第 39 页

She returned to the Prado the next morning.

Nothing had changed except the faces of the visitors. Tracy kept a careful lookout for Jeff, but he did not appear.

Tracy thought, He's already figured out how he's going to steal it. The bastard. All this charm he's been using was just to try to distract me, and keep me from getting the painting first.

She suppressed her anger and replaced it with clear, cold logic.

Tracy walked over to the Puerto again, and her eyes wandered over the nearby canvases, the alert guards, the amateur painters sitting on stools in front of their easels, the crowds, flowing in and out of the room, and as she looked around, Tracy's heart suddenly began to beat faster.

I know how I'm going to do it!

She made a telephone call from a public booth on the Gran Vнa, and Daniel Cooper, who stood in a coffee shop doorway watching, would have given a year's pay to know whom Tracy was calling. He was sure it was an overseas call and that she was phoning collect, so that there would be no record of it. He was aware of the lime-green linen dress that he had not seen before and that her legs were bare. So that men can stare at them, he thought. Whore.

He was filled with rage.

In the telephone booth, Tracy was ending her conversation. “Just make sure he's fast, Gunther. He'll have only about two minutes. Everything will depend on speed.”

To: J. J. Reynolds

File No. Y-72-830-412

FROM: Daniel Cooper

CONFIDENTIAL

SUBJECT: Tracy Whitney

It is my opinion that the subject is in Madrid to carry out a major criminal endeavor. The likely target is the Prado Museum. The Spanish police are being uncooperative, but I will personally keep the subject under surveillance and apprehend her at the appropriate time.

Two days later, at 9:00 A.M., Tracy was seated on a bench in the gardens of the Retiro, the beautiful park running through the center of Madrid, feeding the pigeons. The Retiro, with its lake and graceful trees and well-kept grass, and miniature stages with shows for children, was a magnet for the Madrileсos.

Cesar Porretta, an elderly, gay-haired man with a slight hunchback, walked along the park path, and when he reached the bench, he sat down beside Tracy, opened a paper sack, and began throwing out bread crumbs to the birds. “Buenos dнas, seсorita.”

“Buenos dнas. Do you see any problems?”

“None, seсorita. All I need is the time and the date.”

“I don't have it yet,” Tracy told him. “Soon.”

He smiled, a toothless smile. “The police will go crazy. No one has ever tried anything like this before.”

“That's why it's going to work,” Tracy said. “You'll hear from ma.” She tossed out a last crumb to the pigeons and rose. She walked away, her silk dress swaying provocatively around her knees.

While Tracy was in the park meeting with Cesar Porretta, Daniel Cooper was searching her hotel room. He had watched from the lobby as Tracy left the hotel and headed for the park. She had not ordered anything from room service, and Cooper had decided that she was going out to breakfast. He had given himself thirty minutes. Entering her suite had been a simple matter of avoiding the floor maids and using a lock pick. He knew what he was looking for: a copy of a painting. He had no idea how Tracy planned to substitute it, but he was sure it had to be her scheme.

He searched the suite with swift, silent efficiency, missing nothing and saving the bedroom for last. He looked through her closet, examining her dresses, and then the bureau. He opened the drawers, one by one. They were filled with panties and bras and pantyhose. He picked up a pair of pink underpants and rubbed them against his cheek and imagined her sweet-smelling flesh in them. The scent of her was suddenly everywhere. He replaced the garment and quickly looked through the other drawers. No painting.

Cooper walked into the bathroom. There were drops of water in the tub. Her body had lain there, covered with water as warm as the womb, and Cooper could visualize Tracy lying in it, naked, the water caressing her breasts as her hips undulated up and down. He felt an erection begin. He picked up the damp washcloth from the tub and brought it to his lips. The odor of her body swirled around him as he unzipped his trousers. He rubbed a cake of damp soap onto the washcloth and began stroking himself with it, facing the mirror, looking into his blazing eyes.

A few minutes later he left, as quietly as he had arrived, and headed directly for a nearby church.

The following morning when Tracy left the Ritz Hotel, Daniel Cooper followed her. There was an intimacy between them that had not existed before. He knew her smell; he had seen her in her bath, had watched her naked body writhing in the warm water. She belonged completely to him; she was his to destroy. He watched her as she wandered along the Gran Vнa, examining the merchandise in the shops, and he followed her into a large department store, careful to remain out of sight. He saw her speak to a clerk, then head for the ladies' room. Cooper stood near the door, frustrated. It was the one place he could not follow her.

If Cooper had been able to go inside, he would have seen Tracy talking to a grossly overweight, middle-aged woman.

“Maсana,” Tracy said, as she applied fresh lipstick before the mirror. “Tomorrow morning, eleven o'clock.”

The woman shook her head. “No, seсorita. He will not like that. You could not choose a worse day. Tomorrow the Prince, of Luxembourg arrives on a state visit, and the newspapers say he will be taken on a tour of the Prado. There will be extra security guards and police all over the museum.”

“The more the better. Tomorrow.”

Tracy walked out the door, and the woman looked after her muttering, “La cucha es loca….”

The royal party was scheduled to appear at the Prado at exactly 11:00 A.M., and the streets around the Prado had been roped off by the Guardia Civil. Because of a delay in the ceremony at the presidential palace, the entourage did not arrive until close to noon. There were the screams of sirens as police motorcycles came into view, escorting a procession of half a dozen black limousines to the front steps of the Prado.

At the entrance, the director of the museum, Christian Machada, nervously awaited the arrival of His Highness.

Machada had made a careful morning inspection to be sure everything was in order, and the guards had been forewarned to be especially alert. The director was proud of his museum, and he wanted to make a good impression on the prince.

It never hurts to have friends in high places, Machada thought. їQuiйn sabe? I might even be invited to dine with His Highness this evening at the presidential palace.

Christian Machada's only regret was that there was no way to stop the hordes of tourists that wandered about. But the prince's bodyguards and the museum's security guards would ensure that the prince was protected. Everything was in readiness for him.

The royal tour began upstairs, on the main floor. The director greeted His Highness with an effusive welcome and escorted him, followed by the armed guards, through the rotunda and into the rooms where the sixteenth-century Spanish painters were on exhibit: Juan de Juanes, Pedro Machuca, Fernando Yбсez.

The prince moved slowly, enjoying the visual feast spread before him. He was a patron of the arts and genuinely loved the painters who could make the past come alive and remain eternal. Having no talent for painting himself, the prince, as he looked around the rooms, nonetheless envied the painters who stood before their easels trying to snatch sparks of genius from the masters.

When the official party had visited the upstairs salons, Christian Machado said proudly, “And now, if Your Highness will permit me, I will take you downstairs to our Goya exhibit.”

Tracy had spent a nerve-racking morning. When the prince had not arrived at the Prado at 11:00 as scheduled, she had begun to panic. All her arrangements had been made and timed to the second, but she needed the prince in order to make them work.

She moved from room to room, mixing with the crowds, trying to avoid attracting attention. He's not coming, Tracy thought finally. I'm going to have to call it off. And at that moment, she had heard the sound of approaching sirens from the street.

Watching Tracy from a vantage point in the next room, Daniel Cooper, too, was aware of the sirens. His reason told him it was impossible for anyone to steal a painting from the museum, but his instinct told him that Tracy was going to try it, and Cooper trusted his instinct. He moved closer to her, letting the crowds conceal him from view. He intended to keep her in sight every moment.

Tracy was in the room next to the salon where the Puerto was being exhibited. Through the open doorway she could see the hunchback, Cesar Porreta, seated before an easel, copying Goya's Clothed Maja, which hung next to the Puerto. A guard stood three feet away. In the room with Tracy, a woman painter stood at her easel, studiously copying The Milkmaid of Bordeaux, trying to capture the brilliant browns and greens of Goya's canvas.

A group of Japanese tourists fluttered into the salon, chattering like a flock of exotic birds. Now! Tracy told herself. This was the moment she had been waiting for, and her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid the guard could hear it. She moved out of the path of the approaching Japanese tour group, backing toward the woman painter. As a Japanese man brushed in front of Tracy, Tracy fell backward, as if pushed, bumping the artist and sending her, the easel, canvas, and paints flying to the ground.

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry!” Tracy exclaimed. “Let me help you.”

As she moved to assist the startled artist, Tracy's heels stamped into the scattered paints, smearing them into the floor. Daniel Cooper, who had seen everything, hurried closer, every sense alert. He was sure Tracy Whitney had made her first move.

The guard rushed over, calling out, “їQuй pasa? їQuй pasa?”

The accident had attracted the attention of the tourists, and they milled around the fallen woman, smearing the paints from the crushed tubes into grotesque images on the hardwood floor. It was an unholy mess, and the prince was due to appear at any moment. The guard was in a panic. He yelled out, “ЎSergio! iVen acб! iPronto!”

Tracy watched as the guard from the next room came running in to help. Cesar Porretta was alone in the salon with the Puerto.

Tracy was in the middle of the uproar. The two guards were dying vainly to push the tourists away from the area of the paint-smeared floor.

“Get the director,” Sergio yelled. “ЎEn seguida!”

The other guard hurried off toward the stairs. ЎQuй4 birria! What a mess!

Two minutes later Christian Machada was at the scene of the disaster. The director took one horrified look ad screamed, “Get some cleaning women down here — Quickly! Mops and cloths and turpentine. ЎPronto!”

A young aide rushed to do his bidding.

Machada turned to Sergio, “Get back to your post,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

Tracy watched the guard push his way through the crowd to the room where Cesar Porretta was working.

Cooper had not taken his eyes off Tracy for an instant. He had waited for her next move. But it had not come. She had not gone near any of the paintings, nor had she made contact with an accomplice. All she had done was knock over an easel and spill some paints on the floor, but he was certain it had been done deliberately. But to what purpose? Somehow, Cooper felt that whatever had been planned had already happened. He looked around the walls of the salon. None of the paintings was missing.

Cooper hurried into the adjoining room. There was no one there but the guard and an elderly hunchback seated at his easel, copying the Clothed Maja. All the paintings were in place. But something was wrong. Cooper knew it.

He hurried back to the harassed director, whom he had met earlier. “I have reason to believe,” Cooper blurted out, “that a painting has been stolen from here in the past few minutes.”

Christian Machada stared at the wild-eyed American. “What are you talking about? If that were so, the guards would have sounded the alarm.”

“I think that somehow a fake painting was substituted for real one.”

The director gave him a tolerant smile. “There is one small thing wrong with your theory, seсor. It is not known to the general public, but there are sensors hidden behind each painting. If anyone tried to lift a painting from the wall — which they would certainly have to do to substitute another painting — the alarm would instantly sound.”

Daniel Cooper was still not satisfied. “Could your alarm be disconnected?”

“No. If someone cut the wire to the power, that also would cause the alarm to go off. Seсor, it is impossible for anyone to steal a painting from this museum. Our security is what you call proof from fools.”

Cooper stood there shaking with frustration. Everything the director said was convincing. It did seem impossible. But then why had Tracy Whitney deliberately spilled those paints?

Cooper would not give up. “Humor me. Would you ask your staff to go through the museum and check to make sure nothing is missing? I'll be at my hotel.”

There was nothing more Daniel Cooper could do.

At 7:00 that evening Christian Machada telephoned Cooper. “I have personally made an inspection, seсor. Every painting is in its proper place. Nothing is missing from the museum.”

So that was that. Seemingly, it had been an accident. But Daniel Cooper, with the instincts of a hunter, sensed that his quarry had escaped.

Jeff had invited Tracy to dinner in the main dining room of the Ritz Hotel.

“You're looking especially radiant this evening,” Jeff complimented her.

“Thank you. I feel absolutely wonderful.”

“It's the company. Come with me to Barcelona next week, Tracy. It's a fascinating city. You'd love —”

“I'm sorry, Jeff. I can't. I'm leaving Spain.”

“Really?” His voice was filled with regret. “When?”

“In a few days.”

“Ah. I'm disappointed.”

You're going to be more disappointed, Tracy thought, when you learn I've stolen the Puerto. She wondered how he had planned to steal the painting. Not that it mattered any longer. I've outwitted clever Jeff Stevens. Yet, for some inexplicable reason Tracy felt a faint trace of regret.

Christian Machada was seated in his office enjoying his morning cup of strong black coffee and congratulating himself on what a success the prince's visit had been. Except for the regrettable incident of the spilled paints, everything had gone off precisely as planned. He was grateful that the prince and his retinue had been diverted until the mess could be cleaned up. The director smiled when he thought about the idiot American investigator who had tried to convince him that someone had stolen a painting from the Prado. Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow, he thought smugly.