You once ran global distribution for Star Wars. What did that involve?
“I actually licensed all Star Wars epipsodes (I-VI), not just 4-6 everything from TVB in Belgium to Antena 3 in Spain.”
How did the idea for your new novel first take shape?
“They searched Cornelius Gurlitt’s Munich apartment and uncovered all these masterpieces—paintings that had been stolen from Jews at the end of World War II and were still hidden away in the 2010-2015 period. I was living in Amsterdam then, surrounded by the ghosts of the past, and I kept asking myself: how can something that happened eight decades ago still reach so powerfully into the present?
That became the seed of the book. I imagined a Nazi museum director who hides paintings in a bunker, gets trapped behind the Berlin Wall, and a bastard son who grows up to be Stasi. When the Wall falls he begins selling the art on the black market—and the Mossad, the most-feared modern-era service, starts hunting him. Pitting a Stasi relic against Mossad operatives let me explore that long moral reach of history.”
Why does the Belgian press say the premise is “not so far-fetched”?
“I knew that Belgium and other countries are negotiating the return of lots of Nazi-looted works. I guess it isn’t surprising to hear there are more than a thousand pieces at stake or that one canvas was literally discovered in a French attic when the new owner peeled back some old cloth. So, no, I’m not shocked to learn there are hundreds of unresolved cases today, now more than eight decades after the war.”
So yes, my novel may be fiction, but the facts on the ground in Belgium, France and elsewhere prove the situation is very real.”
Is the story fact or fiction?
“Every plot point and character is invented, yet each location—from Jerusalem and Tel Aviv to Dubai, Silicon Valley, Amsterdam and Antwerp’s diamond district—is absolutely real. I’ve woven in Swiss bank accounts and genuine restitution procedures so that a reader feels, ‘This could really happen.’”
What is your personal stance on art restitution?
“I’m a believer: any work that can be traced and proven should go back to its rightful owners. The novel lets me dramatise why that is often excruciatingly hard—missing paperwork, whole families murdered, third-generation claimants relying on memories, and police units whose budgets are already stretched by drugs or human-trafficking cases.”
Why are governments still holding—or even selling—looted art?
“Most Likely Politics and priorities. Agencies must choose between terrorism, organised crime, trafficking, copyright theft—and art restitution rarely wins that fight. Eighty years on, some officials shrug: ‘If we haven’t solved it yet, why pour more money into it?’ That doesn’t make it right, but it is the political excuse I put straight into the book.”
Could a dedicated ‘Museum of Looted Art’ change the equation?
“In the novel a Dutch museum does exactly that: it puts unclaimed works on display, funds further investigations, and—because traffickers love the idea of selling direct to a museum—helps entrap new suspects. A real-world version in Belgium could combine restitution, education and enforcement in one virtuous circle.”
Why haven’t services like the Mossad publicly hunted looted art?
“Maybe they have—we simply don’t know. But any intelligence agency faces hard choices; hostage rescues or terror plots inevitably outrank stolen Monets. In my story the Mossad pursues the case because there is a moral imperative—and that tension between ethics and resources drives the thriller element.”
The U.S. Army recovered huge troves after the war. Does the U.S. still bear responsibility for returning them to heirs?
“Ideally, yes. In practice you’re dealing with fragmentary evidence, heirs who perished, and courts that must sort genuine claims from fraud. ‘Doing the right thing’ can be painfully slow, but I’d like to believe most officials do try to reunite art with families—even if the results fall short.”
Could your new novel become a film or series?
“I’d love that. Hollywood talent agencies have the manuscript, and a German producer friend has offered to shepherd it. The story spans Jerusalem, Berlin and Antwerp and feels inherently cinematic—but these deals are never easy.”
Where do you see books, cinema and streaming heading?
“That’s the subject of my other book, The Business of Media Distribution—now in its forthcoming fourth edition. Classic broadcast TV remains formula-driven; theatrical leans on tent-pole franchises; and limited six-to-eight-episode streaming series have become the sweet spot for adapting sweeping novels like Shōgun or a Jack Ryan yarn.
Historically, novels have gone to film far more than TV because TV demanded rigid formulas. Streaming is changing that equation, but the cost calculus—number of viewing-minutes, subscriber churn—still drives every green-light decision.”
Where can readers find your work—and will you sign copies in Belgium?
“Both the novel and the forthcoming fourth edition of Media Distribution are available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other major retailers (English-language only for now). My son lives in The Hague, so Antwerp is a short train ride—if you organise a signing, I’ll be there and would be honoured to inaugurate any future Museum of Looted Art!”
What larger lesson do you draw from the whole restitution debate?
“Eighty years after the Holocaust, the fight for justice is still hostage to budgets, politics and human nature. Yet every recovered canvas tells a story—and every story reminds us why the pursuit is worth the effort, even when ‘no good deed goes unpunished. That tension fueled part of the passion that helped me live with this book for years.”
I was calmly eating my Belgian fries—perhaps one of Europe’s last undisputed contributions to world civilization—while watching the Flemish channel VTM. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and that of course meant it was time for a national ritual: discussing climate change on television.
Because nothing pairs better with a warm, dry day than a panel of concerned experts explaining why everything is actually getting worse.
The news anchor, with the appropriate dose of mild existential concern, asked the question of the day: Why is Europe warming faster than other continents? A fair question. You would expect a complex answer about ocean currents, atmospheric dynamics, or perhaps decades of industrial legacy.
Instead, the explanation took a turn that nearly cost me my appetite.
According to the expert, Europe’s enthusiastic green policies may have… unintended side effects. Fewer emissions mean fewer particles in the air—particles that used to reflect sunlight and thus formed a kind of atmospheric “shield.” In other words: by cleaning the air, we may also be removing a protective layer against the sun.
At that moment, my fries became secondary. I was witnessing a philosophical paradox unfolding live on television: Europe, in its moral quest to save the planet, may be making itself more vulnerable to exactly what it is trying to combat.
You would almost expect a Nobel Prize for irony.
And so we naturally arrive at the thought experiment of the day. If fewer emissions reduce that protective layer, then the often-criticized “Drill Baby Drill” philosophy might deserve reconsideration—not as environmental damage, but as… climate management.
Absurd? Certainly. But no more absurd than pretending that complex systems respond linearly to idealistic policies.
After all, Nobel Prizes have been awarded for raising awareness about global warming. By that logic, one might almost expect that someone like Donald Trump would at least receive a nomination for proposing counterbalances—however controversial. When one side of the debate is treated as untouchable doctrine, the other side quickly begins to look like heresy… until reality asserts itself.
Because here lies the uncomfortable truth: nature does not follow ideology.
In life, and apparently also in the environment, everything revolves around balance. Push too far—whether toward unchecked industrialization or toward uncompromising green orthodoxy—and the system reacts. Not with applause, but with correction.
When policy becomes religion, nuance is the first casualty. And nature, unlike voters, does not negotiate. It restores equilibrium.
Perhaps that is the real lesson, somewhere between a portion of fries and a television debate: environmental policy is not about purity. Not about absolutism. Not about moral superiority.
It is about balance.
And balance, by definition, requires more than one force.
Which may well be the most uncomfortable conclusion of all.
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