by Noel Hynd
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 pieta, 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.”
“So whoever the gang was who robbed the Museo…?” she asked, shifting gears in the middle of her own sentence. “They were-”
“An organized gang of some sort. But look, as soon as you get into this field, you’re getting into a very dirty business with very dangerous people.” He paused. “You want to look at something pretty, go look at the sunset or the mountains. You show me a Van Gogh or a Picasso and sooner or later I’ll show you some sleazy ownership, a thief, and eventually a murderer, a tax cheat, or a swindler. How’s that? Art is like that: always something beneath the surface. Art theft is like that too. Only more so.”
“What about the big galleries?” she asked. “The people who do the big auctions in New York, London, Paris? Rome? Here, Madrid?”
Rizzo scoffed. “Some of the most disreputable people I’ve met in my life have lived in mansions with ten cars in their garage and a Rodin sculpture in their backyard. Some of the most honorable lived under the bridges of Rome or Paris. The art dealers have no monopoly on duplicity and amorality,” Rizzo said, “but they practice both better than anyone else. All over the art world, they turn a blind eye to cash transactions. Things move around from country to country; people change their ownership more often than their owners change their underwear. Smuggling is a dirty word, but ‘import-export’ isn’t, even though it means the same thing. There’s no market for a painting or a sculpture that can’t fit in a suitcase. That pieta that was stolen here? That would fit into a suitcase.”
She laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“They’re worse than politicians,” he said.
Rizzo glanced around the cafe and sipped his espresso.
“Look,” he continued, musing further, “art crime is easy and it pays. There are many valuable pieces that are worth millions and weigh only a few kilograms. Transportation is easy and many high-profile museums hosting multimillion dollar works have disproportionately poor security measures. That makes them susceptible to thefts that are slightly more complicated than a typical smash-and-grab, but with huge payoff.”
“Such as this one?”
“The curious thing is that what was stolen was an antiquity,” he mused further. “It dates almost from the time of Christ, give or take a couple of centuries. That’s a strange thing to target. The robbers were in that museum and had access to anything. So what do they do? They take a remote piece with a comparatively low market value. That’s the part I don’t get.”
“So someone wanted that piece specifically,” she theorized.
“Sure. You could go with that thesis. But why? And then again, the market in antiquities is perhaps the most corrupt and problematic aspect of the international art trade,” Rizzo said. “Antiquities are often regarded by the country of origin as national treasures. There are numerous cases where artworks displayed in the acquiring country for decades have become the subject of controversy. One example, the Elgin Marbles, moved from Greece to the British Museum in 1816 by Thomas Bruce, Seventh Earl of Elgin. Yale University’s Peabody Museum of Natural History is engaged in talks with the government of Peru about possible repatriation of artifacts taken during the excavation of Machu Picchu by Yale’s Hiram Bingham.”
He paused long enough to wink at the waitress and indicate that he could use more espresso.
“The question arises frequently,” he continued. “What’s theft? What’s excavation? If a piece of art was stolen from one country two hundred years ago, how is it any different to steal it back from a museum today?”
“But we’re not talking about a country stealing something back,” she said. “Are we?”
“Not yet,” Rizzo said. “But who knows where this leads? Maybe the Maltese want their pieta back. I understand,” added with a wink, “they never got their falcon.”
He shrugged. More espresso arrived.
In thought, Alex fell very quiet. Rizzo picked up on it quickly.
“What?” he asked. “What are you thinking?”
“I was the least experienced person in that room today in the field of art theft. But I do know a few things about criminal motivation. A theft on such a grand scale with a high but secret cash purchase price is exactly the type of transaction that funds various organized crime enterprises around the world. Would that be the case here?”
“No reason why it couldn’t be.”
“And that could include terrorism,” she said.
“That is a considerable fear here. No one wants to jump there wi
thout evidence. But what’s the expression in English? The ‘elephant in the room’?”
Rizzo put out cash for the waitress and waved away any change. The young woman gave him a low bow and scurried off.
“Are you going to work on this case actively?” Alex asked.
“I’m going back to Rome tomorrow,” Rizzo said. “Or maybe the day after. I’ll give it some attention. It will be on the top of my list but so will a few other things. What about you?”
“This one fascinates me, just a bit, at least. I think I’m hooked.”
“Then I will leave you with three thoughts,” he said.
She waited.
“One: perhaps the most famous art theft of all time occurred in 1911,” Rizzo said, “when the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre. The French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, who had once called for the Louvre to be ‘burnt down,’ came under suspicion. He was arrested and put in jail. Apollinaire pointed to his friend Pablo Picasso, who was also brought in for questioning.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Why would I joke about world-class crimes?” he said with a grin. “That’s point number two. Picasso as a youth had been an art thief. He stole some sculptures from the Louvre. They were returned eventually, but it’s another reason why he was a suspect in the theft of La Giaconda.”
Alex shook her head, half in amusement, half in disbelief.
As they made their way to the door, Rizzo continued.
“Both Picasso and Apollinaire were later exonerated, and at the time the painting was believed to be lost forever. Two years later, the real thief was discovered, a Louvre employee named Vincenzo Peruggia. He stole it by putting it under his coat and walking out the door with it. Peruggia was an Italian who believed da Vinci’s painting should be in an Italian museum. He kept the painting in his apartment for two years, then grew impatient, and was finally caught when he attempted to sell it to the directors of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. It was exhibited all over Italy and returned to the Louvre in 1913. Know how much time Peruggia served for the theft of the most famous piece of art in the world?”
“Tell me,” she said.
“Four months. In Italy he was hailed as a patriot. And set free. Who says things never work out for the better?” said Rizzo. “Maybe next time I’m in that museum I should steal something for myself.”
Alex would have laughed, but she wasn’t certain it was a joke.
“What’s the third thing?” she asked.
“Just this,” he said.
He put his hands on her, drew her close, and kissed her on the cheek.
“I was really worried about you,” he said. “I’m glad to see you back to yourself, as much as can be hoped for right now. You’re a good person. I admire you. You know where to contact me, and you know I will help you in any way I can,” he said.
“Grazie mille,” she said. “You’re more than kind.”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m the most disreputable person you know. It’s just that I’m on your side.”
EIGHTEEN
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, MID-AFTERNOON
F inally, after a half hour’s wait, Jean-Claude thought he heard something outside. Then he knew he did. The sound of a car engine. Diesel, rattling to a stop.
Friend or enemy, he didn’t know.
Under his shirt, he gripped his gun.
Then, almost on cue, Jean-Claude could tell from Ceila’s reaction who was present. She quickly pulled on a robe and her headwear. To be caught this way by her husband might result in a thrashing and she knew it. She also picked up the child and carried him to another room. Within a few more seconds the garage doors swung wide open.
It was Basheer. His taxi was parked outside. It was an old blue Mercedes Benz, an elderly 300D workhorse of a vehicle.
Jean-Claude stepped from the back of Mahoud’s car. He walked to the street and embraced Basheer. Both men looked around. They saw nothing that didn’t fit within the neighborhood. Old men sitting at the cafe a few doors down, mothers keeping watch on children. Many parked cars, but only ones they recognized.
Mahoud made a hand gesture from across the street. All clear. He had seen nothing amiss.
Jean-Claude gave a head gesture to Basheer. Basheer helped him retrieve one duffel bag, Jean-Claude carried the other. They loaded them quickly into the trunk of Basheer’s Benz and took off. Mahoud remained behind, moved his own car back to the street, closed and locked the garage, and departed.
They drove across the city to another destination, a pastry shop operated by a Muslim couple named Samy and Tamar.
Samy and Tamar were a likeable young couple in their twenties who operated a pastry shop in El Rastro, a neighborhood named after the Sunday market held within its bounds. The quarter lay within the triangle formed by the La Latina Metro stop, Puerta de Toledo, and Glorieta de Embajadores and was in the larger neighborhood of Lavapies, an artsy, bohemian section of Madrid. In medieval times, Lavapies had been the Moorish and Jewish quarter located outside the city walls. The neighborhood has retained an outsider character with visible immigrant communities from Morocco, sub-Saharan Africa, and India. Samy and Tamar enjoyed living there. They had many friends and liked to sit in the cafes until late at night, laughing, drinking tea, telling jokes, and watching sports on television.
Lavapies was undergoing a process of gentrification as more and more cafes, bars, and galleries opened every day. Samy and Tamar had many friends who worked for the government and even several friends who were British or American. Sometimes this created odd situations as both Samy and Tamar would rail against American and English “colonialism” throughout the world. Yet never, even in their bitterest diatribes, did their friends ever feel the two young Muslims were railing against them. The hatred wasn’t personal, it was political.
Samy and Tamar had been recruited into Jean-Claude’s cell two months earlier. They too hated America deeply for what they felt Americans had done to Muslim people worldwide. This, despite the fact that Tamar loved to dress Western in public, with skirts above her knees, and liked American movies and music. Fortunately, her husband permitted it, within reason. So they lived happily together.
And they too were happy to be conduits for Jean-Claude’s cargo.
So when Jean-Claude dropped the cargo at the bakery, Samy personally stashed both bags in a locked area of a deep walk-in pantry in his bakery.
He was thrilled with what he had and happy to be part of Jean-Claude’s team and mission.
NINETEEN
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, 4:23 P.M.
A s a warm afternoon faded in the Spanish capital, Alex opened her laptop on a table on her small balcony at the Ritz. She had a soft drink on ice and had changed out of her “meeting” clothes into more comfortable duds: shorts and a T-shirt, an outfit that made perfect sense in terms of relaxation, but too casual to wander around the starchy old Ritz or even this very dressy neighborhood.
She settled into a comfortable cushioned chair. Five floors below traffic rumbled along the Paseo del Prado, though the crescent in front of the Ritz was quiet.
As the computer booted, Alex’s gaze drifted out across the city. Madrid had been the capital of the Iberian Peninsula since the middle of the sixteenth century. She gazed over the ancient city and felt a surge of excitement and fascination. It would be nice, she told herself, to come back here someday with time to burn, time to enjoy at her own pace the museums, nightclubs, and sporting events. She would love to watch Real Madrid, the city’s world-class soccer team play a game at Estadio Santiago Bernabeu or catch a bullfight at Las Ventas, the world’s most famous bullring. She would like to come back here someday with someone she loved.
And then her thoughts tripped a mental landmine, one of sadness and longing, one of still painfully missing her fiance, Robert, who had died early that year. The memories set off a wave of bittersweet loneliness within her, one she fought almost every day for at least a few moments. She knew what had happened in Kiev, but she
hadn’t fully accepted it.
Alex looked at her watch. She sighed.
She clicked into her secure email and looked for anything that might have come in during the last few hours. Predictably, several of the men who had been at the meeting at the embassy had already checked in with her. Pierre LeMaitre of the French National Police had been the first, followed by Rolland Fitzgerald of Scotland Yard and Maurice Essen of Interpol. None of them had anything new for her.
Floyd Connelly of US Customs, the pudgy old Orson Welles look-alike, had sent an empty email. Alex wondered what to make of it, other than the notion that the man was quickly emerging as a blustery old fool. Somewhere he had a secretary who did his job for him.
She was about to exit the email when another note popped up from Fitzgerald at Scotland Yard. He had a brief file touching on anti-US terrorist activities in Spain and attached it for Alex’s consideration.
It was filled with rumors and conjectures, as well as a shopping list of predictably Islamic names and addresses of mosques. Nothing substantial. Nothing specific. Just a maze of nasty implications floating around, waiting to make sense or waiting to have some sense made of them. Stuff like that could be a gold mine. Or it could send her a hundred eighty degrees in the wrong direction. She finished but then scanned again to see if she had missed anything.
She had. Almost.
She found an email from her occasional employer in New York, Joseph Collins, who financed mission work in Latin America. It had been Collins who had bankrolled her visit earlier in the year.
Alex wrote back, telling him she was in Madrid on a new assignment. And she would, she promised, keep him informed.
She moved on. Time passed.
Her fingers went to work on the keyboard, and she fired back a response to the Englishman Rolland Fitzgerald, thanking him. At least the man was thinking. Then again, so was Alex.
As recently as 2004, she recalled, the deadliest terrorist attack in Europe had occurred in Madrid: ten synchronized blasts on trains, nearly two hundred killed, fourteen hundred wounded. Al-Qaeda had been responsible.
