseri, on the other hand, was almost seventy at the time of the heist.