Alex leaned back and sighed. Facts. She hungered for facts.

There was a harsh note in the file at the conclusion, a fact of sorts:

The “grandest” museum caper in the United States remained unsolved almost twenty years later. In 1990, thieves had stolen a dozen paintings from the Gardner Museum in Boston. The thieves were dressed as Boston police officers and swiped five works by Degas, four Vermeers, and two Rembrandts. The paintings were valued at over $100 million at the time of the theft.

Not a bad night’s work. Who said crime didn’t pay?

A reward of fifteen million dollars was posted and accomplished nothing. Almost two decades later, all the works were still missing. Not a trace of any of them had ever surfaced.

Poof! Bye, bye, baby! Into the thinnest of air they had all gone.

Here was perhaps the highest profile art theft in history. There was a massive reward and legions of investigators public and private had explored the case. Arguably, if that theft had eluded resolution, how was anyone to make any headway in the disappearance of a small stone carving from an outstanding but secondary museum in a secondary world capital?

She tried to draw conclusions and was left with only one. If one wanted to recover a piece of stolen art, the best way to recover it was not to allow it to be stolen in the first place. So many of these museums and galleys, she noted with a sigh, seemed particularly adept at locking the barn door after the horses had been stolen.

Recovering a piece?

Debatable at best.

Almost a fool’s assignment.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 8, EARLY AFTERNOON

Today, Maria Gómez worked in the Metro with her usual partner, Pedro Felipe Santiago. They were working a fashionable section of the city known as Bourbon Madrid, east of the old city, observing the stations together. Tighter security now meant dayshifts.

As they strolled through the Metro stop called Antocha Renfe-after the mainline train station of Atocha, which the Metro stop served-the residents, tourists, and business people swarmed around them, briskly on and off the shiny new silver trains. Maria and Pedro stood together on the busy train platform and surveyed the crowd. Not too far away, above them at street level, less crowded at this hour, were the tree-lined blocks of the Paseo del Prado, once an idyllic meadow where the Habsburgs had built a monastery in the sixteenth century. Pedro, her partner, was more than just a peer. He was a good friend and a solid supporter at work. Thus she was surprised when he dropped a small bit of news on her when they walked the tracks that Friday from Antocha Rente to Anton Martin.

Pedro would be taking the next week off. The official reason was to visit his ailing mother in Malaga. But the real reason, he confessed to Maria, was that he was going to be spending a week with a woman he had just met and whom he was falling for in a big way.

The complication was that she, the woman he wanted to spend time with, was married to a man in Madrid, a man from a good family and who worked in the financial industry. The woman and her husband had agreed to separate, and Pedro was free to go off with her. But public appearances had to be maintained for all parties.

Hence, the charade about the ailing mother.

Maria smiled when Pedro brought her up to date on the newest developments in his life. They were, as they discussed it, in the stinky darkness beneath the Calle de Antocha, with heavy traffic rumbling overhead. The sunshine of Malaga to the extreme south was a world and a half away. But Maria wished him well, even though she suffered a small pang of envy. Then she posed the inevitable next question.

“If you’re away,” she said, “who will I be assigned to work with?”

Pedro already knew.

“José Luis,” he said, referring to another track walker: José Luis Martínez Márques.

Maria suffered a little cringe. She knew Márques. She didn’t like him or his approach to the job. He liked to let things slide. His observation techniques were careless, his reports shoddy. But the union protected him.

“Well,” she said. “It’s only a week?”

“Si.”

“I can put up with anyone for a week,” she said. “Even Martínez Márques.”

They laughed, Pedro and Maria, and turned their attention to a safety hazard. There were a pair of emergency lights that were flickering deep in the tunnel under Calle de Atocha. These would have to be replaced. They began making a report on a handheld computer.

At the same time, they both became aware of a tapping sound, like someone hammering or chiseling, somewhere on the other side of the walls. Both were aware of it but neither said anything. They carried keys that could unlock doors that led to some of the old passageways that wound their way under the city. But no one ever went in there. A train rumbled into the station and glided to a halt. When it had left, the tapping sound had stopped. So they gave it no further notice.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 8, AFTERNOON

On a cluttered backstreet next to the Rastro, Jean-Claude watched the block for a quarter hour before crossing the street and trying the door to a small shuttered shop across the way.

The door was locked. But from within, a meaty hand pushed aside a curtain. Two dark eyes peered into Jean-Claude’s, then past him, and then a bolt dropped from within. The door opened quick, Jean-Claude entered, and the door closed and locked again.

Jean-Claude found himself standing in a compact, cluttered establishment that seemed to sell both everything and nothing.

The two men exchanged cautious greetings in Arabic.

“You’re aware of the nature of my visit?” Jean-Claude asked.

“I am,” Farooq answered, “but only in general terms.” Farooq retreated to a position behind a high counter. Jean-Claude assumed, given the nature of his business, he kept at least one weapon there. He held aloft a plump finger, indicating that Jean-Claude should wait for a moment. He walked to a table behind his counter and turned on an old television set. He adjusted the volume up high, then turned back to his customer.

“Now,” Farooq said. “Perhaps you could explain your needs in greater detail? But do keep in mind that for reasons of security, I keep very little in stock here.”

“I understand,” Jean-Claude said.

“Good. Then I would like to understand too. What is it you desire?”

“Detonators,” Jean-Claude said, continuing in Arabic, “for explosives. A series of very good ones with a zero failure rate.”

Farooq nodded amiably and his eyes twinkled with mischief. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re in the construction business,” he said.

“I wouldn’t be foolish enough to tell a lie like that,” Jean-Claude answered, “and you wouldn’t be foolish enough to believe it.”

“Perhaps you could share with me a bit about your project,” Farooq said. “I sense that you have given yourself a challenge, perhaps an ideological one.”

Jean-Claude kept quiet.

“What sort of explosives will you be working with? What exactly do you require?”

Jean-Claude said nothing.

“I could supply you with a very basic device that should work for you,” Farooq said. “It would be similar to a standard blasting cap with a primary consisting of a compound formed from lead azide, lead styphnate, and aluminum. It would be pressed into place above the base charge, which is usually TNT.”

“I have explosives more sophisticated and more powerful than TNT,” Jean-Claude said.

Farooq’s attitude changed slightly. His expression darkened and his tone of voice became more grave.