Two days later, at 9:00 A.M., Tracy was seated on a bench in the gardens of the Retiro, the beautiful park running through the center of Madrid, feeding the pigeons. The Retiro, with its lake and graceful trees and well-kept grass, and miniature stages with shows for children, was a magnet for the Madrileños.
Cesar Porretta, an elderly, gray-haired man with a slight hunchback, walked along the park path, and when he reached the bench, he sat down beside Tracy, opened a paper sack, and began throwing out bread crumbs to the birds. “Buenos días, señorita.”
“Buenos días. Do you see any problems?”
“None, señorita. All I need is the time and the date.”
“I don’t have it yet,” Tracy told him. “Soon.”
He smiled, a toothless smile. “The police will go crazy. No one has ever tried anything like this before.”
“That’s why it’s going to work,” Tracy said. “You’ll hear from me.” She tossed out a last crumb to the pigeons and rose. She walked away, her silk dress swaying provocatively around her knees.
While Tracy was in the park meeting with Cesar Porretta, Daniel Cooper was searching her hotel room. He had watched from the lobby as Tracy left the hotel and headed for the park. She had not ordered anything from room service, and Cooper had decided that she was going out to breakfast. He had given himself thirty minutes. Entering her suite had been a simple matter of avoiding the floor maids and using a lock pick. He knew what he was looking for: a copy of a painting. He had no idea how Tracy planned to substitute it, but he was sure it had to be her scheme.
He searched the suite with swift, silent efficiency, missing nothing and saving the bedroom for last. He looked through her closet, examining her dresses, and then the bureau. He opened the drawers, one by one. They were filled with panties and bras and pantyhose. He picked up a pair of pink underpants and rubbed them against his cheek and imagined her sweet-smelling flesh in them. The scent of her was suddenly everywhere. He replaced the garment and quickly looked through the other drawers. No painting.
Cooper walked into the bathroom. There were drops of water in the tub. Her body had lain there, covered with water as warm as the womb, and Cooper could visualize Tracy lying in it, naked, the water caressing her breasts as her hips undulated up and down. He felt an erection begin. He picked up the damp washcloth from the tub and brought it to his lips. The odor of her body swirled around him as he unzipped his trousers. He rubbed a cake of damp soap onto the washcloth and began stroking himself with it, facing the mirror, looking into his blazing eyes.
A few minutes later he left, as quietly as he had arrived, and headed directly for a nearby church.
The following morning when Tracy left the Ritz Hotel, Daniel Cooper followed her. There was an intimacy between them that had not existed before. He knew her smell; he had seen her in her bath, had watched her naked body writhing in the warm water. She belonged completely to him; she was his to destroy. He watched her as she wandered along the Gran Vía, examining the merchandise in the shops, and he followed her into a large department store, careful to remain out of sight. He saw her speak to a clerk, then head for the ladies’ room. Cooper stood near the door, frustrated. It was the one place he could not follow her.
If Cooper had been able to go inside, he would have seen Tracy talking to a grossly overweight, middle-aged woman.
“Mañana,” Tracy said, as she applied fresh lipstick before the mirror. “Tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock.”
The woman shook her head. “No, señorita. He will not like that. You could not choose a worse day. Tomorrow the Prince of Luxembourg arrives on a state visit, and the newspapers say he will be taken on a tour of the Prado. There will be extra security guards and police all over the museum.”
“The more the better. Tomorrow.”