Midnight In Madrid

embassy earlier this week, Alex, you attended a briefing by a Senor Rivera, the curator of the Museo Arqueologico.”

“That’s correct.”

“And the curator mentioned that this missing artifact had a tie to St. Francis, the highly revered saint, at least according to legend.”

“That’s right. That was mentioned,” Alex answered. “And if the case is so important to the two of you, why weren’t the two of you at the briefing?”

“I wasn’t invited. And I wasn’t even aware of the case till Peter contacted me.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Mark. You had someone in that meeting on your agency’s behalf,” she said, thinking of Rizzo.

“Very true. And as you yourself know, sometimes the Indian chiefs don’t know what the braves and warriors are up to. May I go on?”

“Please do.”

“I’ve done a bit of study on this myself in the last week,” McKinnon said. “First eight years of my own schooling, I went to Catholic schools in Chicago. Nuns. Franciscan order. A bunch of tough-assed old Irish biddies with red faces, black-and-white habits, and the usual fondness for hitting you with a ruler. So I know a bit about St. Francis and how he is known in the modern world.”

“In what sense?” she asked.

“His evangelism. Do you know where I’m heading with this?” McKinnon continued.

“I discussed the point with Senor Rivera yesterday,” Alex said. “So what’s the point? How does this impact the theft of the pieta?”

“On our black bird? Follow along. The US government was asked to help the Spaniards recover The Pieta of Malta,” McKinnon said. “Were any tangible leads offered to you in your meeting yesterday morning?”

“No,” she said. “None. A lot of information, but no leads.”

“So you were in a roomful of people poised to accomplish nothing, in other words,” McKinnon said.

“Keep a lid on that wise-guy stuff, okay, Mark? You know how these things work as well as I do,” she said.

“Sure. But that’s where counterpart agencies would appear to have common goals. Peter’s government wishes to see that the pieta is returned also.”

“What interests do the Chinese have?”

“Peter will get into that with you later today in a one-on-one,” McKinnon said. “Right now, suffice it to say that Peter represented a wealthy buyer in Peking. The buyer had his interests, and his interests were betrayed.”

“A wealthy individual buyer or the Beijing government?” she asked immediately, turning toward Peter.

“For now, let’s say both,” Mark said. “In China today, these things usually overlap.”

“Understood. Betrayed how?” she pressed.

“They paid,” Peter said, “and the bird, the pieta, was not delivered.”

“Hence, Peter’s presence in Europe,” McKinnon said. “He works much the way you do, Alex. Assessing problems, inventing solutions to them. Sometimes painfully difficult solutions.”

“I’m flattered by the comparison,” Alex said.

“As am I,” said Peter, interjecting politely.

“But here’s where we get into the hardball,” Mark McKinnon said. “We feel the larger part of the operation, if there is one, might be against the United States in some way. America has a huge number of targets in Spain, as you know. One can only protect so much for so long. And a high-profile US inquiry into the motives behind the theft might accelerate whatever plans are out there against us.”

“But,” she said, picking up his line of thought, “if we were able to work through another agency, with Chinese help for example…”

“Exactly. There would be no tip-off to the opposition. It would look as if we’re just trying to get a chunk of granite back for the dumb Spaniards who were careless enough to let it get stolen in the first place. So let’s look at the big picture here,” McKinnon said, turning back and focusing on Alex. “You’re now involved here in the blackbird investigation. What attributes do you bring to the table? Well, there are all the obvious ones: brains, looks, ability to penetrate certain circles and blend in, a knowledge of several languages, some of which might not seem to apply to this case but might in a broader sense. But often it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

She shook her head. “Still not with you,” she said.

McKinnon and Peter exchanged a glance.

“I understand you speak Russian,” McKinnon said. “And Ukrainian.”

“So do several million other people.”

“Forgive my subtlety,” McKinnon said. Then he ambushed her. “You had a previous relationship with a Ukrainian mobster named Yuri Federov, didn’t you?”

The question jolted her. It took her a second to answer, to sense where he was leading.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘a relationship,’” she finally answered, putting aside any possible innuendo. “I worked a case earlier this year in which he was a principal. Again, you know that because you worked the same case.”

“Of course. Your last report suggested that Federov had withdrawn to Switzerland, possibly into a semi- or complete retirement. He has also dropped off the Agency radar screen, which would indicate that he has withdrawn from the business. That, or he’s dead. Have you seen him recently?”

“No. Not since I saw him in a hospital room in Paris,” she said.

He held her gaze.

“You’re sure?” he asked, seeming more sober than he had all day. The question was a direct challenge. “Good will is flowing through my veins by the quart today, LaDuca, so if you have seen him-”

“Right!” she said, cutting him off. “I’d forgotten! We had a late dinner together a week ago at Taillevant in Paris. Then we crossed the channel and spent a wonderful weekend in Brighton, knocking back lager and fish and chips. Just a good Episcopalian girl recovering from the death of a fiance by bedding her six-cylinder Russian hood.” For good measure, she followed all this with an uncharacteristic but colorful reflection on Mark’s ancestry.

Unwavering, McKinnon didn’t miss a beat. “Come, come, LaDuca. But you do know how to find him. Your final report on that Kiev case suggested that you might.”

“I might. It depends on whether the information he gave me is good or not. So I don’t know if I do or don’t have a way to contact him, because I’ve never tried.”

“So then you have an address filed somewhere?” McKinnon pressed.

“Not so much an address, but a procedure.”

“Would you mind sharing it with us?”

“Seriously, I would. I have the procedure memorized, but right now, I can’t quite recall it.”

McKinnon sighed and took a long sip of whiskey. Peter Chang’s eyes were like a terrier’s, fascinated, sharp as tacks, working McKinnon and Alex back and forth.

“Should I remind you that you’re talking to a superior?” McKinnon said.

“Should I remind you that you’re not acting like one,” she said. “Should I also remind you that as a member of the CIA you also have no hierarchical superiority over someone working for Treasury or the FBI? You’re in your world, I’m in mine, and I don’t have to do squat for you.”

“True, true. However, somewhere in this mess about the new black bird, we need some interagency cooperation and some access to Comrade Federov. We need access if for no other reason than to pick his disgusting mind. And the best girl to pimp that access for us would be a girl named Alex LaDuca. So consider this a cross-agency request already cleared by your ‘jefe’ Mike Gamburian in Washington.”

“You think Federov had something to do with the disappearance?” ignoring McKinnon’s metaphors.

“Not necessarily do I think that,” McKinnon said, “but look at the big picture. Federov has dealt in stolen munitions and war material in the past, and he has been involved in art thefts. He once brokered a deal for a submarine to Colombia drug runners. Whether he’s retired from crime or not, and assuming he’s alive, we could bet that he has the phone number of someone who has the phone number of someone in whom we may have an interest.”