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 pietà 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 without 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
Finally, 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 café 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 Lavapiés, an artsy, bohemian section of Madrid. In medieval times, Lavapiés 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 cafés until late at night, laughing, drinking tea, telling jokes, and watching sports on television.
Lavapiés was undergoing a process of gentrification as more and more cafés, 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.