Koplowitz had also become a noted philanthropist. A patron of the arts and the infirm, she started a foundation that contributed more than sixty-two million euros to Spanish charities. She gave fifteen million euros to create a national biomedical research center, and millions more to fund group homes and day-care centers for adults suffering from mental illness and cerebral palsy. Koplowitz and her three daughters enjoyed homes in the country, the city, and at the shore. The white, modern, two-floor penthouse from which the paintings had been stolen overlooked a lovely Madrid park.
UNDERCOVER WORK TAKES patience.
Criminals are rarely punctual. They may show up early to conduct countersurveillance or, more likely, arrive late to demonstrate who’s in control. Or forget where or when they were supposed to show up. They’re criminals, not bankers. Sometimes they just get there when they get there—whenever they feel like it, whenever they finish whatever it was they were just doing.
This drives most cops and agents nuts. They like to be in charge and are trained to try to control every situation. They take comfort in military precision and punctuality. They like to make a plan and follow it. I learned long ago to play it much looser.
On the morning of our sting, June 19, 2002, I locked my real wallet and passport in my hotel room safe, swapping them for my Robert Clay identification. I met Motyka and G in the lobby and we took a cab to the gleaming Meliá Castilla Hotel, where the Spanish police had reserved the suite in my name. The five-star Meliá rises in the heart of the city’s commercial center, not far from the Santiago Bernabéu soccer stadium and Paseo de la Castellana, one of Madrid’s grandest tree-lined avenues.
From my undercover suite, Motyka dialed Flores on his cell phone, at 10 a.m., right on schedule.
No one answered. Motyka tried again a half hour later and once more an hour after that. Each time, the call went straight to voice mail. At noon, Motyka dialed again.
He snapped his cell phone shut. “Negative.”
The comisario in the room frowned. He’d positioned perhaps one hundred officers in plainclothes wandering the lobby and streets outside the hotel. A lot of them were probably working overtime, earning time and a half. I chuckled to myself. Apparently, working a major undercover case in Spain was no different from working one in the United States—sometimes you had to work just as hard to keep your own side calm and focused as you did chasing your targets.
I broke the uneasy silence. “Hey, who’s hungry? Should we get some lunch? Walk around?”
“Good idea.”
We killed an hour wandering through the shops near the hotel, Motyka gripping his cell phone so he wouldn’t miss Flores’s call. I found a lovely hand-painted fan, black with red flowers, and bought it for my daughter, Kristin. G found a few souvenirs of his own. We slipped into one of the Museo del Jamón sandwich shops, with large hunks of ham hanging in neat rows. We ordered a couple of sandwiches and bottles of Orangina, and grabbed a standing table in the back, out of the sun.
Motyka glared at his silent cell phone. “I think the Spanish police are ready to pull the plug. What do you think?”
G said, “I don’t know. Doesn’t look good.”
I said, “I think everyone should relax. Give it time.” I held up my sandwich, trying to change the subject. “This is great, huh? Wonder if I could smuggle one on the plane for the ride back?”
“Shit,” Motyka said. “He’s not gonna call.”
“Whoa,” I cautioned. “These things happen on their own timetable. We gotta give it some time. Don’t worry about what the comisarios are saying—that this isn’t going to work out.” I lowered my voice. “Look, buddy, you’ve got to remember that the Spanish police have their own agenda here. They can’t be too crazy about us being here, after working a case for six months, getting nowhere. What’s it going to look like if the FBI waltzes in here and solves it in a few days? Now, they couldn’t refuse our offer to help—that would look bad—but they’re probably going to be pretty quick to shut us down. That way they can say they gave the FBI plan a fair shake. You can’t worry about that. What you’ve got to do is stay positive.”
“I don’t know.”
“Give them a couple of days,” I said. “We’re offering ten million. They’ll call.”
Motyka looked glum. “Hmmm.”
“Look,” I said, “we finish our sandwiches. We walk back. We call again. If Flores doesn’t answer, we call back in a few hours. It’s all we can do.”
“I don’t know.” He was beginning to repeat himself.
But back at the hotel, Motyka couldn’t keep his itchy finger off the redial button—3 p.m., 5 p.m., 6 p.m., and 9 p.m. I began worrying about the repeated calls. Only cops and fools pushed that hard. We had the money. They wanted it. We held the upper hand. The calls made us look desperate. Like amateurs, or worse, cops.
I let Motyka know. He shrugged off my advice.
When yet another call failed—this time around midnight—the comisario finally stepped forward.
“I’m sorry, but it’s late,” he said. “My men have been waiting a long time.”
Motyka reluctantly nodded. Suddenly, everyone seemed to be giving up. Some of the FBI agents even started talking about arrangements to fly home. It seemed premature, but I kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t my call. As I left for the night, Motyka was still huddling with an FBI agent from the embassy.
I went back to my hotel to call home and say good night to Donna and give my love to the kids, and then grab some sleep.
MY PHONE BUZZED in the early morning darkness.
“Bob?” It was Motyka.
“Yeah, what’s up?” I groggily asked, blinking at the alarm clock. It was 6 a.m. What the hell?
He could barely contain his excitement. “I talked to Flores! I tried him one more time after everybody left. And he answered! We got cut off but we spoke three times. He says he’s got the paintings. It’s on!”
I sat up wide awake. “Dude!”
“Yeah, I know.”
I wanted details. “So what was the deal? Why wasn’t he answering his phone?”
“Some bullshit. Said he had to go out of town. He says he’ll be back this afternoon, and to call at 5 p.m. But bottom line: We’re on.”
I asked about backup. “The comisarios?”
“Sanchez got ’em to agree to give us one more day.”
“Great news. I love good news. Nice work, buddy.”
We met again in my suite at the Meliá that afternoon. At 5 p.m., we gathered around as Motyka dialed Flores.
No answer.
Motyka tried five more times over the next four hours. At 9 p.m., the comisario stepped in and shut down the operation. It appeared, he said, that the Flores gang was toying with the great FBI. These were very good criminals, the comisario said, with very good sources. Perhaps they’d gotten wise to the sting. Perhaps they were bluffing all along. Tell you what, he said. We feel bad about this and we’ve arranged to take you out to dinner tonight. Our treat.
The consolation dinner at the hotel restaurant was grim. What was there to say? We’d be returning empty-handed. The FBI director would receive a full report. We’d wasted a lot of time and money. I still couldn’t believe we were giving up so soon. But, keenly aware of the political realities, I didn’t say a word.
By dessert, we’d run out of small talk and fell into silence. G poked at the half-eaten flan on his plate. Motyka stared blankly into a full glass of sangria. The comisario chiseled a thick wedge of chocolate cake with a spoon. I stole a glance at the newspaper by G’s elbow, headlines from the international edition of USA Today. “Housing starts soar, lifting economy. Gov. Ventura drops out of the race. Fires rage in the West. Senate tells basebalclass="underline" Test for steroids….”