Midnight in Madrid (13 page)

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 9, EVENING

W
rapped 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.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 9, 11:49 P.M.

S
tepping through the doorway of the dimly lit cocktail bar, Alex’s first impression of La Floridita was that of being transported to another decade. The bar gleamed with chrome and wood, Deco-style lamps, and elliptical tangerine-colored chairs. The bar was reminiscent of the bar of an ocean liner in the 1930s.

She looked for Rizzo, whom she had called before she left, and didn’t see him. Normally he was dependable. Surely he would be there shortly. Bad feelings started to quickly creep up on her.

The place was crowded. Not noisy, just crowded. She scanned the chrome and leather bar stools. Then she glanced across the dark nooks and crannies of the room, linked by staircases and galleries. The lighting was so dim that she could barely make out who was there. Much easier to get the drop on someone entering than someone already nestled in. Whoever had set this up had done it for a reason.

Where’s Rizzo? She didn’t like this. Not at all.

Just retrieve the artwork without getting killed.

She liked the music. It settled her. Latino pop. Mexican stuff. She recognized the raspy, sexy voice of Paulina Rubio.
“Yo te Seguo Aqui.”
Appropriate. The familiar tune calmed her. But her insides suddenly felt like there were a dozen butterflies on a mating dance within her chest. She had an instinct about things going the wrong way, and the instincts were on red alert right now.

Where’s Rizzo?

Then came a familiar male voice from close by. “Alex…?”

The voice floated out of thin air and above the techno beat that accompanied Paulina Rubio. Alex looked in every direction, mildly disoriented.

“Soy tu apoyo,”
said the voice. “Behind you.” A hand tapped her shoulder. She jumped and turned.

Thank Heaven. It was Rizzo.

“Hello, Gian Antonio.”

He had been seated near the door, so he could cover the back of anyone he saw enter. Now he sheltered her from the crowd, a drink in his hand.

“You’re jittery,” he said, switching to English.

She exhaled. “Am I?”

“Like a dozen scared cats,” he said. “Follow me. I’d suggest a drink. Don’t tell me you don’t need one, because you do, and don’t tell me you don’t want one, because I’m getting you one, anyway.”

“All right,” she said.

He had a wineglass in his hand. He placed a hand across her shoulders, and she didn’t object. He guided her to the bar. “They have a nice fruity
cava tinto
here,” he said.

“If you’re having one,” she said.

“I’m having three,” he said and gave the bartender a nod. “Maybe four if things go in the wrong direction. This is my third and I don’t like the mood of the evening.”

“Me neither,” she said.

The barman caught Rizzo’s gesture. He poured red wine quickly into a Burgundy-style glass. The wine was six euros, Rizzo gave the man a twenty and didn’t look for change. Alex thought she caught a piece of an explanation. The man also gave Rizzo something else from the bar, wrapped in a paper napkin, a plastic knife and fork or something. She couldn’t see and knew better than to ask.

“Let’s move down the bar a bit. Gives us a better vantage point,” Rizzo said, speaking English in lowered tones. “Never know what you’re going to spot.”

She followed. Rizzo found a place toward the end of the bar where they could see the door and the floor around them.

She leaned in close to him, speaking directly into his ear, and quickly brought him up to speed on the phone call she had received and why they were there. He listened carefully, asking only the most occasional quick question.

“I’m not sold on any of this, either,” he said. “Something’s wrong somewhere. Too easy.”

“Civil Guard. Can I trust them?”

“You shouldn’t trust anyone,” he answered. “It’s bad for your health. Didn’t your mother teach you that?”

“I trust
you
.”

“I’m an exception,” he said. “I’m a Roman but I have Sicilian blood.”

“I thought your family was from the north of Italy. That’s what you said in Paris.”

“They
are
from the north. Everyone from the north is from the south. FIAT plant at Torino. An entire generation migrated north to build cars that don’t work very well. Look, it’ll probably be okay tonight. I’ll cover you closely.”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever you do, when you get close to their police car, be careful. If there’s a door or trunk to open, insist that someone else do it. The only thing you want to touch is the clammy old artwork, and you want to touch that as little as possible. You have gloves?”

“No.”

“I do. Here. I brought them for you.” He fished into his pocket and came out with a pair of latex gloves, the kind used for kitchen work

“Do you think of everything?” she asked.

“Of course not. But I stopped by the restaurant of my hotel and stole these. Actually, they gave them to me but what does it matter? Can never be too careful,” he said, his brown eyes sliding sideways, working the room. “I bought you another present too,” he said. “Don’t say no, and relax, it’s not a peignoir.”

He made a surreptitious movement with his free hand, as if to pass something to her out of everyone’s sight. She took the cue and reached. It was the package in the paper napkin.

Their eyes met. She looked down. He had acquired an ice pick from the bar. She took it and the hint that went with it.

“If you have trouble on the street,” he said gently, “go for the eyes or the jugular. If you’re down low, an upstroke toward the groin would do the trick. I would have brought you a gun if I’d had time,” he said. “But short notice, you know?”

“I know. But thank you,” she said again. She lifted her glass and offered it toward his. “Cheers,” she said as she tucked the pick into her pocket. It was stubby and sharp. It had a wooden handle and four inch spike.

A slight smile. “Cheers,” he answered. “An ice pick’s a handy thing to carry. There’s not a bus or a truck you can’t bring to a halt with the proper use of one of those, not to mention the driver. And so much classier than a gun, right?”

“Right,” she said. She drank.

“Salud,” he said.

“Salud.”

Alex sipped. Rizzo quaffed. He was right. The wine was outstanding. Then something clicked in from earlier in the evening, on the phone, when Rizzo had said that he knew the place. Obviously, he knew it well and the barman probably knew him.

“So how are you enjoying retirement?” she asked finally.

“Never been busier,” he said.

“Your American ‘interests’?” she asked.

“You could say that,” he said. “Bless your government. They’ll keep me working till I’m a hundred years old because they can’t go a week without having some small political, diplomatic, or security crisis here in Europe. So may the incompetence and mismanagement of your government continue forever. If I live long enough I’ll be a rich old man.”

“Hey,” she said. “Look.”

She indicated the doorway where an armed man in a green uniform had strolled in. Not that unusual, except he was armed, which the Civil Guard people hadn’t done till recently and still didn’t do all the time.

“Your mark?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. Midnight. The timing worked. “Maybe,” she said.

Alex and Rizzo watched as a noisy pair of men came to the bar near them. Two men with one woman. They seemed to be having some sort of good-natured argument, but Alex couldn’t understand. It was Greek to her as well as to everyone else.

“Let me get a better look,” she said to Rizzo. She stepped away.

The uniformed policeman stood and looked around, as if he were searching for someone. Then the other cop entered. Two Civil Guards in uniform, both armed. Burly, thick-waisted men with pistols on their hips.

Alex looked back to Rizzo, where he stood among the Greeks. She gave him a nod. This was them, she was convinced. He gave a nod in return and made a quick motion of touching his heart, which she took to mean, be careful.

The woman who was with the Greeks was tall, slim, and leggy, in a short blue dress. She looked like a dream or trouble or both. Rizzo tried to not let her distract him aside from the first appreciative glance.

The two policemen left.

“Corrupt cops?” Alex asked.

“Something smells wrong. Be very careful. I’m going to be ten seconds behind you.”

“Only ten?”

“Maybe five,” he said. “I’m coming through the doorway as soon as you’re outside,” he said. “Just get the artwork and get away from them,” he said. “Do everything quickly, don’t stand in any one place too long. Keep an eye on windows for snipers. I wish I’d brought my own backup.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. Not lust this time. Real concern.

“Go,” he said.

Alex gave him a hug and set her half-full glass down on the bar. She turned and moved toward the door.

R
izzo reached to her glass as he watched her. He raised her glass to his own lips and finished her drink.

One of the Greeks grinned, turned to him.

“Thirsty?” the Greek asked in Spanish with a sneering smile.

“None of your lousy business,” Rizzo snarled in English, “so get out of my face.”

The man turned, still smiling, but confrontational.

“You’re not very friendly, are you, old man?” the man answered in English. “What happened? Your woman just walked out on you?”

The woman who was with them peeled away. Rizzo worked on the man’s accent. It wasn’t quite Greek. Once again, something was wrong. His hand moved for his weapon.

“You going to get away from me or do I have to break you in half?” Rizzo asked.

“An old guy like you?” the man asked. He laughed and so did his pal.

“Go to hell,” Rizzo responded. He followed that with a sharp colorful obscenity and a little push. He took a step away from the bar. Alex was out of his sight by now, and he needed to move.

The man took exception to Rizzo’s language and stepped in front of him. Rizzo pushed him again, pushed him hard, and the man budged and shoved back. An instant later, Rizzo also realized that he had been skunked.

An arm grabbed him from behind and locked hard around his neck. A yoke job and a perfectly professional one. Rizzo knew the drill. With his heel, he smashed down onto the instep of the man behind him and uppercut with his elbow. But then he felt a jab in one of his buttocks. It was a sharp jab that was hot with pain, then suddenly very cold.

Meanwhile the man in front of him brought up a knee to Rizzo’s groin, a knee that felt like an express train when it made contact. And Rizzo continued to feel an iciness radiating far down in his backside, from the middle of the left buttock on outward, where he had been stabbed with a needle.

With a speed faster than light, Rizzo realized that the Greek wasn’t a Greek. The lousy Eurotrash accent was something more ominous than Greek, maybe.

Tunisian or Algerian or Moroccan.

An accent from a hot, oppressive country with a lot of hot sand, stinking camels, and obnoxious people stuck in the seventeenth century, in his humble opinion. Rizzo realized that a trap had just sprung shut and the pain in his buttock was turning to a cold numbness because someone had jabbed a hypodermic needle into him and he was a goner, for this evening at least, if not for good, depending on what they had loaded into the syringe…

His vision blurred and he eyed the door. Then his eyes widened. His assailants released him and he stood with a wobble.

What a small perverse world this was!

He then spotted another strange face. An Asian guy who was looking at him from the midpoint of the bar and seemed to understand what had happened. Rizzo swooned, wishing the Asian would help him or do
something
.

The Asian had the movements of a big cat. He turned and quickstepped out the door in Rizzo’s place, following Alex and, in Rizzo’s opinion, closing a trap on her.

Now she had a stranger on her back, not the noble old Roman bodyguard.

Rizzo cursed violently. Darkness was descending on him, but he still had lots of fight, more than his opponents expected from a geezer. With a chopping motion, he brought his hand up toward the Greek-speaking guy in front of him, a guy who was dumb enough to stand there with his hands down, just watching.

Rizzo caught the man in the Adam’s apple and felt a solid crunch on impact, a crunch that was loud enough to draw the attention of people at the bar.

The man recoiled and coughed violently.

Rizzo grabbed the man’s throat and tried to squeeze. He tried to claw.

Rizzo felt the flesh tear against the clawing of his fingernails. But Rizzo was losing strength fast. He threw an elbow backward, hitting the man behind him—the one who had jabbed him—in the ribs. But then something that must have been a fist came out of nowhere and walloped him across the back of the head.

The blow stunned him.

The ceiling spun away.

Rizzo knew he was losing consciousness. The foreign hands upon him were firm, and they threw him against the wall. He continued to fight and cursed in slow motion. He was furious. He hadn’t lost a bar fight in thirty years, but he was sure on the short end of one tonight.

There was laughter, and Rizzo heard them explaining to the bartender in Spanish, “…our friend has had too much to drink,” followed by more laughter.

“I saw you hit him,” the bartender said. “Get out of here before I throw you out.”

“We’re leaving. We’re leaving.”

Rizzo knew expletives in at least a dozen major languages and launched as many as he could. Then he settled slowly to the floor as his assailants moved away and toward the door.

Darkness overwhelmed Rizzo. As he lost consciousness, he wondered if he would ever gain it back or whether this was lights-out for good.