Daniel Cooper hurried forward, but she was nowhere in sight. The press of the crowd moving down the steps made it impossible to locate her. He had no way of knowing whether she was ahead of him or behind him. She is planning something here, Cooper told himself. But how? Where? What?
In an arena-sized grotto at the lowest point in the caves, facing the Great Lake, is a Roman theater. Tiers of stone benches have been built to accommodate the audiences that come to watch the spectacle staged every hour, and the sightseers take their seats in darkness, waiting for the show to begin.
Tracy counted her way up to the tenth tier and moved in twenty seats. The man in the twenty-first seat turned to her. “Any problem?”
“None, Gunther.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
He said something, and she had to lean closer to hear him above the babel of voices surrounding them.
“I thought it best that we not be seen together, in case you’re being followed.”
Tracy glanced around at the huge, packed black cavern. “We’re safe here.” She looked at him, curious. “It must be important.”
“It is.” He leaned closer to her. “A wealthy client is eager to acquire a certain painting. It’s a Goya, called Puerto. He’ll pay whoever can obtain it for him half a million dollars in cash. That’s above my commission.”
Tracy was thoughtful. “Are there others trying?”
“Frankly, yes. In my opinion, the chances of success are limited.”
“Where is the painting?”
“In the Prado Museum in Madrid.”
“The Prado!” The word that flashed through Tracy’s mind was impossible.
He was leaning very close, speaking into her ear, ignoring the chattering going on around them as the arena filled up. “This will take a great deal of ingenuity. That is why I thought of you, my dear Tracy.”
“I’m flattered,” Tracy said. “Half a million dollars?”
“Free and clear.”
The show began, and there was a sudden hush. Slowly, invisible bulbs began to glow and music filled the enormous cavern. The center of the stage was a large lake in front of the seated audience, and on it, from behind a stalagmite, a gondola appeared, lighted by hidden spotlights. An organist was in the boat, filling the air with a melodic serenade that echoed across the water. The spectators watched, rapt, as the colored lights rainbowed the darkness, and the boat slowly crossed the lake and finally disappeared, as the music faded.
“Fantastic,” Gunther said. “It was worth traveling here just to see this.”
“I love traveling,” Tracy said. “And do you know what city I’ve always wanted to see, Gunther? Madrid.”
Standing at the exit to the caves, Daniel Cooper watched Tracy Whitney come out.
She was alone.
28
The Ritz Hotel, on the Plaza de la Lealtad in Madrid, is considered the best hotel in Spain, and for more than a century it has housed and fed monarchs from a dozen European countries. Presidents, dictators, and billionaires have slept there. Tracy had heard so much about the Ritz that the reality was a disappointment. The lobby was faded and seedy-looking.
The assistant manager escorted her to the suite she had requested, 411-412, in the south wing of the hotel on Calle Felipe V.
“I trust this will be satisfactory, Miss Whitney.”
Tracy walked over to the window and looked out. Directly below, across the street, was the Prado Museum. “This will do nicely, thank you.”
The suite was filled with the blaring sounds of the heavy traffic from the streets below, but it had what she wanted: a bird’s-eye view of the Prado.
Tracy ordered a light dinner in her room and retired early. When she got into the bed, she decided that trying to sleep in it had to be a modern form of medieval torture.
At midnight a detective stationed in the lobby was relieved by a colleague. “She hasn’t left her room. I think she’s settled in for the night.”
In Madrid, Dirección General de Seguridad, police headquarters, is located in the Puerta del Sol and takes up an entire city block. It is a gray building with red brick, boasting a large clock tower at the top. Over the main entrance the red-and-yellow Spanish flag flies, and there is always a policeman at the door, wearing a beige uniform and a dark-brown beret, and equipped with a machine gun, a billy club, a small gun, and handcuffs. It is at this headquarters that liaison with Interpol is maintained.