“I’ll go first. Keep your arms extended at all times. Pull yourself along. There’s no glass or concrete. It will take us about ten minutes. Maybe more. In some areas the clearance is very low. In these areas you must push yourself along. I suggest going on your stomach but you could do it on your back.”

Mahoud went first, ahead of Jean-Claude by about ten meters. The crawl space was a nightmare of tightness and loose bricks. But Mahoud had been through here already and knew the parameters. They crawled under one house, had a little breathing room, and then crawled under a second. They pushed and prodded their flashlights along in front of them. Only someone driven by fanaticism would have attempted such a crawl. Only a fanatic would have made it.

When they came to an open space twelve minutes later, their limbs were creaky. But Mahoud had led his commander to a large passage, one that led to yet another chamber. They were now faced with another aging underground wall. Mahoud had already excavated a small hole in that, and he led Jean-Claude through that hole too. Then they came upon a stash of tools: hammers, crow bars, and various instruments of excavation.

“This is as far as I’ve progressed,” Mahoud said. “But if I have help, I can be under the United States Embassy within another week. You have all the explosives?”

“I have them,” Jean-Claude said. “But I need detonators. Then we’re in business,” Jean-Claude said. Despite the fact that he was dreading the reverse crawl back to the outlet to the street, he was pleased. He was, in fact, ecstatic.

There were only five members of their cell, and they had all the equipment and knowledge they needed. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

An hour later, Jean-Claude was back up on the Calle Maldonado, two and a half blocks north of the embassy. His clothes were filthy, but no one seemed to notice or care.

He walked across the street and looked in the direction of the American coffee shop. It was filled with wealthy foreigners, to his mind, packed with the cultural imperialists that he so hated.

If he had his way, he’d blow up the coffee shop too.

But first things first. This morning, Jean-Claude had received a message from a man named Lazzari, an Italian of Turkish descent. Lazzari had had something to do with the shipping of the explosives from Italy to Spain. And now Lazzari wanted some money to keep quiet.

So today, instead of blowing up the American coffee shop, Jean-Claude just glared at it, cursed everyone in it, and spat. It was unending, this war against the infidels. No wonder it had been going on for centuries.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 9, EVENING

Wrapped in a plush white Ritz towel, Alex stood in front of the mirror at the sink in her hotel room. She was working on her hair with the hotel hairdryer when her cell phone rang in her bedroom. She clicked off the hairdryer. She looked up and the ringing stopped.

Then, seconds later, it rang again, as if the same caller was trying again.

Or as if the caller knows I’m here.

She managed a quick jog to the phone and picked it up while the call was still live. “Diga,” she said.

“Alejandra?”

It was a male caller. The voice had an accent and was not a voice she recognized.

“Si,” she said. “Quien es?”

Remaining in Spanish, the caller answered. “This is Colonel Torres of the Guardia Civil. We met the day before yesterday. At the embassy.”

“Yes. Of course.” Now she had a face to go with the name. “What can I do for you, Colonel?”

It was not unusual for a call to come in so late. She glanced at a clock at her bedside. It was after 9:00 p.m. That was still early for a Madrid evening.

“Would you be available this evening?” he asked.

“Is the invitation social or professional?” she asked.

“Professional, I assure you.”

“Keep talking.”

“We’ve located The Pietà of Malta,” he said.

“You’ve what?”

He repeated.

“We’ve located The Pietà of Malta,” he said. “We have it in our possession.”

“Why that’s wonderful!” Alex said.

A beat and he added. “Well, yes. And, no. It is and it isn’t.”

“Why are you calling me?” she asked.

“We would like you to take possession of it. And return it to the museum tomorrow.”

“If you have it or know where it is, why don’t you?” she asked. “It belongs to Spain, not the United States. I would think the home team would want to make the big play.”

There was a silence. “I don’t understand,” the voice said.

“We’re in Spain, Colonel,” she said. “Apparently, you’ve found the item. Might it not look better if a division of Spanish police returned it?”

There was something about this that didn’t smell quite right. She fumbled with a pen and a pad of paper on the desk in her hotel room. She took the phone from her ear quickly and replaced it. Good. The incoming phone number was displayed. “There is a problem,” he said.

“Then you need to explain the problem if you want my assistance,” she said.

The incoming number started with 91. The call was generated by a Madrid exchange. So far so good. She wrote down the whole number. Then she fumbled through her wallet, and the card section where she collected business cards.

She heard him sigh. “Is this line secure?”

“It’s secure,” she said.

She found the card of Colonel Torres. The numbers matched. She relaxed slightly.

“The return has to be done through an intermediary,” the caller said.

“Why?”

“We are speaking off the record? In confidence?”

“If we need to.”

“The pietà cannot be seen to have been in the hands of the Civil Guard at all,” the caller said. “Internal politics. There’s guilt and culpability, some of which would land upon this department. There would be repercussions, questions asked about the methods taken to effect the return of the ‘lamentation.’ It would be best if none of that happened.”

“So I can’t admit how I found the pietà so quickly?”

“No.”

“Then where do I say I received it from?” she asked.

“Make something up.”

“Suppose I don’t find it a good idea to lie,” she said. “Or maybe I just don’t want to lie.”

“Make something up anyway,” he said. “I know a bit about you. You know how to make situations work. There is no truth that can’t be bent. Everyone knows you have contacts. You don’t always have to explain them.”

He hesitated, then spoke again.

“And I assure you, there are many people in Spain who will be grateful for your intercession. You would have friends here in important places for years to come.”

“I don’t doubt your word, Colonel,” she said.

“It’s important that a non-Spaniard take it,” the voice said. “And it needs to be done tonight.”

“Why?”

He started growing angry. “All right, don’t bother!” he snapped. “I thought it would be best to try a woman, but maybe a woman isn’t up to danger outside of a bedroom late in the evening. Forgive me for-!”

“Excuse me!” she snapped.

“Buenas noches!” There was a silence. She tossed away her towel and moved around the room with the phone to her ear. She started to pull together her clothes in case she needed to go out after all.

He changed his tone. “It’s important that a non-Spaniard bring the pietà back,” he said. “Please, Sigñorita. Will we do business or not? We know you and we respect you. So we know that placing the lamentation in your hands would be proper.”

Some nasty little voice inside her told her this was a trick. A trap. Something was wrong. But the number on the phone didn’t lie.

“So this is Colonel Torres I’m speaking to?” she said.

“It is, Señorita.”

“Do you mind if I verify that?”