She walked toward her towel. She felt good. But when she reached her towel, her cell phone was ringing. It served her right for buying a phone chip that was good in Spain. She reached for the phone. From habit, she answered in the language of the country she was in. “Diga.”
There was a moment’s pause as her voice bounced off satellites. Then the response returned in English.
“Alex, I don’t know where you are,” said Mike Gamburian back in Washington, “but I have a pretty good hunch where you’ll be in three days.”
“Seriously, Mike,” she said. “Nice to hear from you, but don’t try to read my mind. There’s this cruise ship that’s sailing out of Barcelona for Fiji and the South Seas. They need multilingual hostesses who can cheat at blackjack and speak Russian. I’ve been hired and I’m going.”
There was a pause. “Are you serious?” he asked.
“No, I’m not,” she said. “But serves you right for calling me when I’m at a European beach and hardly wearing any clothes.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
She pictured him in his office at the United States Department of Treasury, leaning back in his leather chair, 15th Street outside his window. Then she remembered that this was Labor Day back in America.
“Shouldn’t you be in your backyard grilling botulism burgers for your family right now?” she asked.
“Should be, yes. But I’m not.”
She crouched down for a moment and grabbed her towel and sunglasses. In one motion, she put the glasses on and worked the towel across her hair and shoulders. She was happy to see her newly acquired iPod, loaded with English, French, and Spanish pop and rock, and a library of jazz and classical, lay just where she had stashed it, plus the novel she was reading.
“Then you didn’t call to ask me how my tan was progressing. What’s going on?”
“What’s your agenda for the rest of the week?” Gamburian asked.
“Are we talking on a secure line?” she asked.
“My end is fine. How about yours?”
“It’s good, also,” she said. “Or at least I think it is. Probably no fewer than a dozen different agencies listening, how’s that?”
“Situation normal,” he said.
A beat and then she added, “Well, I had it in mind to fly to London for two or three days to see some old friends and maybe see some theater. Then I figured I’d be back in Washington next week and pick up again at Treasury the Monday following and start in with whatever dull honest work you have for me. Then, if our previous arrangement holds, which it never seems to, I leave for Venezuela in a few weeks.”
“How would you feel about going to Madrid, instead of London,” he asked, “and staying in Europe for a little longer before coming back to Washington?”
“Why? What’s in Madrid?”
“Great food, great wine, handsome macho Spanish men, the king of Spain, and bull fights. Plus relentless heat and pounding humidity that will make you cry. How does that sound?”
“It stinks, Mike. No way!”
“Good. Glad you’re pumped. Can you be there in three days?”
Her hair was almost dry. She shook it out and liked the feeling. She pulled a thin voile cover-up around her upper body and remained standing. “And why do you want me in Madrid, Mike? I don’t suppose there’s a good reason.”
“The Museo Arqueológico Nacional,” he said, massacring all three words. “Ever been there?”
“Never.”
“Here’s your chance. Uncle Sam promised help with a missing item. Apparently the museum was burglarized a couple of weeks ago. There was a pietà taken.”
“A what? Am I hearing you right?”
“A pietà,” he said again.
“Like the huge one in Rome that weighs ten tons? The Michelangelo? Mary crying over the body of a slain Christ? What did they do, Mike, back a truck up to the place overnight and no one noticed? Great security.”
Gamburian laughed.
“You have the reference right, Alex, but not much else. This one has a bit of a history to it. It’s much older than the Michelangelo work and much smaller. A miniature. It’s a carving in pink granite on a wooden base. Maybe six inches tall and eight inches wide.”
“Art theft isn’t my field,” she said.
“But you learn quickly,” he answered.
“I’ve heard that before and been sorry,” she said. “What are you telling me? You want me to help the Spaniards with a two-bit burglary?”
“This feels like more than ‘two-bit,’ Alex,” Gamburian said. “That’s why we want to assign you to it.”
“Give it to me straight, Mike,” she said. “There are hundreds of major art thefts every week all over the world. What’s different about this one.”
“The uniqueness of the piece,” he said. “And we’ve been picking up some rumors and theories about some small terror cells in Spain that are intent on big things. Art theft often finances major crime. So we’re on guard.”
“Got it,” she said.
“You worked with a man named Mark McKinnon earlier this year, right? He’s one of the top ‘Agency’ guys in Europe.”
“I know him,” she said without enthusiasm.
“He’s on top of this, or at least says he is,” Gamburian said. “He’s going to be in touch with you in Madrid. Once again, you’re the perfect person on the spot.”
“Your flattery is going to get me killed some day.”
“Better you than me.”
“I’m going to hang up on you, Mike. That way you won’t hear me cursing at you.”
“Oh, come on. Hear me out, okay?”
Already within her, there was a feeling of disappointment. She had been doing much thinking and soul searching in the last few weeks. Following her recent activities from the brutally hot jungles of Venezuela to the snowy streets of Ukraine, she wondered if she was already burned out from this type of work. A voice within her urged her toward a job, an assignment, that would combat poverty, disease, and hate, the things she felt were the challenges of the new century, and part of how she wanted to live out her Christian faith.
“I still get to go back to Venezuela, right, Mike? Unfinished business and all.”
“The Caracas assignment will happen down the road, Alex. But the US government needs to assign someone right away. Today. We got a request at the ambassadorial level. You’re in Spain already. You’re fluent in Spanish, you’ll charm the socks off the castizos in Madrid, and you do have a bit of a background in art history.”
“How did you remember that?”
“I didn’t. I have a memory like a sieve. But I’m looking at your c.v. Christian art courses for your Master’s at UCLA. Says it right here. So, listen,” he continued. “If you say yes, I’ll put you back on the active payroll as of yesterday morning. Instead of the money coming out of the ‘Head Case’ funds you’ll be back on active duty. What do you say?”
A child’s soccer ball with the Barcelona team logo rolled onto her blanket from nearby, pursued by a smiling five-year-old boy. Alex gave him a friendly smile and gently flicked the ball back to him with her bare foot.
She held her silence, just to let Mike twist a little in the wind.
“Still there?” Gamburian finally asked.
“Before I say yes, what exactly are you asking me to do?” Alex asked.
“At first, go to a meeting at the US Embassy. You’ll meet some of our covert people in Spain and some people from various other European police agencies. You’ll be the point person for the US government and our combined intelligence agencies while you help the Spanish government recover a piece of ancient Christian artwork. Please say yes soon: I want to go home and catch the end of the family barbeque. Spare ribs don’t wait forever.”