“In whatever way you wish.”

“How many people were in our meeting yesterday?”

He thought for a moment. “Nine.”

“Where was I sitting?” Alex asked.

“Across the round table from me. On my left were Scotland Yard, Interpol, and the Frenchman. On the other side were the Italian, Rizzo, and the American, who looked bored.”

“What was I wearing? You’re a career detective. I’m sure you’d notice such things.”

“A most attractive navy blue suit and an off-white blouse. No jewelry other than a watch, which was gold with a leather band.”

“Very good,” she said. “So what do you want from me tonight?” Alex asked.

“I want you to be at La Floridita bar at midnight,” he said. “Stay by the bar and watch the door. At midnight you will see a policeman come in. Our uniform. Civil Guard. He is a sergeant. Three stripes on his right arm. He will stand near the door and look around as if he is looking for someone. Then a second man will enter. He will be a member of the guard too. You will notice that both men will be armed. That is to reassure you. But do not acknowledge them. They will stay for a moment and look around. Then they will leave, as if they have not seen whom they are looking for. Wait for two minutes, then leave and follow them. Go out the door to your left. Walk for two blocks. You will arrive at where the Calle de la Bolsa intersects with the Calle de la Paz. You ’ll see a police car there. They will have a box in the trunk of the car. It will contain the pietà.”

“And I’m just to take it?”

“They will open the trunk. The lamentation will be in a brown wrapper in a leather satchel. Inspect it if you like. I would suggest returning it to the museum tomorrow shortly after it opens.”

Alex liked to think she had good antennae. Something seemed too easy about this, too pat.

“And if I don’t show up tonight?” she asked.

There was an ominous pause. “When you show up, do so alone. Good evening, Señorita.”

There was a click. Suddenly her room was very quiet. She looked at the print out on the phone. Three minutes, fifty seconds. A gut punch of a call.

Her eyes rose. She looked at herself in the mirror, clad in undergarments. She felt like a schoolgirl, in well over her head, inadequate, not knowing how to navigate the internecine warfare of a foreign nation’s power establishment and politics.

She drew a breath and steadied herself

She quickly went to her notes from the previous day.

Sure enough. Same number. Torres. Civil Guard.

Okay, that much made sense. But not much else did. She looked at her watch. It was 9:30 now.

She wished she had obtained a gun.

Conventional wisdom: Going out like this was potential suicide without being armed.

Updated conventional wisdom: Sometimes the height of paranoia was a healthy exercise.

She tried to reassure herself. There was always room for some simple corruption to factor into any case. It might even have been the main factor. The thieves had worn Guardia Civil uniforms and now the head of that unit was trying to steer the pietà back where it belonged.

Obliquely, that made sense. Didn’t it?

Her mind was in overdrive. To her own embarrassment, she even thought of the reward money. She knew she couldn’t accept it, but she could direct it to a charity.

Okay, that tipped her a little in favor making the transfer.

She processed information rapidly. She had more dangerous things in her life than this. Serving as a target on the streets of Paris. Going undercover many years ago against some Cuban-American hoodlums. Standing in the central square in Kiev while RPGs rolled it.

One side of her said she had survived the past so she would survive the present. The other side of her said that she was playing Russian roulette. Spin the dial too many times and you wind up dead.

She thought for another moment.

Show up alone. Well, that was one thing that wasn’t going to happen.

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 9, 11:49 P.M.

Stepping through the doorway of the dimly lit cocktail bar, Alex’s first impression of La Floridita was that of being transported to another decade. The bar gleamed with chrome and wood, Deco-style lamps, and elliptical tangerine-colored chairs. The bar was reminiscent of the bar of an ocean liner in the 1930s.

She looked for Rizzo, whom she had called before she left, and didn’t see him. Normally he was dependable. Surely he would be there shortly. Bad feelings started to quickly creep up on her.

The place was crowded. Not noisy, just crowded. She scanned the chrome and leather bar stools. Then she glanced across the dark nooks and crannies of the room, linked by staircases and galleries. The lighting was so dim that she could barely make out who was there. Much easier to get the drop on someone entering than someone already nestled in. Whoever had set this up had done it for a reason.

Where’s Rizzo? She didn’t like this. Not at all.

Just retrieve the artwork without getting killed.

She liked the music. It settled her. Latino pop. Mexican stuff. She recognized the raspy, sexy voice of Paulina Rubio. “Yo te Seguo Aqui.” Appropriate. The familiar tune calmed her. But her insides suddenly felt like there were a dozen butterflies on a mating dance within her chest. She had an instinct about things going the wrong way, and the instincts were on red alert right now.

Where’s Rizzo?

Then came a familiar male voice from close by. “Alex…?”

The voice floated out of thin air and above the techno beat that accompanied Paulina Rubio. Alex looked in every direction, mildly disoriented.

“Soy tu apoyo,” said the voice. “Behind you.” A hand tapped her shoulder. She jumped and turned.

Thank Heaven. It was Rizzo.

“Hello, Gian Antonio.”

He had been seated near the door, so he could cover the back of anyone he saw enter. Now he sheltered her from the crowd, a drink in his hand.

“You’re jittery,” he said, switching to English.

She exhaled. “Am I?”

“Like a dozen scared cats,” he said. “Follow me. I’d suggest a drink. Don’t tell me you don’t need one, because you do, and don’t tell me you don’t want one, because I’m getting you one, anyway.”

“All right,” she said.

He had a wineglass in his hand. He placed a hand across her shoulders, and she didn’t object. He guided her to the bar. “They have a nice fruity cava tinto here,” he said.

“If you’re having one,” she said.

“I’m having three,” he said and gave the bartender a nod. “Maybe four if things go in the wrong direction. This is my third and I don’t like the mood of the evening.”

“Me neither,” she said.

The barman caught Rizzo’s gesture. He poured red wine quickly into a Burgundy-style glass. The wine was six euros, Rizzo gave the man a twenty and didn’t look for change. Alex thought she caught a piece of an explanation. The man also gave Rizzo something else from the bar, wrapped in a paper napkin, a plastic knife and fork or something. She couldn’t see and knew better than to ask.

“Let’s move down the bar a bit. Gives us a better vantage point,” Rizzo said, speaking English in lowered tones. “Never know what you’re going to spot.”

She followed. Rizzo found a place toward the end of the bar where they could see the door and the floor around them.

She leaned in close to him, speaking directly into his ear, and quickly brought him up to speed on the phone call she had received and why they were there. He listened carefully, asking only the most occasional quick question.

“I’m not sold on any of this, either,” he said. “Something’s wrong somewhere. Too easy.”

“Civil Guard. Can I trust them?”

“You shouldn’t trust anyone,” he answered. “It’s bad for your health. Didn’t your mother teach you that?”