In a dozen different rooms artists had set up their easels and were assiduously at work copying paintings of the masters. The museum permitted it, but Tracy noticed that the guards kept a close eye even on the copiers.

When Tracy had finished with the rooms on the main floor, she took the stairs to the ground floor, to the Francisco de Goya exhibition.

Detective Pereira said to Cooper, “See, she's not doing anything but looking. She —”

“You're wrong.” Cooper started down the stairs in a run.

It seemed to Tracy that the Goya exhibition was more heavily guarded than the others, and it well deserved to be. Wall after wall was filled with an incredible display of timeless beauty, and Tracy moved from canvas to canvas, caught up in the genius of the man. Goya's Self-Portrait, making him look like a middle-aged Pan… the exquisitely colored portrait of The Family of Charles IV… The Clothed Maja and the famed Nude Maja.

And there, next to The Witches' Sabbath, was the Puerto. Tracy stopped and stared at it, her heart beginning to pound. In the foreground of the painting were a dozen beautifully dressed men and women standing in front of a stone wall, while in the background, seen through a luminous mist, were fishing boats in a harbor and a distant lighthouse. In the lower left-hand corner of the picture was Goya's signature.

This was the target. Half a million dollars.

Tracy glanced around. A guard stood at the entrance. Beyond him, through the long corridor leading to other rooms, Tracy could see more guards. She stood there a long time, studying the Puerto. As she started to move away, a group of tourists was coming down the stairs. In the middle of them was Jeff Stevens. Tracy averted her head and hurried out the side entrance before he could see her.

It's going to be a race, Mr. Stevens, and I'm going to win it.

“She's planning to steal a painting from the Prado.”

Commandant Ramiro looked at Daniel Cooper incredulously. “Cagajуn! No one can steal a painting from the Prado.”

Cooper said stubbornly, “She was there all morning.”

“There has never been a theft at the Prado, and there never will be. And do you know why? Because it is impossible.”

“She's not going to try any of the usual ways. You must have the museum vents protected, in case of a gas attack. If the guards drink coffee on the job, find out where they get it and if it can be drugged. Check the drinking water —”

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 follow around the clock, when his Policнa Nacional was already working under an austerity budget; but now, confronted by 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 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, seсor. 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, Seсor Cooper. Now I can sleep nights.”

The chances of success are extremely limited, Gunther Hartog 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 Vнa, 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.

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 Madrileсos.

Cesar Porretta, an elderly, gay-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 dнas, seсorita.”

“Buenos dнas. Do you see any problems?”

“None, seсorita. 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 ma.” 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.