The limits of Commandant Ramiro’s patience were exhausted. It was bad enough that he had had to put up with this rude, unattractive American for the past week, and that he had wasted valuable manpower having Tracy Whitney followed around the clock, when his Policía Nacional was already working under an austerity budget; but now, confronted by this pito, telling him how to run his police department, he could stand no more.
“In my opinion, the lady is in Madrid on a holiday. I am calling off the surveillance.”
Cooper was stunned. “No! You can’t do that. Tracy Whitney is—”
Commandant Ramiro rose to his full height. “You will kindly refrain from telling me what I can do, señor. And now, if you have nothing further to say, I am a very busy man.”
Cooper stood there, filled with frustration. “I’d like to continue alone, then.”
The commandant smiled. “To keep the Prado Museum safe from the terrible threat of this woman? Of course, Señor Cooper. Now I can sleep nights.”
30
The chances of success are extremely limited, Gunther Har-tog had told Tracy. It will take a great deal of ingenuity.
That is the understatement of the century, Tracy thought.
She was staring out the window of her suite, down at the skylight roof of the Prado, mentally reviewing everything she had learned about the museum. It was open from 10:00 in the morning until 6:00 in the evening, and during that time the alarms were off, but guards were stationed at each entrance and in every room.
Even if one could manage to take a painting off the wall, Tracy thought, there’s no way to smuggle it out. All packages had to be checked at the door.
She studied the roof of the Prado and considered a night foray. There were several drawbacks: The first one was the high visibility. Tracy had watched as the spotlights came on at night, flooding the roof, making it visible for miles around. Even if it were possible to get into the building unseen, there were still the infrared beams inside the building and the night watchmen.
The Prado seemed to be impregnable.
What was Jeff planning? Tracy was certain he was going to make a try for the Goya. I’d give anything to know what he has in his crafty little mind. Of one thing Tracy was sure: She was not going to let him get there ahead of her. She had to find a way.
She returned to the Prado the next morning.
Nothing had changed except the faces of the visitors. Tracy kept a careful lookout for Jeff, but he did not appear.
Tracy thought, He’s already figured out how he’s going to steal it. The bastard. All this charm he’s been using was just to try to distract me, and keep me from getting the painting first.
She suppressed her anger and replaced it with clear, cold logic.
Tracy walked over to the Puerto again, and her eyes wandered over the nearby canvases, the alert guards, the amateur painters sitting on stools in front of their easels, the crowds, flowing in and out of the room, and as she looked around, Tracy’s heart suddenly began to beat faster.
I know how I’m going to do it!
She made a telephone call from a public booth on the Gran Vía, and Daniel Cooper, who stood in a coffee shop doorway watching, would have given a year’s pay to know whom Tracy was calling. He was sure it was an overseas call and that she was phoning collect, so that there would be no record of it. He was aware of the lime-green linen dress that he had not seen before and that her legs were bare. So that men can stare at them, he thought. Whore.
He was filled with rage.
In the telephone booth, Tracy was ending her conversation. “Just make sure he’s fast, Gunther. He’ll have only about two minutes. Everything will depend on speed.”
TO: J. J. Reynolds File No. Y-72-830-412
FROM: Daniel Cooper CONFIDENTIAL
SUBJECT: Tracy Whitney
It is my opinion that the subject is in Madrid to carry out a major criminal endeavor. The likely target is the Prado Museum. The Spanish police are being uncooperative, but I will personally keep the subject under surveillance and apprehend her at the appropriate time.