Priceless

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 baseball: Test for steroids….”

Motyka’s phone rang, startling us out of our listlessness.

He spoke in French. “Oui?… Oui? Bon, bon. Pas de probleme.” Motyka broke into a smile. “Vingt minutes? Um, uh, l’entree du Hotel Melia Castilla?… Mmmm… OK, a bientot.”

He snapped the phone shut. “We’re on again. The lobby. Twenty minutes.”

WE WAITED FOR the targets in richly upholstered high-backed crimson chairs in the lobby. A pair of Asian blue and white vases, probably cheap knockoffs, stood behind us. A set of antique locks lined the shelves of a hutch against the far wall. Those, I could see, were real.

Motyka spotted Flores and Candela in the foyer and met them with firm handshakes. They lingered for a few minutes and the FBI agent brought Candela to meet me and G in our seats. Flores stayed about twenty feet away, standing, arms crossed.

To my surprise, Candela spoke English.

He seemed thrilled to meet an American art expert and I seized on this, turning to a technique I call “the decoy.” With the decoy, you create a bond by finding a common interest, one that doesn’t have anything to do with the case at hand. If I pulled it off, the target would be lulled into thinking he was teaching me something I didn’t know. It was the same technique I’d used when I got Joshua Baer to teach me about Indian artifacts, when I got Dennis Garcia to send me magazines about the backflap, when I got Tom Marciano to mail me a copy of the law that says selling eagle feathers is a crime.

I offered my opening gambit to Candela. “Hey, do you like antiques?”

“Si.”

“Come here, I want to show you something I really like.” I led him by the arm to the far wall and to the display case of antique locks. For a few moments, we talked about craftsmanship and history.

“They’re from Seville,” he said. “These locks are famous there.”

“Really?” I said, feigning interest.

“If you like, I’ll take you to Seville sometime and show you.”

“Sure, I’d like that. You could show me which are the best to buy.”

We moved back to the red chairs to talk about the paintings. I nodded at Motyka and said, “My friend takes care of the money. I take care of the paintings.” Candela smiled at that.

I told him I’d want to see the Brueghel first for verification. He agreed, but just to be sure we understood each other, I took out my stack of pictures of the stolen paintings.

“Brueghel,” I said, flipping to the page with the painting. “The Temptation of St. Anthony.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“Brueghel,” I said again.

Candela studied the paper printout. “That’s from the FBI,” he said. “This list, from the FBI.”

I caught my breath. Candela was better than I thought. The pictures were indeed from the FBI’s public website. I’d cut them out and pasted them on blank pages, figuring they were just pictures of paintings. But Candela instantly recognized the sizes and formats from the bureau website. Apparently, he’d been busy researching his robbery.

Concealing my terror, I stuck close to the truth. I smiled and said, “You recognize that, huh? The FBI site, yes. Only place I could find all the pictures.”

Candela let out a hearty laugh. “Ah, the Internet. Yes, the FBI has best pictures.”

I laughed too, trying not to sweat. What a screwup. What a save.

Candela took the stack of images and began thumbing through them, putting a check by the paintings still for sale, an X by the ones he’d already sold.

When he finished, I said, “You’ve sold seven already?”

“For eight million.”

I didn’t know whether to believe him. “Nice,” I said.

“How about I show the Foujita? It’s smaller. Fits in a suitcase.”

“No, no,” I insisted. “The Brueghel.”

“OK, let’s go,” he said, standing. “I take you to the painting.”

We weren’t prepared for a rolling surveillance, and I worried the Spanish might move in and ruin everything if we started walking toward the door.

“Whoa, I’m not going anywhere,” I said, trying to look as terrified as possible. “You bring me art, I’ll look at it. I’m an art professor, not in your business.”

Candela smiled, knowingly. He turned to Motyka. “Ah, that’s right, he’s not a professional like us. He’s afraid.”

Candela stood. “Tomorrow afternoon, then.” We shook hands.

Motyka walked with him to Flores, still standing about twenty feet away. I couldn’t hear them, but I presumed they were making the arrangements.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly 1 a.m.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, in the minutes before Candela arrived in our suite, I dozed off, slouched in a chair.

I woke to the Spanish undercover agent staring at me. “How can you sleep? Aren’t you nervous?”

I could understand why he was nervous. He was guarding 500,000 euros with a tiny five-shot pistol, toting it to and from a bank vault each day, putting his career on the line each time he took the cash. I said, “Nah, I’m not nervous. Jet-lagged, hot.” It was 6 a.m. in Philadelphia; the air-conditioning in our five- star suite was broken. It was 90 degrees, inside and outside.

I wandered over to the window and opened it, hoping to catch a breeze. I stuck my head out. I looked down and jumped back inside. “Yo, G! Check this out!” I motioned out the window with my eyebrows. G ran to look.

Ten stories below, we could see the pool, surrounded by a bevy of topless bathers. G whistled. Motyka took his turn. Our fun lasted only a moment. A supervisor came running in from the surveillance room next door. Cut it out, he said. We’re getting this all on tape!

Candela arrived a few minutes later. On time!

“Bonsoir,” he said brightly, bearing a rectangular package wrapped in black plastic. He shook hands with Motyka, G, me, and the Spanish undercover agent, the guy with the revolver hidden in his pants.

Candela eyed the open gym bag on the bed brimming with bank notes.

He crossed and dug his hand inside. Instantly, he said, “This looks like only half of it.”

“Euros,” Motyka explained. “It’s easier than dollars.”

Candela kneeled on the bed, closer to the money. “It’s fine. I can take some bills out?”

“Of course, take your time.”

He started to count the money. He pocketed a 20-, a 50-, and a 100-euro note from the bag, saying he