Comisario Dmitri laughed. “Really?”
“Yes. Really. It’s going to happen in the next few days unless you act now to prevent it.”
The voice on the end of the line was male, American and supremely confident. Comisario Alessandro Dmitri disliked its owner instantly.
“Who is this?”
“My name isn’t important. You need to take notes. One of the men involved is short, around five foot seven, with dark curly hair and a hooked nose.”
“No one is going to steal the Shroud.”
“He often wears a green parka and is known to the exhibition staff as a police officer.”
Alessandro Dmitri was starting to lose his temper. “I don’t have time for this. Unless you tell me your name, I—”
“You should also try to trace a Mr. Daniel Cooper. He’s a similar height with brown eyes and a small mouth and looks kind of effeminate. Cooper is dangerous and brilliant. You must increase your security, comisario.”
“Who the hell put you through to my office?” Dmitri fumed. “I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for conspiracy theories. The security at the Sábana Santa exhibition is excellent.”
“No, it’s not. It’s okay, but nothing Cooper can’t get around. Hell, I could get around it.”
“I sincerely advise you not to try,” Dmitri said icily. “Anyone foolish enough to attempt to steal the Shroud will be apprehended immediately. You’d be looking at twenty years in a Spanish jail, Mr.—?”
“Please. Just listen to me . . .”
Dmitri had hung up.
“SEÑORA PRIETO?”
“Yes?”
Magdalena Prieto answered in English. A long career as a museum curator had given her a good ear for accents. She could hear at once that the caller was American, and switched from Spanish without even thinking.
“Someone is planning to steal the Sábana Santa.”
Great. A crank call. That’s all I need.
The curator of Seville’s most prestigious exhibition had already had a long and trying day. The fine-art-and-antiquities world in Spain was still almost exclusively run by men, and Señora Prieto battled sexism and bigotry on a daily basis. A lot of noses had been put out of joint when Magdalena had landed the plum job of curating the Sábana Santa’s first exhibition outside of Italy. Every day was a struggle.
“A man posing as a police officer may be involved,” the caller went on. “He’s using the name Luís Colomar and is already known to your staff. Another man, Daniel Cooper, may be working with him. Cooper’s an ex–insurance investigator. He’s incredibly sharp and—”
“Señor. If you seriously suspect anybody of attempting to steal the Sábana, I suggest you call the police.”
“I already have. They didn’t take me seriously.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Magdalena Prieto observed drily. “I can assure you that our security here is state-of-the-art.”
“I know your security systems,” the caller said, somewhat disconcertingly. “They’re good. But Daniel Cooper’s better. Please, tell your staff to be hypervigilant.”
“My staff is always hypervigilant. Do you have any evidence of this supposed plot?”
The caller hesitated. “Nothing concrete.”
“Then I suggest you stop wasting my time, señor.”
For the second time in an hour, Jeff Stevens heard the click of a phone line going dead.
Damn it!
“IT’S HARDLY SURPRISING.”
Professor Domingo Muñoz sat opposite Jeff over dinner at the Alfonso.
“You don’t give your name, you call up with these wild accusations, and you offer no proof. Why should they listen to you?”
“Dmitri’s a buffoon,” grumbled Jeff. “The classic big fish in a little pond. I shouldn’t think he’s listened to anyone about anything since 1976. Arrogant prick.”
“Señora Prieto’s supposed to be very good. Thorough and tough. You have to be to make it to her position as a woman, especially in Spain.”
“Well, she’s not thorough enough. I don’t know about this other guy, but Cooper’s a machine. You don’t know what thorough is until you’ve seen him operate.”
“You outsmarted him, though, didn’t you? You and Tracy? For years. He can’t be that good.”
Jeff sat back in his chair. A contemplative look came over his face. Professor Domingo Muñoz could practically see his mind working.
“What?” he asked nervously. “What are you thinking, Jeff?”
“If the police and the museum authorities won’t save the Shroud from Daniel Cooper, then maybe we need a plan B. Like you say, I’ve outsmarted Cooper before.”
Domingo frowned. “You’re not going to try to steal it yourself?”
Jeff looked up at him and grinned.
“SEÑORA PRIETO. THANK GOD you’re here. You need to see this.”
Magdalena Prieto had just arrived at work. Her half-drunk coffee was still in her hand and her dark hair was still wet from the light spring rain that had been falling all morning. The look on her deputy’s face told her at once that what she “needed to see” wasn’t good.
“What is it, Miguel?”
“The Sábana Santa. There’s been a security breach.”
Magdalena Prieto’s blood ran cold. She thought immediately of the mysterious phone call she’d received two days earlier. “Someone is planning to steal the Sábana Santa.”
Why didn’t I take it seriously?
If anything had happened to the Shroud on Magdalena Prieto’s watch, her career would be over and her reputation shredded. Following her deputy at a run toward the central room where the Shroud was housed, the American caller’s voice drifted back to her, taunting her.
“I know your security systems . . .
“They’re good, but Daniel Cooper’s better.”
Magdalena felt physically sick. As she turned the corner, her knees practically gave way with relief. It’s still there. Thank God!
The Shroud was housed in a case of reinforced, bulletproof glass, laid flat on an aluminum support stand, mimicking the conditions in which it had been kept in Turin. Infrared alarms protected it, both inside and outside the case, which could only be opened after entering an elaborate series of codes. Within the glass, the temperature was carefully controlled in order to protect the delicate and priceless fabric. Magdalena checked the dials on the control panel. Everything seemed normal. No alarm had been triggered. The temperature and humidity remained at the correct levels, as did the argon and oxygen levels (at 99.5 and 0.5 percent, respectively). If anyone had broken into the case, the readings would have gone haywire.
Magdalena Prieto turned to her deputy. “I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”
He pointed. There, at the base of the aluminum stand, propped up casually like a hand-delivered Christmas card, was a white envelope. It was addressed simply: Señora Prieto.
Magdalena’s voice was a whisper. “Call the police.”
“THIS IS A DISASTER.”
Felipe Agosto, the mayor of Seville, paced the room melodramatically. “If Seville were to lose the Shroud, or allow it to be damaged in any way, it would bring shame on our entire city. On the whole of Spain!”
“Yes, but the Shroud hasn’t been lost, or damaged.” Magdalena Prieto spoke with a calmness she did not feel. Along with Mayor Agosto and Comisario Dmitri, she had gathered in Dmitri’s office to discuss the security breach at the Sábana Santa exhibition. “This letter was a warning. A friendly warning. I’m not saying we shouldn’t take it seriously but—”
“There’s nothing ‘friendly’ about breaking and entering and endangering a priceless relic, señora.” Comisario Dmitri interrupted her rudely. “Whoever did this is a criminal, pure and simple. He must be caught and punished severely.”
Dmitri talked tough to hide his own nerves. Señora Prieto had admitted receiving a warning phone call about the shroud two days earlier, but Dmitri had denied all knowledge of the mystery American.
“That’s odd,” Prieto commented. “He told me he’d already called the police, but no one had listened to him.”
“There’s nothing odd about criminals lying, señora.”
Mayor Agosto said, “Let me see that note again.”
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of white paper, folded twice. It read simply: If I can do it, so can Daniel Cooper.
“Do we think this Daniel Cooper even exists?”
“Probably not.” Dmitri was dismissive. “I’m more concerned about an actual break-in than an imaginary superthief supposedly hiding out in the city. This man probably made him up to throw us off the scent.”
Magdalena Prieto said, “I doubt it. The other man he mentioned, the man posing as a cop, was definitely seen by my staff. We should at least check out this Cooper guy. Have you contacted Interpol, comisario?”
Alessandro Dmitri looked at the museum director with withering contempt. The last thing he wanted were a bunch of international busybodies on his turf. Bloody woman. How did she land the directorship of the Antiquarium anyway? She should be at home making soup, not stirring up trouble, telling professional men like me how to do our jobs.
“I have no need of Interpol’s help, señora. If Mr. Cooper exists, and if he is in Seville, my men and I will find him. Have you contacted the authorities in Turin, to let them know what happened at your museum, on your watch?”