If Tomorrow Comes (32 page)

“Do you know anything about flamenco?” Jeff asked. He had to raise his voice over the noise level in the bar.

“Only that it’s a Spanish dance.”

“Gypsy, originally. You can go to fancy nightclubs in Madrid and see imitations of flamenco, but tonight you’ll see the real thing.”

Tracy smiled at the enthusiasm in Jeff’s voice.

“You’re going to see a classic
cuadro flamenco.
That’s a group of singers, dancers, and guitarists. First they perform together, then each one takes his turn.”

Watching Tracy and Jeff from a table in the corner near the kitchen, Daniel Cooper wondered what they were discussing so intently.

“The dance is very subtle, because everything has to work together—movements, music, costumes, the building of the rhythm…”

“How do you know so much about it?” Tracy asked.

“I used to know a flamenco dancer.”

Naturally
, Tracy thought.

The lights in the
bodega
dimmed, and the small stage was lit by spotlights. Then the magic began. It started slowly. A group of performers casually ascended to the platform. The women wore colorful skirts and blouses, and high combs with flowers banked on their beautiful Andalusian coiffures. The male dancers were dressed in the traditional tight trousers and vests and wore gleaming cordovan-leather half boots. The guitarists strummed a wistful melody, while one of the seated women sang in Spanish.

Yo quería dejar

A mi amante,

Pero antes de que pudiera,

Hacerlo ella me abandonó

Y destrozó mi corazón.

“Do you understand what she’s saying?” Tracy whispered.

“Yes. ‘I wanted to leave my lover, but before I could, he left me and he broke my heart.’”

A dancer moved to the center of the stage. She started with a simple
zapateado
, a beginning stamping step, gradually pushed faster and faster by the pulsating guitars. The rhythm grew, and the dancing became a form of sensual violence, variations on steps that had been born in gypsy caves a hundred years earlier. As the music mounted in intensity and excitement, moving through the classic figures of the dance, from
alegría
to
fandanguillo
to
zambra
to
seguiriya
, and as the frantic pace increased, there were shouts of encouragement from the performers at the side of the stage.

Cries of
“Olé tu madre,”
and
“Olé tus santos,”
and “Anda, anda,” the traditional
jaleos
and
piropos
, or shouts of encouragement,
goaded the dancers on to wilder, more frantic rhythms.

When the music and dancing ended abruptly, a silence roared through the bar, and then there was a loud burst of applause.

“She’s marvelous!” Tracy exclaimed.

“Wait,” Jeff told her.

A second woman stepped to the center of the stage. She had a dark, classical Castilian beauty and seemed deeply aloof, completely unaware of the audience. The guitars began to play a
bolero
, plaintive and low key, an Oriental-sounding
canto.
A male dancer joined her, and the castanets began to click in a steady, driving beat.

The seated performers joined in with the
jaleo
, and the handclaps that accompany the flamenco dance, and the rhythmic beat of the palms enhanced the music and dancing, lifting it, building it, until the room began to rock with the echo of the
zapateado
, the hypnotic beat of the half toe, the heel, and the full sole clacking out an endless variation of tone and rhythmic sensations.

Their bodies moved apart and came together in a growing frenzy of desire, until they were making mad, violent, animal love without ever touching, moving to a wild, passionate climax that had the audience screaming. As the lights blacked out and came on again, the crowd roared, and Tracy found herself screaming with the others. To her embarrassment, she was sexually aroused. She was afraid to meet Jeff’s eyes. The air between them vibrated with tension. Tracy looked down at the table, at his strong, tanned hands, and she could feel them caressing her body, slowly, swiftly, urgently, and she quickly put her hands in her lap to hide their trembling.

They said very little during the ride back to the hotel. At the door to Tracy’s room, she turned and said, “It’s been a—”

Jeff’s lips were on hers, and her arms went around him, and she held him tightly to her.

“Tracy—?”

The word on her lips was
yes
, and it took the last ounce of her willpower to say, “It’s been a long day, Jeff. I’m a sleepy lady.”

“Oh.”

“I think I’ll just stay in my room tomorrow and rest.”

His voice was level when he answered. “Good idea. I’ll probably do the same.”

Neither of them believed the other.

At 10:00 the following morning Tracy was standing in the long line at the entrance to the Prado Museum. As the doors opened, a uniformed guard operated a turnstile that admitted one visitor at a time.

Tracy purchased a ticket and moved with the crowd going into the large rotunda. Daniel Cooper and Detective Pereira stayed well behind her, and Cooper began to feel a growing excitement. He was certain that Tracy Whitney was not there as a visitor. Whatever her plan was, it was beginning.

Tracy moved from room to room, walking slowly through the salons filled with Rubens paintings and Titians, Tintoret-tos, Bosches, and paintings by Domenikos Theotokopoulos, who became famous as El Greco. The Goyas were exhibited in a special gallery below, on the ground floor.

Tracy noted that a uniformed guard was stationed at the entrance to each room, and at his elbow was a red alarm button. She knew that the moment the alarm sounded, all entrances and exits to the museum would be sealed off, and there would be no chance of escape.

She sat on the bench in the center of the Muses room, filled
with eighteenth-century Flemish masters, and let her gaze wander toward the floor. She could see a round access fixture on each side of the doorway. That would be the infrared beams that were turned on at night. In other museums Tracy had visited, the guards had been sleepy and bored, paying little attention to the stream of chattering tourists, but here the guards were alert. Works of art were being defaced by fanatics in museums around the world, and the Prado was taking no chance that it could happen there.

In a dozen different rooms artists had set up their easels and were assiduously at work copying paintings of the masters. The museum permitted it, but Tracy noticed that the guards kept a close eye even on the copiers.

When Tracy had finished with the rooms on the main floor, she took the stairs to the ground floor, to the Francisco de Goya exhibition.

Detective Pereira said to Cooper, “See, she’s not doing anything but looking. She—”

“You’re wrong.” Cooper started down the stairs in a run.

It seemed to Tracy that the Goya exhibition was more heavily guarded than the others, and it well deserved to be. Wall after wall was filled with an incredible display of timeless beauty, and Tracy moved from canvas to canvas, caught up in the genius of the man. Goya’s
Self-Portrait
, making him look like a middle-aged Pan…the exquisitely colored portrait of
The Family of Charles IV…The Clothed Maja
and the famed
Nude Maja.

And there, next to
The Witches’ Sabbath
, was the
Puerto.
Tracy stopped and stared at it, her heart beginning to pound. In the foreground of the painting were a dozen beautifully dressed men and women standing in front of a stone wall, while in the background, seen through a luminous mist, were fishing boats in a harbor and a distant lighthouse. In the lower left-hand corner of the picture was Goya’s signature.

This was the target.
Half a million dollars.

Tracy glanced around. A guard stood at the entrance. Beyond him, through the long corridor leading to other rooms, Tracy could see more guards. She stood there a long time, studying the
Puerto.
As she started to move away, a group of
tourists was coming down the stairs. In the middle of them was Jeff Stevens. Tracy averted her head and hurried out the side entrance before he could see her.

It’s going to be a race, Mr. Stevens, and I’m going to win it.

“She’s planning to steal a painting from the Prado.”

Commandant Ramiro looked at Daniel Cooper incredulously.
“Cagajón!
No one can steal a painting from the Prado.”

Cooper said stubbornly, “She was there all morning.”

“There has never been a theft at the Prado, and there never will be. And do you know why? Because it is impossible.”

“She’s not going to try any of the usual ways. You must have the museum vents protected, in case of a gas attack. If the guards drink coffee on the job, find out where they get it and if it can be drugged. Check the drinking water—”

The limits of Commandant Ramiro’s patience were exhausted. It was bad enough that he had had to put up with this rude, unattractive American for the past week, and that he had wasted valuable manpower having Tracy Whitney followed around the clock, when his Policía Nacional was already working under an austerity budget; but now, confronted by this
pito
, telling him how to run
his
police department, he could stand no more.

“In my opinion, the lady is in Madrid on a holiday. I am calling off the surveillance.”

Cooper was stunned. “No! You can’t do that. Tracy Whitney is—”

Commandant Ramiro rose to his full height. “You will kindly refrain from telling me what I can do, señor. And now, if you have nothing further to say, I am a very busy man.”

Cooper stood there, filled with frustration. “I’d like to continue alone, then.”

The commandant smiled. “To keep the Prado Museum safe from the terrible threat of this woman? Of course, Señor Cooper. Now I can sleep nights.”

The chances of success are extremely limited
, Gunther Har-tog had told Tracy.
It will take a great deal of ingenuity
.

That is the understatement of the century
, Tracy thought.

She was staring out the window of her suite, down at the skylight roof of the Prado, mentally reviewing everything she had learned about the museum. It was open from 10:00 in the morning until 6:00 in the evening, and during that time the alarms were off, but guards were stationed at each entrance and in every room.

Even if one could manage to take a painting off the wall
, Tracy thought,
there’s no way to smuggle it out.
All packages had to be checked at the door.

She studied the roof of the Prado and considered a night foray. There were several drawbacks: The first one was the high visibility. Tracy had watched as the spotlights came on at night, flooding the roof, making it visible for miles around. Even if it were possible to get into the building unseen, there were still the infrared beams inside the building and the night watchmen.

The Prado seemed to be impregnable.

What was Jeff planning? Tracy was certain he was going to make a try for the Goya.
I’d give anything to know what he has in his crafty little mind.
Of one thing Tracy was sure: She was not going to let him get there ahead of her. She had to find a way.

She returned to the Prado the next morning.

Nothing had changed except the faces of the visitors. Tracy kept a careful lookout for Jeff, but he did not appear.

Tracy thought,
He’s already figured out how he’s going to steal it. The bastard. All this charm he’s been using was just to try to distract me, and keep me from getting the painting first.

She suppressed her anger and replaced it with clear, cold logic.

Tracy walked over to the
Puerto
again, and her eyes wandered over the nearby canvases, the alert guards, the amateur painters sitting on stools in front of their easels, the crowds, flowing in and out of the room, and as she looked around, Tracy’s heart suddenly began to beat faster.

I know how I’m going to do it!

She made a telephone call from a public booth on the Gran Vía, and Daniel Cooper, who stood in a coffee shop doorway watching, would have given a year’s pay to know whom Tracy was calling. He was sure it was an overseas call and that she was phoning collect, so that there would be no record of it. He was aware of the lime-green linen dress that he had not seen before and that her legs were bare.
So that men can stare at them
, he thought.
Whore.

He was filled with rage.

In the telephone booth, Tracy was ending her conversation. “Just make sure he’s fast, Gunther. He’ll have only about two minutes. Everything will depend on speed.”

TO
: J. J. Reynolds File No. Y-72-830-412

FROM:
Daniel Cooper
CONFIDENTIAL

SUBJECT
: Tracy Whitney

It is my opinion that the subject is in Madrid to carry out a major criminal endeavor. The likely target is the Prado Museum. The Spanish police are being uncooperative, but I will
personally keep the subject under surveillance and apprehend her at the appropriate time.

Two days later, at 9:00
A.M
., Tracy was seated on a bench in the gardens of the Retiro, the beautiful park running through the center of Madrid, feeding the pigeons. The Retiro, with its lake and graceful trees and well-kept grass, and miniature stages with shows for children, was a magnet for the Madrileños.

Cesar Porretta, an elderly, gray-haired man with a slight hunchback, walked along the park path, and when he reached the bench, he sat down beside Tracy, opened a paper sack, and began throwing out bread crumbs to the birds.
“Buenos días, señorita.”

“Buenos días.
Do you see any problems?”

“None, señorita. All I need is the time and the date.”

“I don’t have it yet,” Tracy told him. “Soon.”

He smiled, a toothless smile. “The police will go crazy. No one has ever tried anything like this before.”

“That’s why it’s going to work,” Tracy said. “You’ll hear from me.” She tossed out a last crumb to the pigeons and rose. She walked away, her silk dress swaying provocatively around her knees.

While Tracy was in the park meeting with Cesar Porretta, Daniel Cooper was searching her hotel room. He had watched from the lobby as Tracy left the hotel and headed for the park. She had not ordered anything from room service, and Cooper had decided that she was going out to breakfast. He had given himself thirty minutes. Entering her suite had been a simple matter of avoiding the floor maids and using a lock pick. He knew what he was looking for: a copy of a painting. He had no idea how Tracy planned to substitute it, but he was sure it had to be her scheme.

He searched the suite with swift, silent efficiency, missing nothing and saving the bedroom for last. He looked through her closet, examining her dresses, and then the bureau. He opened the drawers, one by one. They were filled with panties and bras and pantyhose. He picked up a pair of pink underpants and rubbed them against his cheek and imagined her
sweet-smelling flesh in them. The scent of her was suddenly everywhere. He replaced the garment and quickly looked through the other drawers. No painting.

Cooper walked into the bathroom. There were drops of water in the tub. Her body had lain there, covered with water as warm as the womb, and Cooper could visualize Tracy lying in it, naked, the water caressing her breasts as her hips undulated up and down. He felt an erection begin. He picked up the damp washcloth from the tub and brought it to his lips. The odor of her body swirled around him as he unzipped his trousers. He rubbed a cake of damp soap onto the washcloth and began stroking himself with it, facing the mirror, looking into his blazing eyes.

A few minutes later he left, as quietly as he had arrived, and headed directly for a nearby church.

The following morning when Tracy left the Ritz Hotel, Daniel Cooper followed her. There was an intimacy between them that had not existed before. He knew her smell; he had seen her in her bath, had watched her naked body writhing in the warm water. She belonged completely to him; she was his to destroy. He watched her as she wandered along the Gran Vía, examining the merchandise in the shops, and he followed her into a large department store, careful to remain out of sight. He saw her speak to a clerk, then head for the ladies’ room. Cooper stood near the door, frustrated. It was the one place he could not follow her.

If Cooper had been able to go inside, he would have seen Tracy talking to a grossly overweight, middle-aged woman.

“Mañana,”
Tracy said, as she applied fresh lipstick before the mirror. “Tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock.”

The woman shook her head. “No, señorita. He will not like that. You could not choose a worse day. Tomorrow the Prince of Luxembourg arrives on a state visit, and the newspapers say he will be taken on a tour of the Prado. There will be extra security guards and police all over the museum.”

“The more the better. Tomorrow.”

Tracy walked out the door, and the woman looked after her muttering,
“La cucha es loca…”

The royal party was scheduled to appear at the Prado at exactly 11:00
A.M
., and the streets around the Prado had been roped off by the Guardia Civil. Because of a delay in the ceremony at the presidential palace, the entourage did not arrive until close to noon. There were the screams of sirens as police motorcycles came into view, escorting a procession of half a dozen black limousines to the front steps of the Prado.

At the entrance, the director of the museum, Christian Ma-chada, nervously awaited the arrival of His Highness.

Machada had made a careful morning inspection to be sure everything was in order, and the guards had been forewarned to be especially alert. The director was proud of his museum, and he wanted to make a good impression on the prince.

It never hurts to have friends in high places
, Machada thought.
¿Quién sabe? I might even be invited to dine with His Highness this evening at the presidential palace.

Christian Machada’s only regret was that there was no way to stop the hordes of tourists that wandered about. But the prince’s bodyguards and the museum’s security guards would ensure that the prince was protected. Everything was in readiness for him.

The royal tour began upstairs, on the main floor. The director greeted His Highness with an effusive welcome and escorted him, followed by the armed guards, through the rotunda and into the rooms where the sixteenth-century Spanish painters were on exhibit: Juan de Juanes, Pedro Machuca, Fernando Yáñez.

The prince moved slowly, enjoying the visual feast spread before him. He was a patron of the arts and genuinely loved the painters who could make the past come alive and remain eternal. Having no talent for painting himself, the prince, as he looked around the rooms, nonetheless envied the painters who stood before their easels trying to snatch sparks of genius from the masters.

When the official party had visited the upstairs salons, Christian Machado said proudly, “And now, if Your Highness will permit me, I will take you downstairs to our Goya exhibit.”

Tracy had spent a nerve-racking morning. When the prince had not arrived at the Prado at 11:00 as scheduled, she had begun to panic. All her arrangements had been made and timed to the second, but she needed the prince in order to make them work.

She moved from room to room, mixing with the crowds, trying to avoid attracting attention.
He’s not coming
, Tracy thought finally.
I’m going to have to call it off.
And at that moment, she had heard the sound of approaching sirens from the street.

Watching Tracy from a vantage point in the next room, Daniel Cooper, too, was aware of the sirens. His reason told him it was impossible for anyone to steal a painting from the museum, but his instinct told him that Tracy was going to try it, and Cooper trusted his instinct. He moved closer to her, letting the crowds conceal him from view. He intended to keep her in sight every moment.

Tracy was in the room next to the salon where the
Puerto
was being exhibited. Through the open doorway she could see the hunchback, Cesar Porreta, seated before an easel, copying Goya’s
Clothed Maja
, which hung next to the
Puerto.
A guard stood three feet away. In the room with Tracy, a woman painter stood at her easel, studiously copying
The Milkmaid of Bordeaux
, trying to capture the brilliant browns and greens of Goya’s canvas.

A group of Japanese tourists fluttered into the salon, chattering like a flock of exotic birds.
Now!
Tracy told herself. This was the moment she had been waiting for, and her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid the guard could hear it. She moved out of the path of the approaching Japanese tour group, backing toward the woman painter. As a Japanese man brushed in front of Tracy, Tracy fell backward, as if pushed, bumping the artist and sending her, the easel, canvas, and paints flying to the ground.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” Tracy exclaimed. “Let me help you.”

As she moved to assist the startled artist, Tracy’s heels
stamped into the scattered paints, smearing them into the floor. Daniel Cooper, who had seen everything, hurried closer, every sense alert. He was sure Tracy Whitney had made her first move.

The guard rushed over, calling out,
“¿Qué pasa? ¿Qué pasa?”

The accident had attracted the attention of the tourists, and they milled around the fallen woman, smearing the paints from the crushed tubes into grotesque images on the hardwood floor. It was an unholy mess, and the prince was due to appear at any moment. The guard was in a panic. He yelled out, “¡Ser-gio!
¡Ven acá! ¡Pronto!”

Tracy watched as the guard from the next room came running in to help. Cesar Porretta was alone in the salon with the
Puerto.

Tracy was in the middle of the uproar. The two guards were trying vainly to push the tourists away from the area of the paint-smeared floor.

“Get the director,” Sergio yelled.
“¡En seguida!”

The other guard hurried off toward the stairs.
¡Qué birria! What a mess!

Two minutes later Christian Machada was at the scene of the disaster. The director took one horrified look and screamed, “Get some cleaning women down here—quickly! Mops and cloths and turpentine.
¡Pronto!”

A young aide rushed to do his bidding.

Machada turned to Sergio. “Get back to your post,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

Tracy watched the guard push his way through the crowd to the room where Cesar Porretta was working.

Cooper had not taken his eyes off Tracy for an instant. He had waited for her next move. But it had not come. She had not gone near any of the paintings, nor had she made contact with an accomplice. All she had done was knock over an easel and spill some paints on the floor, but he was certain it had been done deliberately. But to what purpose? Somehow, Cooper felt that whatever had been planned had already happened.
He looked around the walls of the salon. None of the paintings was missing.

Cooper hurried into the adjoining room. There was no one there but the guard and an elderly hunchback seated at his easel, copying the
Clothed Maja.
All the paintings were in place. But something was wrong. Cooper
knew
it.

He hurried back to the harassed director, whom he had met earlier. “I have reason to believe,” Cooper blurted out, “that a painting has been stolen from here in the past few minutes.”

Christian Machada stared at the wild-eyed American. “What are you talking about? If that were so, the guards would have sounded the alarm.”

“I think that somehow a fake painting was substituted for a real one.”

The director gave him a tolerant smile. “There is one small thing wrong with your theory, señor. It is not known to the general public, but there are sensors hidden behind each painting. If anyone tried to lift a painting from the wall—which they would certainly have to do to substitute another painting—the alarm would instantly sound.”