There were more than two dozen messages. Personal in one account and business messages in the secure account. She scanned the list of senders. Two stood out. The first was from Mr. Collins in New York. He was sending someone as promised, the week of September 18.
Yeah, fine, she answered. She was so slammed that she could barely think about it now. Who knew? Maybe she’d have to duck the guy.
Then there was the second message. It was from “Gutman.” Floyd Connelly.
She opened it. She was further surprised to find a full and complete message and then-triple play!-surprised a third time to read the contents.
She stared at the message.
Subject: Pieta of Malta
Date: Fri, 14 September 2009 7:47:01-0400
From: “Connelly_F” ‹[email protected]› Add Mobile Alert
To: “A_LaDuca” ‹[email protected]›
Alex, I have a major break in this case. Major information. Can you meet me late tonight in Madrid? Maybe around midnight? My hotel? Bottom of Form Floyd
She stared at it for another moment. Was this utter nonsense or had the political hack bumbled into something? A revisionist thought snuck up on her in her fatigue. Connelly was brilliant: school, church, spy, and government establishment, complete with the Yale sheepskin. The dopey granddad guise was his deep cover, the game was Hide-in-Plain-Sight. What he kept hidden were his brains.
No matter, she reasoned. She would have to follow up. The truth would drift to the surface like a waterlogged corpse. She went back to her notes and contact information that she had acquired on their first meeting. She had his phone and hotel info.
She shook the cobwebs out of her head, ordered coffee and a light breakfast from the hotel dining room, and reached for her telephone. She punched in a number. After three rings a sleepy voice-in more ways than one- came on the line at the other end.
Floyd Connelly.
“Hello, Floyd,” she said. “This is Alex LaDuca. I received your email.”
A few short beats and Floyd answered. “Oh. Alex. Why, how are you this morning?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m also not in Madrid right now.”
“Where are you?”
“Geneva,” she lied, in case there were listeners.
“Switzerland?” he asked.
“Not Wisconsin. Am I disturbing you?” she asked. “Waking you up?”
He laughed. “I had to get up anyway, might as well be now,” he said. “You have a nice phone voice.”
“As I said, I received your email. You have something on
He snorted. “I’ve got the whole case, that’s what I’ve got,” he said happily.
“How could that be?” she asked.
“Ha. A compilation of sources! Some help from Washington, some help locally from the Spanish fellas. I’ve been around a bit. Went to school with the former president, did you know that?”
“I suspected,” she said.
He paused. “I developed an underworld source here or there in Madrid. From hanging around the right places. People say things. They talk if you know how to get them to talk.”
“Is this phone secure, Floyd?” she asked.
“Yours? I wouldn’t know. Can’t tell from this end.”
“I meant yours,” she said.
“Hardly matters, does it?” he asked. “You know, a lot of people think I’m getting slow in my old age, but it’s not the case at all. I’ve got this case on a platter.”
“Uh huh,” she said. She didn’t know whether to be infuriated that the case might be resolved without her or relieved if it was. Yet she knew things like this happened all the time.
“Look, here’s the story,” Floyd said. “The pieta is gone. Disappeared in Switzerland. Either got destroyed or sold. Anyway, the point is that the baby Michelangelo got traded for some explosives or something. Might have been a three-way deal. Then-”
“Floyd, are you
Floyd said he was sure, and he couldn’t stop talking.
“See, there’s a further rumor that a load of explosives came through Madrid, then moved on. Got sent up to France, and some of the local towel-heads are planning to blow up some railroad bridges or something in Provence in time for the fall tourist season. Anyway, just to make sure nothing’s going to blow up locally in Spain, we’ve put all the big time targets on alert. Some places are being checked by the bomb-sniffing dogs. I’ve got emails up the wazoo on all of this. That’s what I’m going to show you. I’ve downloaded them into my laptop. Once everything’s clear we all get to go home. What do you think?”
Alex wasn’t sure what to think. She felt a frown forming on her brow along with the incredulity that went with it. “That’s fine if it’s true,” Alex said, “but if the investigation is over, I need to hear that from my boss.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Mike Gamburian at Treasury in Washington.”
“Don’t know him. Call him and ask.”
“The protocol is that he should call me.”
“Well, do it that way if you want,” he laughed. “You can probably squeeze a few days of vacation out of this if you do it that way. Me, I can’t wait to get home. How many bullfights can you go to in this city? You watch a bullfight and you know who’s gonna win, anyway.” Connelly ran from sentence to sentence like a reckless driver sailing through a string of stop signs. “I’ve got some more information on this too. Names, addresses. Laptop. Why don’t you come over tonight, and I’ll boot it up and run through it. That’s if you’re not busy.”
“Is this a business request or a social one, Floyd?” she asked.
“Little of both,” he said after a pause. “I’m at the Hotel de Cataluna. That’s over by-Wait a minute. You said you were out of town?”
“Flights are only about ninety minutes,” she said. Travel time from Genoa and Geneva were identical. “I can be there by this evening. And I’ll meet you in the lobby, not your room,” she said. “We can talk there.”
“Oh, all right, all right. Be a good girl if that’s how you want to be,” he said in a deafening bellow. “I’m an old guy, you know. There’s not much you have to fear from me.”
“What time?” she asked.
“Let’s do it late,” he said. “I’ve got a dinner with one of my sources. You know how Spain is. They don’t eat lunch till five p.m., then dinner at ten. I should be back to the hotel by eleven thirty or midnight.”
“I’ll be in the lobby at eleven thirty,” she said. “Okay?”
“That’s fine,” he said.
She rang off, highly skeptical, shaking her head. “What a-,” she mused.
And then for several minutes, she sat in the room alone.
Was Floyd blowing smoke, or did he actually have something? If he had something, how? She was dubious about everything he was saying, yet she had now committed to go visit him that night.
She went back to her laptop, shifting gears now, trying to assimilate the story that Ahmet had told the previous evening.
She went back into the attachments that she had downloaded from Colonel Pendraza. She quickly pegged to points of reference, material she had read before. This, she realized, was why Ahmet’s account rang a distant bell.
She reread,
