European.
“What you will see,” he said, “is ancient Arabic calligraphy. It combines the Arabic word for peace and a depiction of a dove. As you all know, in Judaism and Christianity, a white dove is generally a sign for peace. The Torah tells us that Noah released a dove after the flood in order to find land. The dove came back, an olive branch in its beak, telling Noah that the waters had receded and there was land once again. The same image holds through in the modern and ancient Islamic languages. The motif can also represent ‘hope for peace’ and even a peace offering from one man to another. The dove is represented here with wings spread, still in flight, a reminder of its role as messenger as well as the unfulfilled promise. The dove is, of course, in art also the traditional representation of the Holy Spirit, frequently seen hovering above Christ’s head when He is baptized by John the Baptist.”
Alex flicked her gaze around the room. All of the attendees appeared focused on Rivera’s minilecture, except possibly Floyd Connelly of US Customs, the Orson Welles look-alike, who seemed to be jetlagged. His eyelids were drooping and he had obviously tuned out, even though Rivera kept glancing at him.
“Now, it has been suggested, for centuries, that The Pieta of Malta has had magical powers,” Rivera continued. “According to legend, whoever was in possession or guardian of it, could not suffer a mortal death. Similarly, those who possessed it-nations, armies, civilizations-would never be vanquished. Hitler for example was obsessed with this object and personally snatched it in Rome in 1943 after Mussolini’s overthrow. At the close of World War II, American soldiers under Patton ‘rescued’ it from Hitler’s chalet on the Obersalzburg. The United States government owned it for a while, then generously returned it to the Austrians in 1955. It was then put on display in the museum of Vienna’s Hofburg Palace yet was largely ignored. Eventually, Francisco Franco acquired it for Spain in exchange for some Austrian art that had gone to Madrid during the war. Shortly before his death, he turned it over to Prince Juan Carlos, Franco’s designated successor and the future king. Juan Carlos turned it over to the Museo Arqueologico.”
And there it had remained, he said, largely ignored again, until less than two weeks earlier.
“You all have further background in front of you to read. Those of you who came equipped with laptops can turn in your reports, and we will provide you with a download of the identical information. Needless to say, the overall information shared in those documents is to be privy only to those in this room and any immediate superiors who assigned you to this investigation.”
He scanned the room. “I also expect you will exchange credentials and ways to access each other to work together to retrieve The Pieta of Malta for the people of Spain.”
He paused again.
Around the table, most eyes remained trained on the files or the individual computer screens. Some nodded soberly. Floyd Connelly, US Customs, looked pleased that the meeting was over. He opened a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, chomped it, and gazed at the ceiling.
LeMaitre, the Frenchman, sitting across from him, studied Connelly with barely concealed contempt until he shifted his gaze slightly and caught Alex looking at him. He gave her a smile and turned back to Rivera.
“We know we are asking for a great achievement in a short period of time,” Rivera continued. “But the recovery of this object is the only remedy we can ultimately accept. So today and tomorrow you will be briefed by me and various branches of the Spanish police as to what has happened to date. After that,” he said, “I trust you will pursue this investigation with the vigor and skill of which I know you are all capable.”
As Rivera spoke, from her right, Alex caught a nearly subliminal glance from Rizzo, whose gaze slid sideways for a moment to hold hers, then drifted away again and didn’t return.
“Questions?” Rivera asked.
Maurice Essen of Interpol was the first to speak. “Have your local police or national police made any inroads in their own investigation?” he asked. “The use of municipal police uniforms suggest there may have been some local organization involved in this.”
Colonel Torres of the national police picked up the question.
“There is nothing so far,” Torres said. “We have our leads out, much as is mentioned in the report. But so far, there is nothing.”
“Is there any indication that the theft was engineered with any international group?” asked Rizzo.
“No indication one way or another,” Rivera answered.
Alex pondered for a moment. A few half-shaped questions and theories began to emerge in her mind. But she wanted to study the full dossier that had been given to her before she ran her thoughts in any particular direction. It was an old habit that had served her well.
Think first, then speak.
The room was quiet. There were no further questions. The meeting adjourned.
FOURTEEN
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, NOON
Maria Elena Gomez had turned thirty-three years old on the same day that The Pieta of Malta was stolen from the Museo Arqueologico in Madrid. At thirty-three, an unmarried mother of a twelve-year-old daughter, she was a woman of considerable charm and good looks, solid and wholesome in the traditional style of a working class
To see Maria at the clubs or even at a soccer match, laughing, singing, or knocking back wine with friends, one would never have guessed the stolidly mundane nature of her career and employment.
As an employee of the Madrid subway system, just a few years earlier Maria would have been limited to working in a ticket booth. But now, thanks to laws forbidding sex discrimination in employment, Maria had graduated to the Madrid Metro job that she really liked. She was a track walker.
Five days a week, after the subway shut down for the night and before service resumed the next day, armed with heavy flashlights and cell phones, she and her partner would hop down onto the tracks and walk from one station to the next. They would check the links between the individual rails and check to see if the pressure of passing trains had created cracks in rails that, if the rail was not replaced, could lead to a train jumping the tracks. Now, more recently, track walkers were on duty during the day too. They kept a special eye open for anything unusual that could be connected with terrorism. New York, London, and Madrid had all been hit savagely by al- Qaeda, as everyone knew. While the chances of a repeat were always present, no one wanted to make it easy.
It wasn’t a job for everyone, but Maria liked her work.
“But,
“No me importa nada,” she would answer. And to her it was nothing. She didn’t care a whit about dark or rats, maybe because she had been a tomboy as a girl, which hadn’t sat well with the nuns when she was in school. But she had left school at the age of sixteen when her father died.
The job was steady. It paid reasonably. It supported her comfortably, if not lavishly. But she also felt as if she was doing something not just to support herself and her young daughter, but something for Spain as well. Something that protected the public. From accidents. From terror. Even from inferior Metro service.
So she took her job seriously and dutifully, which was in the family tradition. Her father had been an engine driver for RENFE, the railway company, until he died of a stroke.
From her father, she had also inherited his little apartment in Lavapies, not far from where so many of the new immigrants from India, Morocco, and China had settled. The home was not grand and it was not in a chic or fashionable part of the ancient city, nestled onto a street with Arab tea rooms and Indian kabob restaurants. Her place was a rambling apartment in one of the old corrales-or tenements-of the nineteenth century. But inside, it was tidy, clean, and comfortable, a nice home all the same among friendly people from all over the world. And it was hers.
The home was her father’s inheritance to her. All of it. And her father was the man she had loved unequivocally her entire life and who had loved her the same way in return. Pictures of him with Maria’s mother
