She had been up for three hours already after a nearly sleepless night. She had located Rizzo in a Madrid hospital and had been burning out the secure phone channels to Washington. Now she stood patiently waiting for a ride, as promised on one of those calls.
She did not know how hot a target she might still be. She edged toward the door, giving the doormen a polite nod every time they looked her way. On her left knee, a few inches below the hem of a stylish blue skirt, she wore a fresh bandage from where she had hit the sidewalk the night before. Beneath a blouse and suit jacket, there was a similar bandage on her elbow.
She stepped to the doorway and looked at the city of Madrid beyond the old hotel. Past the stand of chestnut trees that insulated the hotel from the street, traffic churned around the plaza in the middle of the Paseo del Prado, with its fountain featuring Neptune on a chariot pulled by mythological sea beasts. Normal for a weekday morning.
At one point during the Civil War, the front lines had been only a few dozen streets to the west, on the street of Paseo del Pintor Rosales, which overlooked the park called the Casa del Campo. Republican defenders had ridden into action on streetcars that ran up the boulevard known as the Gran Vía. The hotel itself had at one point closed its doors to guests and become a hospital.
A black unmarked Mercedes eased to a stop in front of the Ritz. It was one of those special-orders favored by police and antiterror officials around the world. Within its gleaming steel chassis, it had the most bomb and bullet-resistant armor plating that the trolls of Stuttgart could weld. The tinted windows had the world’s best bulletproof glass, and the occupants could roll through traffic on the most shred-proof tires known to humanity.
A driver stepped out, a hulking armed police officer in a suit. He had a shaved head and a cadaverous face. He stood about six-feet-five and looked as if he broke people in half for breakfast. He came around and opened a rear door. As he opened it, a black Cadillac Esplanade pulled to an abrupt halt behind the black Mercedes.
Friends? Enemies? They could have been either. But from Alex’s phone calls this same morning, she knew exactly who was arriving.
The Mercedes carried the VIP. The second vehicle was the bodyguards’ car. It was filled with four more officers from the National Police. Three were armed with automatic pistols beneath their summer-weight jackets, and one sat with an Uzi across his lap.
The two in the front surveyed their commander’s car. The two in the back watched the front portico of the Ritz. Alex left the lobby of the Ritz and moved quickly toward the Benz. The first bodyguard spotted her immediately and walked to her.
“Alejandra?” he asked in Spanish.
“Soy yo,” she said. It’s me.
“I’m Miguel. Come with me,” he said.
Miguel stood close to her in a protective pose, his body acting as a shield, almost pressed against her, his arm around her shoulders but not touching. Miguel was so close that, from brushing against him, she knew he was wearing a bulletproof vest.
He guided her to the car door. The normally attentive Ritz doormen knew enough to stay away. Alex slid into the backseat. The driver closed the door, moved quickly around to the driver’s side, and jumped in.
In the backseat of the vehicle sat a very unhappy Colonel Carlos Pendraza of the Spanish Policia Nacional. Pendraza nodded to her. They spoke in Spanish.
“Buenos dias,” he said.
“Buenos dias,” Alex answered.
“My sincere apologies for the events of last night,” Colonel Pendraza said.
“Apologies are unnecessary,” she said. “Last night wasn’t your fault, I assume.”
“Of course not!” he said angrily. “And I’ve spent more than an hour on the phone to Washington,” he said. “I assume you have too.”
“I’ve been asked to definitely stay with this investigation,” Alex said. “I spoke to my superior at the Treasury Department. Originally, I was asked to come here as an observer in the theft of The Pietà of Malta. Now my bosses have asked me to take more of an investigatory role. With the permission of the host government,” she said.
“You have our permission, of course,” he said. “And you’ll have any measures of support that you need from the government of Spain. Aside from that, please try not to get killed in our country.”
“I’ll try not to,” she said.
“I’ve tried for thirty years myself,” he said. “I’ve been successful. So far.”
The Mercedes moved quickly out into the morning traffic on the plaza, joining the rumble of cars and trucks and the whine of motor scooters already on the plaza. The sun broke above the neighboring rooftops and blasted the streets.
Madrid in September. Already the day promised to be a scorcher. Colonel Pendraza allowed a moment to pass. Then he switched into fluent English.
“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.”