Midnight In Madrid

TWENTY-EIGHT

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 9, EVENING

Wrapped in a plush white Ritz towel, Alex stood in front of the mirror at the sink in her hotel room. She was working on her hair with the hotel hairdryer when her cell phone rang in her bedroom. She clicked off the hairdryer. She looked up and the ringing stopped.

Then, seconds later, it rang again, as if the same caller was trying again.

Or as if the caller knows I’m here.

She managed a quick jog to the phone and picked it up while the call was still live. “Diga,” she said.

“Alejandra?”

It was a male caller. The voice had an accent and was not a voice she recognized.

“Si,” she said. “Quien es?”

Remaining in Spanish, the caller answered. “This is Colonel Torres of the Guardia Civil. We met the day before yesterday. At the embassy.”

“Yes. Of course.” Now she had a face to go with the name. “What can I do for you, Colonel?”

It was not unusual for a call to come in so late. She glanced at a clock at her bedside. It was after 9:00 p.m. That was still early for a Madrid evening.

“Would you be available this evening?” he asked.

“Is the invitation social or professional?” she asked.

“Professional, I assure you.”

“Keep talking.”

“We’ve located The Pietà of Malta,” he said.

“You’ve what?”

He repeated.

“We’ve located The Pietà of Malta,” he said. “We have it in our possession.”

“Why that’s wonderful!” Alex said.

A beat and he added. “Well, yes. And, no. It is and it isn’t.”

“Why are you calling me?” she asked.

“We would like you to take possession of it. And return it to the museum tomorrow.”

“If you have it or know where it is, why don’t you?” she asked. “It belongs to Spain, not the United States. I would think the home team would want to make the big play.”

There was a silence. “I don’t understand,” the voice said.

“We’re in Spain, Colonel,” she said. “Apparently, you’ve found the item. Might it not look better if a division of Spanish police returned it?”

There was something about this that didn’t smell quite right. She fumbled with a pen and a pad of paper on the desk in her hotel room. She took the phone from her ear quickly and replaced it. Good. The incoming phone number was displayed. “There is a problem,” he said.

“Then you need to explain the problem if you want my assistance,” she said.

The incoming number started with 91. The call was generated by a Madrid exchange. So far so good. She wrote down the whole number. Then she fumbled through her wallet, and the card section where she collected business cards.

She heard him sigh. “Is this line secure?”

“It’s secure,” she said.

She found the card of Colonel Torres. The numbers matched. She relaxed slightly.

“The return has to be done through an intermediary,” the caller said.

“Why?”

“We are speaking off the record? In confidence?”

“If we need to.”

“The pietà cannot be seen to have been in the hands of the Civil Guard at all,” the caller said. “Internal politics. There’s guilt and culpability, some of which would land upon this department. There would be repercussions, questions asked about the methods taken to effect the return of the ‘lamentation.’ It would be best if none of that happened.”

“So I can’t admit how I found the pietà so quickly?”

“No.”

“Then where do I say I received it from?” she asked.

“Make something up.”

“Suppose I don’t find it a good idea to lie,” she said. “Or maybe I just don’t want to lie.”

“Make something up anyway,” he said. “I know a bit about you. You know how to make situations work. There is no truth that can’t be bent. Everyone knows you have contacts. You don’t always have to explain them.”

He hesitated, then spoke again.

“And I assure you, there are many people in Spain who will be grateful for your intercession. You would have friends here in important places for years to come.”

“I don’t doubt your word, Colonel,” she said.

“It’s important that a non-Spaniard take it,” the voice said. “And it needs to be done tonight.”

“Why?”

He started growing angry. “All right, don’t bother!” he snapped. “I thought it would be best to try a woman, but maybe a woman isn’t up to danger outside of a bedroom late in the evening. Forgive me for-!”

“Excuse me!” she snapped.

“Buenas noches!” There was a silence. She tossed away her towel and moved around the room with the phone to her ear. She started to pull together her clothes in case she needed to go out after all.

He changed his tone. “It’s important that a non-Spaniard bring the pietà back,” he said. “Please, Sigñorita. Will we do business or not? We know you and we respect you. So we know that placing the lamentation in your hands would be proper.”

Some nasty little voice inside her told her this was a trick. A trap. Something was wrong. But the number on the phone didn’t lie.

“So this is Colonel Torres I’m speaking to?” she said.

“It is, Señorita.”

“Do you mind if I verify that?”

“In whatever way you wish.”

“How many people were in our meeting yesterday?”

He thought for a moment. “Nine.”

“Where was I sitting?” Alex asked.

“Across the round table from me. On my left were Scotland Yard, Interpol, and the Frenchman. On the other side were the Italian, Rizzo, and the American, who looked bored.”

“What was I wearing? You’re a career detective. I’m sure you’d notice such things.”

“A most attractive navy blue suit and an off-white blouse. No jewelry other than a watch, which was gold with a leather band.”

“Very good,” she said. “So what do you want from me tonight?” Alex asked.

“I want you to be at La Floridita bar at midnight,” he said. “Stay by the bar and watch the door. At midnight you will see a policeman come in. Our uniform. Civil Guard. He is a sergeant. Three stripes on his right arm. He will stand near the door and look around as if he is looking for someone. Then a second man will enter. He will be a member of the guard too. You will notice that both men will be armed. That is to reassure you. But do not acknowledge them. They will stay for a moment and look around. Then they will leave, as if they have not seen whom they are looking for. Wait for two minutes, then leave and follow them. Go out the door to your left. Walk for two blocks. You will arrive at where the Calle de la Bolsa intersects with the Calle de la Paz. You ’ll see a police car there. They will have a box in the trunk of the car. It will contain the pietà.”

“And I’m just to take it?”

“They will open the trunk. The lamentation will be in a brown wrapper in a leather satchel. Inspect it if you like. I would suggest returning it to the museum tomorrow shortly after it opens.”

Alex liked to think she had good antennae. Something seemed too easy about this, too pat.

“And if I don’t show up tonight?” she asked.

There was an ominous pause. “When you show up, do so alone. Good evening, Señorita.”

There was a click. Suddenly her room was very quiet. She looked at the print out on the phone. Three minutes, fifty seconds. A gut punch of a call.

Her eyes rose. She looked at herself in the mirror, clad in undergarments. She felt like a schoolgirl, in well over her head, inadequate, not knowing how to navigate the internecine warfare of a foreign nation’s power establishment and politics.

She drew a breath and steadied herself

She quickly went to her notes from the previous day.

Sure enough. Same number. Torres. Civil Guard.

Okay, that much made sense. But not much else did. She looked at her watch. It was 9:30 now.

She wished she had obtained a gun.

Conventional wisdom: Going out like this was potential suicide without being armed.

Updated conventional wisdom: Sometimes the height of paranoia was a healthy exercise.

She tried to reassure herself. There was always room for some simple corruption to factor into any case. It might even have been the main factor. The thieves had worn Guardia Civil uniforms and now the head of that unit was trying to steer the pietà back where it belonged.

Obliquely, that made sense. Didn’t it?

Her mind was in overdrive. To her own embarrassment, she even thought of the reward money. She knew she couldn’t accept it, but she could direct it to a charity.

Okay, that tipped her a little in favor making the transfer.

She processed information rapidly. She had more dangerous things in her life than this. Serving as a target on the streets of Paris. Going undercover many years ago against some Cuban-American hoodlums. Standing in the central square in Kiev while RPGs rolled it.

One side of her said she had survived the past so she would survive the present. The other side of her said that she was playing Russian roulette. Spin the dial too many times and you wind up dead.

She thought for another moment.

Show up alone. Well, that was one thing that wasn’t going to happen.