Midnight In Madrid

He paused and looked as if he were about to add something. “I watched you shower after you arrived. You are a genuinely beautiful woman.”

“I ought to slap the daylights out of you.”

“You already forgave me for yesterday.”

She began her breakfast. She felt his eyes upon her.

“We could make a wonderful team, you and me,” he said in a more subdued tone. “I need a smart wife.”

“Continue with your courses at charm school and keep searching.”

“I have more than twenty million dollars in the banks in Geneva, Lausanne, and Zurich. My wife would never have to work. You would be a very wealthy woman. You could assist me with my American taxes and help run my companies. We-”

“We should talk about The Pieta of Malta,” she said. “That’s what we should do.”

“What is that?” he asked. “The Pieta of Malta?”

“A piece of third-century Christian art, possibly the inspiration for Michelangelo’s great work. It was stolen from a museum in Madrid a few weeks ago.”

“You think I have it?” he laughed.

They both knew it was a serious question.

“I don’t even know what it is,” he said. He held up two empty hands, as if to suggest that sometimes he told the truth but this time he really was telling the truth.

“One of my associates turned up your name in association with a Colonel Tissot in Switzerland,” she said. “My associate seemed to suspect a link.”

Federov’s eyes narrowed.

“I do business with many people,” he said. “Or at least my remaining companies do.”

“My source suggested a closer contact than just general business,” she pressed.

“That might be the case,” he said. “Would this be a Laurent Tissot? Geneva?”

“I believe so,” she said.

“He’s a weapons dealer,” Federov said. “But you knew that.”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “But now I’ll offer you a tidbit, in case you were unaware. Tissot was a weapon’s dealer, not is. He’s out of the business now. Permanently.”

For a moment, Federov looked surprised. “Oh. I see,” he said. “I did not know. That’s very helpful. Thank you.”

“Let me present a theory to you, Yuri,” she said. “A suggestion of what might be going on. You don’t mind listening, do you?”

He didn’t bat an eyelash. “I don’t mind,” he said.

“There was an attempt on my life in Madrid. Someone thought I needed to be killed because I was a contact between American intelligence and you. That suggests you know something of value to us, even if you don’t know exactly what it is. The only common link in all this is the late Monsieur Tissot, who brokered the deal for the missing art. Or so we think.”

“All right,” said Federov, who was following.

Alex, who was warming up to this, kept her gaze on Federov’s eyes. Squarely.

“And of course the late Monsieur Tissot isn’t in much of a position to speak to us now, is he? Little too late for him to cut himself a deal, if you know what I mean.”

Federov pursed his lips and smiled a little. “Right you are,” he said.

“So I guess that brings us to the paramount question that I have for you,” Alex said. “What business might you have done with Tissot? When, where, and why? No use to go into ancient history, either. We’re looking for activity within the last six months.”

“Well,” he said, with a very Ukrainian and very arrogant shake of his head. “I don’t know these things off the top of my head. I’d have to check with the people who run my companies.”

“Which companies?” she asked.

He was silent.

“Which companies, Yuri?” Alex repeated. “Come on now. This is important.”

“And this all figures into some stolen artwork?”

“We suspect much more.” She added as a hint, “This is a major opportunity for you to get Washington off your case, Yuri. A chance that might never come again.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” Federov said. “Yes, I’m still having difficulties with your Internal Revenue Service. Several million dollars’ worth.”

“I was advised of that,” she said.

“If I enter the United States again or a US territory, I’m subject to arrest. Perhaps you could help me there.”

“It’s negotiable,” she said.

“You are here to deal?” he asked

“Assume I am,” she said. “I work for Treasury. I know people in the tax division.”

His attention went far away and came back again. His eyes narrowed.

“I knew Colonel Tissot through my shipping interests in the Mediterranean and the Black Sea,” he said. “I have companies in Odessa and Istanbul. There are smaller offices in Cagliari in Sardinia and at Nicosia in Cyprus,” Federov said. “I am no longer an active partner in these companies, so whatever Tissot has been involved in recently, I do not know firsthand. This is the truth. People keep their eyes on my shipping interests for me. I pay them well, and they know I will have them killed if they steal from me. So the businesses run smoothly. I own warehouses there too. I can make inquiries. For me, people will have answers.”

Alex drew a breath and eased back in her chair.

“That would be perfect,” she said. She paused and played her best card. “In terms of the IRS,” she said, “if I were to present Washington with a speedy wrap-up to this affair in Madrid, I would think your tax bill might vanish completely.”

“Completely?”

She nodded. “But I need a speedy and complete wrap-up to my art theft and its details, including who did it and why,” she said. “If I get everything I want, in terms of business, then you do too. Fair?”

“Fair,” he said. He nodded. “I can have preliminary answers for you within a day,” he said. “Would you care to wait here at my home where you are completely safe? Or should we move you back to the hotel?”

“I’d prefer the hotel,” she said. “And a room without a fake back wall to the closet.”

He laughed. “We can arrange that.”

FIFTY-TWO

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 14, 2:16 P.M.

For Maria, Friday hadn’t been quite as bad as the previous four days of the week. Still working with the irritating Jose Luis, they did a morning inspection of the sprawling Metro stop at Ruben Dario. The inspection was coordinated with another team, which included agents of the Guardia Civil, to secure the ventilation system beneath the chaotic traffic roundabout over their heads.

They broke for lunch. Maria went her way, Jose Luis went his. Maria avoided all the American fast-food places but found a little sandwich shop not too far from the square and purchased a bocadillo, a sandwich on French-type bread. She took her sandwich to the park, sat, and relaxed. During lunch, Maria flipped open her cell phone and called her daughter who was also on her lunch hour.

The normal mother-daughter conversation the world over.

“?Que tal el cole hoy?”

“Regular,” her daughter answered.