Jean-Claude remembered, though, that Basheer had expressed some criticism of Leila from time to time. Like many of the young Arab women in Madrid, she had some irritating pro-Western attitudes. She didn’t sufficiently hate Americans and English people, or even Spaniards. Worse, she seemed to like them and even like their culture. She and a friend, for example, had snuck off to a Batman movie and apparently liked it. The unfortunate Basheer had to raise his hand to his wife over that and punish her so that similar transgressions would not mar their future.

Leila glanced in Jean-Claude’s direction but obviously didn’t see him in the car. She continued to go about her business, fixing the meal, feeding the child, entertaining an unseen watcher with her half nudity.

Then, perhaps from feeling unseen eyes on her, she glanced again at the garage. This time, she did see him. She was startled.

Jean-Claude’s instincts told him to look away quickly, but he didn’t follow them. His eyes were riveted. He was seeing something that he hadn’t often seen in his life. So he stared awkwardly, and then smiled.

He smiled in spite of himself. Basheer was a primitive pious man. If he knew his wife had been seen in this state, Basheer would be prone to violence against both of them. He was a simple man and that was how he normally reacted.

All sorts of scenarios ran through Jean-Claude’s head, none of them good. At the very least, he hoped Basheer’s wife would simply close the door and never mention the incident.

Instead, she did the unpredictable. She did nothing. She didn’t close the door, and she didn’t cover up. Instead, she suppressed a delicate little smile and went about her business with her child.

Jean-Claude would later remember thinking, “People are right.” Leila is “too Western.” But he didn’t look away, either. And in this case he didn’t seem to mind.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, MIDAFTERNOON

Alex and Rizzo arrived at the Ritz and soon found their way to a café located on the back patio of an inner courtyard. As they found seats in a comfortable shaded area, it occurred to Alex why Rizzo had been assigned to the case.

Italy had the most art crime of any country in the world, with approximately twenty thousand art thefts reported each year. Russia had the second most, with approximately a tenth as many. Italy was also the only country whose government took art crime as seriously as it should. Italy’s Carabinieri were the most successful art squad worldwide, employing over three hundred full-time agents, so if Rizzo had contacts within their ranks, as assuredly he did, he would be invaluable.

“So,” Rizzo finally said, “it’s been about two months since I saw you last. You’ve managed to enjoy yourself a little bit, I hope.”

The café was shaded and fans blew cold air outdoors from within the air-conditioned hotel. Despite the bad associations with the events in Paris that had nearly cost Alex her life, she was glad to see someone here she recognized, and, for that matter, someone she trusted.

“I think I’m managing reasonably well,” she said. “The government gave me some time off. They don’t want me to turn into a nut case a few years down the road and sue them for abusive employment practices.”

“Ah, America,” Rizzo said with a laugh. “I wish I were American. I wish my ancestors had gotten their tails onto a freighter out of Calabria and done me the favor of a lifetime.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Anyway,” she concluded, “I’ve been vacationing in Switzerland, Portugal, and Spain. Just collecting my thoughts, hanging out on beaches, doing a lot of reading, getting back into shape, listening to my iPod in six different languages, seven if you count English and American separately.”

“I do. And my congratulations on a wise use of your time,” Rizzo said. “So you didn’t return to America at all?”

“I did actually, yes,” she said, “for two weeks in June. Too many memories there for now. So I picked up some different clothes and came back over here.”

“I understand,” he said. “Are you carrying a gun these days?” he asked.

“Not in Spain. Are you?”

“If I reached to my right ankle I might find something,” he said.

Via the waitress, a pitch-black espresso arrived for Rizzo, a double poured over ice, and a small pitcher of iced tea with mint for her.

“So you’ve been hanging out by yourself mostly?” he asked. “Not missing the warmth of human contact?”

She smiled. “If you’re snooping around to see if I’m romantically linked again, already,” she answered, “shame on you.”

“My apologies. I’m only curious after your welfare,” he said.

“It’s too soon for me to be involved with anyone new,” she said.

“There was an American gentleman whom I met briefly in Paris,” he said. “I believe he was a wounded veteran from Iraq.”

“Ben,” she said.

Rizzo answered yes with a nod.

“Ben’s been a wonderful friend. Like a brother to me at this time,” she said. “He’s planning to get his law degree now. We keep in contact by phone and he worries about me.”

“As do I,” Rizzo said.

“What’s new in your world? Last time I checked, for example, you had two employers.”

“I’ve retired from the Metropolitan police in Rome,” he said, almost proudly. “As long as the government stays out of bankruptcy I have an ample pension.”

“And the ‘other’ job?” she asked.

“That’s why I’m here,” he said. He cleared his throat. “As a special advisor to the Holy See, which would hope that a religious relic would find its way back to its rightful owner.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Or, stated more directly,” Rizzo said, “this has drawn the attention of the pope because it’s the earliest known pietà, and the Old German Man hopes that it gets returned soon.” Alex smiled. “Which leads me to a few questions,” Rizzo said.

“Go ahead,” Alex answered.

“Why are we in Madrid, aside from the fact that some underworld pozzo made off with a paperweight that the museum should have locked up better?”

“I was going to ask you the same question,” Alex said.

“Art treasures often disappear into thin air once they leave the museum,” he mused. “Why the big commotion over this one?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“I don’t have answers today,” Rizzo said, “aside from what I just said about the Vatican and its interest.” As he spoke, he was eyeing the young waitress, who managed a smile as she was pouring tea at the next table.

Rizzo looked back to Alex.

“They asked me to come to that meeting and told me you’d be there,” Rizzo said to Alex. “That was enough of an enticement.”

They paused for a moment and the waitress departed. “But you do have some experience in art theft,” Alex said.

He rolled his eyes. “Troppa esperienza,” he said. “Too much. Before I moved to homicide in Rome I did furto del arte. Sounds like commedia del arte, but much more serious. Here’s something to remember, though. Art crime represents the third highest-grossing criminal enterprise worldwide, behind only drugs and arms trafficking. Billions of dollars and euros per year, most of them stolen to fund international organized crime syndicates or terrorists or guerilla movements in Asia, South America, or Africa. Should I go on?”

“Feel free.”

“Most art crime is perpetrated by international organized crime,” he said. “They either use stolen art for resale, or to barter on a closed black market for an equivalent value of goods or services.”

“What about individually instigated art theft?” she asked. “Crimes perpetrated for private collectors?”

“More unusual than you’d think,” Rizzo said. “People like that are so wealthy they don’t care about the money. Plus they want the prestige of being able to show a valuable piece.”