by Ritter Ames
I saw Jack tighten his jaw and knew he wasn’t thrilled with my ploy. He wasn’t averse to stretching the truth; he simply liked being the one spinning the facts.
Whatley reacted by first raising his chin, as if my words surprised him, then nodded. “Brilliant plan.”
“For it to succeed,” I continued, “we must work under complete secrecy. If word gets out that we have a copy instead…” I raised my hands, palms up, and shrugged for emphasis.
“Absolutely. All the paperwork lists the Home Office contact. The only reference to you and Hawkes is the letter,” Whatley said. “I’ll make sure the file copy stays safeguarded from the rest.”
“Thank you.”
As we walked back through the building to leave, Jack said under his breath, “Built quite the scenario there. All founded on truth. And went a long way to assuage his reservations.”
“Of course. Why should I lie? You act like I have something to hide.”
He chuckled. I smiled and linked my arm through his as we walked.
In the parking lot, we found Thomas’s cab waiting for us under the protection of Scotland Yard security. I glanced at the trunk—I mean, the boot—and thought I might actually arrive at a destination with all my clothes this time.
Thomas dropped us at the Heathrow departures area, leaving with a generous tip and the possibility of extra work in the future. The earliest available flight to Barcelona lifted off in two hours, so we purchased tickets and checked our bags.
“I wish there was less down time,” Jack groused.
What he truly meant was he wanted us on the ground the least amount of time. “Nothing we can do about it,” I said. “It’ll take time to get through security. And we’ll need to grab a quick bite to tide us over until dinner. We won’t be able to get an evening meal in Spain until ten or after. By the time we finally make the gate it will almost be time to board the flight.”
“Good point. Eating. We’ve been on the run all day and that fish was too long ago. Hadn’t realized I was getting peckish, but you’re right.”
Some of us noticed, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud.
Security was a standard wait time, no problems, and from there we entered a quiet bar that served quick meals. While we waited on sandwiches, I phoned Cassie. She picked up right away.
“Everything still on track with Max?” I asked.
“Yes. We’re heading back through Heathrow tonight, and Max will be in London until he gets the okay to return with the painting to New York. He’s been in touch with legal authorities already, explaining he has a recovered masterpiece without naming it yet. Once he has it in hand he’ll take the next steps.”
“Try to stay out of it as much as you can. Don’t let Max get you doing his heavy lifting.”
“I agree. If I get sucked in it’ll likely connect any contribution I make in the recovery with you, and throw a light on the London office that we can’t afford at this point in the project. We need to keep all the attention on Max and New York.”
Loved how quickly she caught on. “Everything is in the secure place we discussed last night,” I said, not comfortable identifying it more clearly over the phone line. “I removed the smaller object from the protective case, since it isn’t part of the recovery Max is aware of. I wrapped the second piece in one of your scarves and left it at the bottom of the hidden cache. The larger piece is still in its tube and in the space.”
“Do I need to say anything about fingerprints?”
“Ah, good point.” Thank goodness I’d been wearing my winter gloves when I removed the statue earlier. “No worries in that regard. If any of my prints appear on the outside of the case, they can be easily explained away. Gloves were always used on the contents inside.” I hoped Clive was telling the truth when he said he hadn’t investigated the items inside the tube. Had to chance it. “We’re waiting for a flight now. To where we’ve been discussing.”
“Got it,” she said.
Our order arrived and Cassie and I signed off.
“All set?” Jack asked. He’d been working his own phone while she and I talked.
“Sounds like.” I shrugged and picked up my sandwich, beef and Swiss cheese tucked into a large country roll. “We’ll know soon. Max never hesitates to call if something I do doesn’t meet his expectations.” I nodded toward his phone. “Any new text whispers?”
He shook his head and set the phone down by his napkin. “Checking for messages, and I reviewed the internet boards Nico posted on. Nothing since the link you showed me this morning.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Me either. But if this isn’t what we fear and he needs help, he’ll find a way to send an SOS.”
I frowned. “And he has the funds to do it.” I sighed. This really sucked.
I understood the situation, and the money thing had put my teeth on edge, but I wasn’t ready to stop worrying about my gorgeous geek. I needed to talk to Nico before things went much farther, but I had no clue how to do so. Though, if I brought anything up and Jack tried to dissuade me, I wasn’t sure how I would react. I’d never felt this conflicted, and I didn’t want any negativity affecting the team.
I took a bite of my sandwich to keep from talking.
After the bar food and a scotch each, we were back to our normal irritating selves. Worry and exhaustion tended to do that to us. My body ached from not enough sleep and my head wished for the lovely Egyptian pillowcase it rested on at Marci’s last night—well, early this morning.
“Just once, I’d like for us to not be on the run when we’re heading someplace,” I mused, taking the last sip of my scotch. “Eight hours sleep, regular meal times, is that so much to ask?”
“Evidently so,” Jack said, pushing aside his plate and glass. “I’m not sure I remember what ‘regular’ is.” He looked at his watch. “You ready?”
I nodded and we worked our way through the crowded restaurant space.
The gate wasn’t far, and the flight was ready for boarding. As we filed in line past the clerk my phone rang. I looked at the screen. “It’s Clara.” I answered, “Hi, this is Laurel.”
“I have some information,” she said. “A few friends who know Miguel said the best place to locate him is at the Font Magica. Do you know it? The subway will get you there.”
“Yes, I’ve been to the fountain several times. It’s beautiful.” People hurried by me on the way to the door of the plane. I stayed focused on the conversation, and Jack stayed close by. “Will Miguel be around on weekends, or is there a best day to see him onsite?”
“Weekends would be good. Lots of crowds.” Then she asked, “And you know how he looks now?”
I thought about the carefully crafted short beard he’d recently shaved off. “I saw him last week, but thank you for reminding me.”
“Very good. Maybelle said you spoke to her,” Clara probed.
“Yes. We’re all going to meet up when I return.” She was fishing now, and I could tell no further information was coming my way. I slipped a hand through Jack’s arm and we walked faster.
“Thank you, Laurel,” Clara said.
I wanted to remind her there were no promises. But common sense told me I’d go above and beyond anyway, so it might as well be a pledge. I simply said, “You’re welcome. And thank you for helping me try to locate Miguel.”
FIFTEEN
A couple of hours later, we walked off the plane and through the arrival terminal in the Barcelona-El Prat International Airport. I couldn’t help smiling and neither could almost everyone around me. There was a kind of vibe in the air. That was one of the things I loved about this city—along with the interesting, sexy, happy people, some of the most glorious food on the planet, amazing architecture, and Picasso’s and Dalí’s art. Big changes over the last couple of dozen years had made this one of the most pleasant, thriv
ing, and livable cities in Europe, and I was a huge fan. Despite the late hour—well, early by Spanish standards—darkness falling simply meant the energy and events geared up stronger.
“You look energized,” Jack said, smiling at me as we walked.
“I am. There’s something magical about this place. Barcelona’s sun, sea, sangria, and street food seduces me every time. I know we’re here to work, but yeah, I’m feeling energized.”
We climbed into the cab at the front of the taxi line.
“Well, it’s not bikini temps, but better than England’s presently,” I said, glad to stuff my scarf in a coat pocket.
Jack chuckled and gave the cabbie the name of the hotel we’d decided on. Though both of us had been there before, our cabbie pointed out sites along the way, like Casa Milá, an organic and curvy apartment building resembling a hill full of caves with no color except for the stone’s ochre shade, one of the many famous Barcelona buildings designed by Antoni Gaudí, the Spanish Catalan architect best known for Catalan Modernism. I hoped we’d have time to go by Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia cathedral, too, still about fifty years away from completion but amazing from every angle.
Our hotel was just off La Ramblas. Jack got us a suite and we dropped off our bags. Before we left, however, I pulled a long black cashmere sweater from my suitcase and swapped it for my light-colored coat.
Jack rubbed my shoulder. “I like it.”
“Because it’s soft?” I asked, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“No.” He pulled me closer. “Because you won’t stand out like a beacon in the crowd like you would in that champagne leather number.”
“But champagne and Barcelona go together,” I whispered.
“That’s cava, and I’ll make sure you have any amount of sparkling wine you want.” Our lips met, and it took a lot to remind us we didn’t have time for romance.
“Later,” Jack promised and sighed, his forehead resting on mine.
“Right.”
We grabbed our keys and headed for the door, ready to scope out the scene and try to spot trouble before intercepting Miguel. Neither of us had noticed any tails, but it didn’t stop our concerns. With just a short time before the fountain’s evening show, we struck off down La Ramblas to watch for watchers.
La Ramblas was a street in the city center, about a mile long, still filled with plenty of authentic charm. With unerring precision, we headed for La Boqueria, the famous market that had been around since anyone could remember. We found a wine bar and grabbed a glass of sangria—it seemed the thing to do—and pretended to meander through the middle, fresh produce and seafood visible at every turn. I swept my gaze around constantly, encompassing all the people around us as we oohed and ahhed over the merchandise. No one looked familiar.
Jack spoke to one of the flower sellers. He’d said he knew a little Catalan, but tonight he spoke Spanish; I, on the other hand, kept a good language translation book in the Prada. The one thing I did see often in English were chalkboard signs warning “Beware of Pickpockets.” Since we’d specifically come to find one, it seemed ironic.
When Jack turned around he had two red roses for me, the stems wrapped in a protective layer of damp paper towels and plastic wrap.
“Watch out for the thorns,” he said.
“They aren’t razored off?”
He shrugged. “She said it was good luck, and I figured we needed whatever we could get.”
It was likelier good laziness, but the flowers smelled heavenly and nothing sharp bit through the wrapping.
“Have you seen anyone to worry about?” he asked.
“Not yet, but it will be interesting to see if anyone we’ve spotted here decides to take in the dancing waters, too,” I replied.
Since the Liceu Metro Station sat under La Ramblas between Gran Teatre del Liceu—the Grand Theater—and the Mercat de la Boqueria, which was the market where we’d been shopping in the Barri Gòtic section, we were close to our objective. We passed Joan Miró’s mosaic mural, the eye-catching masterpiece he crafted into the pavement. The street art always made me smile, and my gaze strayed to the tile that bore the artist’s signature.
We bought our paper tickets and boarded the train to the Montjuïc neighborhood and the Font Magica, or Magic Fountain. Every city had its sights, and this was one of my favorites in Barcelona. Yes, I had a lot of favorites.
The fountain was an amazing sight at any time of the day, but arriving when it was fully dark was critical to gaining the best effect, and was why pickpockets like Miguel chose it as a location to ply their trade. Marks focused on the performing water jets, lights, and music and forgot to safeguard their valuables.
“Have you been here for La Merce?” Jack asked.
“Many times.” I smiled, thinking of the late Septembers I’d spent in Barcelona when the city put on their fiesta mayor—La Merce. During the “festival to end all festivals,” as many as two million visitors swarmed into this city to celebrate living. The Font Magica remained the chosen site for the Piromusical, which blended the fountain masterpiece with fireworks, music, and a laser light show. If I’d attended this past year, instead of planning the Tahoe vacation that got scrubbed, I might have suspected earlier what Simon was up to, since he always attended. Before so many forgers were killed.
Of course, the biggest problem with trying to locate Miguel at Font Magica was twofold. First, no pickpocket liked to be interrupted during business hours, and two, the scene was unbelievably huge. The largest of Barcelona’s ornamental fountains, Font Magica was designed by Carles Buigas and built in 1929 for the International Exhibition. In 1992, it was lovingly restored to help show off Barcelona when they hosted the Summer Olympics. The moving water jets performed a magic dance in coordination with the colored lights and music, the water unfolding, rising, falling, hiding, then bursting out to the delight of the crowds.
But tonight, it was a job. The Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya was nearby, and we joined the crowd heading for the Font Magica de Montjuïc, just down the steps from the museum. The four majestic columns beckoned the masses, as the lights shifted hues and shades, and the music swelled with the cascading water.
“Should we split up?” I asked. I’d already given him a description of Miguel.
“Not on your life,” Jack replied. “There are too many people here, and too many ways I might lose you.” As if to punctuate the statement, he took hold of my right hand.
The crowds were happy and thick. I kept a tight hold on the Prada, using my left elbow to secure the bag on my shoulder and against my body, holding the roses in the hand clutching the purse strap for extra insurance.
It was difficult searching for one person while also scanning for anyone else who might pose a danger to our operation. After finally returning too many times to the same group of people who posed no risk, I pulled Jack to the edge of the crowd and said, “I think it might work better if I just focus on Miguel, and you watch out for anyone who looks too interested in us.”
He nodded.
“Sounds more efficient.”
And safer, I thought. There was something about having too many targets that made my heart race faster.
The darkness around us deepened, and the sounds of awe from the crowds increased as the fountain truly shined in its perfect milieu. I pulled Jack along a couple of times when I thought I’d seen Miguel, but all it got us was the chance to say “excuse me” multiple times in Catalan or Spanish. He raised his watch finally, and I could see the show was nearing its finale.
“Guess we try again tomorrow night,” he said.
We started to turn away, and the crowd parted. Two men scuffled near the edge of the fountain. One wore the uniform of the Mossos d’Esquadra, the police of Catalonia. The other man was Miguel. “Come on. Follow my lead,” I whispered.
“Excuse me, is there a problem?” I aske
d, raising my voice as I ran up to the men.
The policeman used our interference to get a better grip on Miguel. “Step aside,” he ordered us.
Time to let my blondness work for me. “But this man is our tour guide. Where are you taking him? We don’t speak the language. He helps us find everything. Where are you going with him? We need him.” I had no problem speaking ditz when necessary. I fluttered around and pulled at their arms, succeeding in annoying the already irritated authority.
Jack physically got in the police officer’s way. They started arguing in Spanish, and I used the opportunity to communicate silently with Miguel. He signaled he didn’t have anything on him, which meant he’d already passed the loot to his partner. What I would do now was clearly in the gray zone, but I had too many serious items on my to-do list to worry about staying on the high road. I reached out and tugged harder on the officer’s sleeve.
“What has he done? Why are you taking him away?”
“Pickpocket.”
Obviously, the officer only had a small working knowledge of English. Or he didn’t want to humor me since I was obstructing his efforts with Miguel.
“Did you find something on him that doesn’t belong to him?” I turned to Miguel. “Do you have someone else’s property? This is just a mistake, I know. Show the policeman so we can get this straightened out.”
The officer switched to Catalan, but Jack continued in Spanish, speaking louder. I didn’t know if it was because he didn’t know what the officer was saying or he didn’t want to blow his advantage. The policeman tried to push past Jack while pulling Miguel, but he wasn’t successful. I grabbed the officer’s sleeve again to get him to pay attention to me. “He hasn’t taken anything. Can’t you search him and see?”