“We need to talk,” Colonel Pendraza said to Alex as the car moved through the streets of Madrid. “We’re honored to have you here working with us. And my deep condolences for your personal loss in Kiev.”

“Thank you,” Alex said.

Pendraza remained in English, recalling for a few moments the time he had spent as a naval attaché with NATO, where he had used his English every day and, as Alex noted, refined it to a high level of proficiency.

“This third gunman,” Pendraza finally said, “this Asian man you described when you phoned Washington and when you phoned me. You have no idea who this could be, whom he might be working for, whom he might represent?”

“No idea,” she said.

“He fits the general profile of someone in whom Interpol has a current interest,” the colonel said. “And of course, with a public shooting, every police agency in Spain now has an interest too.”

“Of course,” she said.

The Mercedes jostled a bit in traffic. From the corner of her eye she saw Miguel give a slashed-throat gesture to another driver.

“I assume also that you may have watched the morning news,” Pendraza continued. “Or seen the local newspapers. The events of last night at Calle de la Bolsa and Calle de la Paz are all over the media.”

“I’ve seen it,” she said.

“Which of course will mean there will be journalists pestering us,” he said. “It was much easier in the old days when one could discourage such things.”

Pendraza raised his eyes and voice to the driver. “Miguel?” he asked.

Without taking his eyes off the traffic, Miguel reached his thick hand to the seat next to him. He picked up a package wrapped in brown paper and handed it from the front seat back to Alex. Meanwhile, the armored sedan navigated the roundabout at the Plaza de Cibeles, then shot onto the westbound Calle de Acalá, traveling past, then away from, the massive Greco-Roman fountain that featured Cybele, the goddess of nature.

“If you’re going to work with us in Spain, we suggest you carry something in case you need to protect yourself,” Colonel Pendraza said. “We arranged everything with your embassy and with the proper departments here in Madrid.”

She accepted the package. By its weight and feel, she knew what was in it.

“Muchas gracias,” she said.

Alex unwrapped the package and pulled out a small nine-millimeter Browning automatic. It came with a belt holster and a permit to carry in Spain, issued two hours earlier at the Oficina Central of the National Police. There was also a box of ammunition, fifty rounds.

She hefted the pistol in her hand. It was a good fit.

“Acceptable?” Colonel Pendraza asked.

“Very acceptable,” she answered. “Thank you.”

“We received your photo and your personal information from Washington. Please note that your permit runs for one year only. Should your case conclude before that, as we hope it does, and you wish to leave Spain, we will ask for the permit to be returned.”

“I understand,” she said.

“If you wish to use one of our ranges to get the feel of the weapon please call my office,” he said. “Arrangements will be made upon your request.”

She turned the weapon over in her hand, examining it. The metal was cold, the design sleek. As Colonel Pendraza continued to speak, she loaded a magazine and fixed the holster to the right side of her skirt. Then she put away her new sidearm and looked back to the colonel.

“How is Señor Rizzo?” she asked. “My friend Gian Antonio? He sounded okay, but it was hard for me to tell.”

Pendraza shook his head. “Much the same way I am this morning. More angry than anything. You’ll see him in a few minutes.”

“And do you know anything more about what happened last night?” she pressed.

“The uniforms and the car were stolen from the Civil Guard,” Pendraza said. “Or sold illegally. Who knows with those people? Traitors are everywhere in the Civil Guard.”

In the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Miguel, the driver, react with a snort of agreement.

“And the original phone message that sent me to La Floridita?” Alex asked. “My own phone showed that it came from Colonel Torres’ phone.”

“Someone used a signal scrambler,” Pendraza said. “It mimicked the signal from the Guardia Civil phone network. Whoever was out to lure you knew you’d look at the numbers as a rudimentary precaution.”

“So whoever was after me would have had access to Colonel Torres’ number,” she said. “Not only that, but the caller knew what I had been wearing as well as what transpired in the room.”

“As I said, traitors are everywhere in the Civil Guard. But that’s not to be repeated outside this car.”

“I understand,” she said. “But whoever the opposition is, they have a degree of technical sophistication,” she said. “To intercept and mimic a cell phone signal is not that common. Equally, if whoever the opposition is right now is the same group that stole the pietà from the museum, that further suggests that this was more than a simple grab of an art object for money. Obviously, there is something further afoot.”

“Precisely,” said Pendraza. “But what?”

There was no answer. Not yet.

Up ahead lay a large white building, modern, sixteen stories in its central tower, with slightly lower wings. Alex knew it was a medical facility, one of the best in Spain. It reminded her of Los Angeles’s iconic old City Hall, as made famous on the old Dragnet re-runs.

“I’ve been in my job for many years and have seen many things,” Pendraza said. “So I think I am entitled to some conclusions. You’ll forgive me, Señorita, if I offend you.”

“Please speak freely,” she said.

“I am not so much a Spaniard as a European,” the colonel began. “My mother was German, my father Castilian. My father was an army officer on the side of Franco, which, in my opinion was on the side of Spain against the advance of communism. But I’m not proposing to tell you about my father; I am going to speak about my mother.”

Alex watched the cityscape go by. Smart shops and chic restaurants. Then they came to another building. “See that?” Pendraza asked.

She looked. He was indicating a mosque.

“I see it,” she said.

“We are told that Islam is a religion of peace, and that the vast majority of Muslims want to live in peace. But fanatics rule Islam at this moment in history. These fanatics wage several dozen shooting wars worldwide. They slaughter Christian or tribal groups throughout Africa and are gradually taking over the el continente nero in an Islamic wave. The fanatics mutilate their women. They bomb, behead, murder, or ‘honor kill’ women in their families who wish for a few personal modern liberties. Los fanaticos take over mosque after mosque. Los fanaticos zealously spread the stoning and hanging of rape victims and homosexuals. The so-called ‘peaceful majority’ is silent and intimidated before these…these butchers and barbarians!”

Alex listened in silence. The colonel glanced at his watch and continued.

“It was the fanatics who bombed our trains and transportation system a few years ago,” he continued bitterly. “My niece, a beautiful university-educated girl of twenty-two whom I had known since she was an hour old, died in that cowardly attack. She was an art student, Alex, and if you do not mind my saying so, she looked a bit like you. Her husband had his arm blown off. And for what?” he asked angrily. “So that the Muslim people in Spain could feel better about themselves?”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why do they come here if they do not want to adhere to the conventions of Western society?” he asked. “Why do they abuse our Christian sense of decency and citizenship? But to ask these questions in public is to invite a firestorm of protests. So we speak here in the car, you and I, and Miguel who understands English perfectly and understands my heart and conscience just as well. And I share this with you so that you know how I think, so that there will be no surprises.”