admitted to Houghton, for example, that the Greek vase with masks of Dionysus, a purchase recently approved by the trustees for $90,000, actually cost $50,000. Frel had used the difference to buy things of scholarly interestâvase fragments, broken statuary, votive objectsâthat the board would never have approved. These items showed up on Getty records as donations. The scope of the problem was apparent to Houghton from the amount of new material flowing into the department outside the museum's careful accessioning process.
Houghton also learned that Frel had recruited dozens of people to participate in the donation scheme, including several Getty staff members, who were paid cash for the use of their names on donations. Even a board member was among the donors. Assistant antiquities curator Marit Jentoft-Nilsen admitted that she, too, had been coerced by Frel to forge appraisals in the past.
Frel was also benefiting personally from his business relationships. He mentioned in passing that one of the museum's trusted antiquities dealers had given Frel's wife, Faya, a beautiful silver necklace, the type of gift expressly forbidden by the Getty's ethics policy. Staff members told Houghton that Frel regularly stayed as a guest at the homes of dealers while abroad or let them pay his hotel bills. On a recent visit to New York, for example, Frel and his wife stayed at the posh Carlyle courtesy of a major dealer, who picked up the bill.
That type of behavior would have made most American museum professionals queasy and was clearly prohibited by the Getty. But it was just the beginning. During a visit to the museum, Margaret Mayo, a former employee of Bruce McNall's gallery, told Houghton that she was "personally aware" that McNall had made "massive cash payments" to Frel.
Houghton found that he was scribbling notes to himself after almost every interaction with Frel. Overpaying for art. Unauthorized acquisitions. Inflated and forged appraisals. None-too-subtle bribes. Frel did little to hide his activities. It was as if the curator was bent on getting caught or, more likely, grooming Houghton as an accomplice, teaching him the ways of the antiquities trade.
If that was the case, Houghton felt that Frel had misjudged him. He wanted nothing to do with those activities and felt obliged to stop them. But even Houghton's years in the State Department couldn't help him figure out how to handle his growing mountain of incriminating information diplomatically. He was uncomfortable going over Frel's head and decided to try to guide his boss's behavior in the right direction. That, after all, was most likely why he had been hired.
Then, in June, Houghton learned something that convinced him he had to act.
T HE KIMBELL ART Museum in Fort Worth, Texas, was exhibiting the collection of Nelson Bunker Hunt, one of the most impressive private antiquities collections built since World War II. Nearly all of it had recently come out of Italy and passed through the hands of Robert Hecht and Bruce McNall. The dealers hosted a splashy evening reception at the Texas museum. Many of the leading figures in the antiquities trade were there for the show, including Frel and Houghton, who had both contributed essays to the exhibition catalogue.
During the reception, a contact in the trade pulled Houghton aside and whispered a warning in his ear: the IRS was likely to be investigating Frel for tax fraud. The agency was looking at a collection of ancient amber jewelry that Gordon McLendon had donated to the Getty. The IRS had determined that the amber was worth $1.5 million at most, not the $20 million plus that McLendon had claimed on his tax return. When the feds threatened McLendon with a charge of conspiracy to commit fraud, he agreed to pay $2.1 million in back taxes. He was now threatening to tell the IRS everything if McNall didn't reimburse him for the settlement.
"Don't worry," McNall said when Houghton approached him at the show. "Frel
Houghton also learned that Frel had recruited dozens of people to participate in the donation scheme, including several Getty staff members, who were paid cash for the use of their names on donations. Even a board member was among the donors. Assistant antiquities curator Marit Jentoft-Nilsen admitted that she, too, had been coerced by Frel to forge appraisals in the past.
Frel was also benefiting personally from his business relationships. He mentioned in passing that one of the museum's trusted antiquities dealers had given Frel's wife, Faya, a beautiful silver necklace, the type of gift expressly forbidden by the Getty's ethics policy. Staff members told Houghton that Frel regularly stayed as a guest at the homes of dealers while abroad or let them pay his hotel bills. On a recent visit to New York, for example, Frel and his wife stayed at the posh Carlyle courtesy of a major dealer, who picked up the bill.
That type of behavior would have made most American museum professionals queasy and was clearly prohibited by the Getty. But it was just the beginning. During a visit to the museum, Margaret Mayo, a former employee of Bruce McNall's gallery, told Houghton that she was "personally aware" that McNall had made "massive cash payments" to Frel.
Houghton found that he was scribbling notes to himself after almost every interaction with Frel. Overpaying for art. Unauthorized acquisitions. Inflated and forged appraisals. None-too-subtle bribes. Frel did little to hide his activities. It was as if the curator was bent on getting caught or, more likely, grooming Houghton as an accomplice, teaching him the ways of the antiquities trade.
If that was the case, Houghton felt that Frel had misjudged him. He wanted nothing to do with those activities and felt obliged to stop them. But even Houghton's years in the State Department couldn't help him figure out how to handle his growing mountain of incriminating information diplomatically. He was uncomfortable going over Frel's head and decided to try to guide his boss's behavior in the right direction. That, after all, was most likely why he had been hired.
Then, in June, Houghton learned something that convinced him he had to act.
T HE KIMBELL ART Museum in Fort Worth, Texas, was exhibiting the collection of Nelson Bunker Hunt, one of the most impressive private antiquities collections built since World War II. Nearly all of it had recently come out of Italy and passed through the hands of Robert Hecht and Bruce McNall. The dealers hosted a splashy evening reception at the Texas museum. Many of the leading figures in the antiquities trade were there for the show, including Frel and Houghton, who had both contributed essays to the exhibition catalogue.
During the reception, a contact in the trade pulled Houghton aside and whispered a warning in his ear: the IRS was likely to be investigating Frel for tax fraud. The agency was looking at a collection of ancient amber jewelry that Gordon McLendon had donated to the Getty. The IRS had determined that the amber was worth $1.5 million at most, not the $20 million plus that McLendon had claimed on his tax return. When the feds threatened McLendon with a charge of conspiracy to commit fraud, he agreed to pay $2.1 million in back taxes. He was now threatening to tell the IRS everything if McNall didn't reimburse him for the settlement.
"Don't worry," McNall said when Houghton approached him at the show. "Frel
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