Midnight in Madrid rt-2

by Noel Hynd

  The crack of Tissot’s cervical column was as loud as a gunshot. It filled Tissot’s body with an immense pain that swelled and carried him into an unconscious blackness. Then Tissot’s body gave one final violent contraction as death claimed it.

  T issot’s body went limp. John Sun thoughtfully eased it to the floor. He let the body rest there briefly in a small moment of victory. He picked up Tissot’s attache case and guided the elevator to an emergency stop. Then he took the elevator back to the sixth floor where Tissot had boarded.

  Using the keys from the dead man’s pocket, he opened Tissot’s door.

  He dragged the corpse in. Perfect so far. No one had seen anything, and presumably no one had heard anything. No blood. Sometimes things were too easy, but he wasn’t complaining.

  Sun closed the door and locked it. He set aside the attache case for a moment. He calmly dragged Tissot’s body into one of the bathrooms, dumped him headfirst in the tub, and closed the door. He returned back to Tissot’s front door and bolted it from within.

  He then settled into the apartment of the man he had killed. He had to go through Tissot’s belongings. There were certain items he wanted, and he had several hours to go through everything and look for them. But the item he wanted most, which he would take with him, was the colonel’s laptop.

  He found it easily.

  THIRTEEN

  MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, 9:42 A.M.

  H ere, my distinguished guests, is the object we’re looking for,” Jose Rivera, the museum curator, continued in Spanish. “ The Pieta of Malta. Let’s take a close look at the pilfered object.”

  He passed around the table a series of identical files, one for each person present. Inside each, on the top page, was a color portrait of the object recently stolen. To a casual observer, it might have appeared to be a smaller and less refined version of Michelangelo’s majestic sculpture, The Pieta, as it was known to millions of art lovers and Christians around the world. Michelangelo’s masterpiece has remained at St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City to this day.

  “ The Pieta,” Rivera began, “is not just a single sculpture in Rome, but rather a singular subject in Christian art, normally depicting the Virgin Mary cradling the slain body of Jesus. As such, it is a particular form of the devotional theme of Our Lady of Sorrows. Any pieta depicts a scene from the Passion of Christ and is the thirteenth of the Stations of the Cross. When Christ and the Virgin are surrounded by other figures from the New Testament, the subject is strictly called a lamentation, although pieta is often used for this as well. The pieta-as an expression of faith and as an enterprise of religious art-gained popularity in Italy in the sixteenth century. Many German and Polish fifteenth-century examples in wood greatly emphasize Christ’s wounds and are seen as precursors to the genre. Woodcuts from Russia in the fourteen hundreds suggest a similar fascination with the form.”

  Rivera paused. A trace of a smile crossed his face. “The most famous pieta, of course, is Michelangelo’s in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Michelangelo’s last work was another pieta, a different one, featuring not the Virgin Mary holding Christ, but rather Joseph of Arimathea.” He paused, then added, “Michelangelo carved Joseph’s face as a self-portrait. A final act of piety wherein the sculptor humbly placed himself in a biblical context.”

  There was laughter around the room. Alex always enjoyed listening to an expert on anything.

  “But what we are here today to discuss, however, is what is believed to be the definite origin of this genre of work. The Pieta of Malta. Please look at the top photograph I’ve presented to you. Five centuries ago Michelangelo gained inspiration for his greatest work from gazing for many hours upon the very sculpture that was stolen from us. The Pieta of Malta was held by the Vatican at the time, AD 1500, and would have been accessible to him. That is the treasure that disappeared from our museum. It goes without saying that our most prized pieta must be found and returned to the government of Spain and this museum as soon as possible.”

  There was a rustling of documents around the room.

  “I’m just curious,” Rivera continued as those in the room perused the files, “as to who here might have ever seen The Pieta of Malta before, directly in our museum. Or how many of you are even familiar with it?”

  Only one hand went up in acknowledgment, that of Rizzo, the Roman. Rivera nodded to him.

  “I’ve also seen the big one at the Vatican,” Rizzo said. “Does that count?”

  “ En absoluto. Not in the slightest,” Rivera said with a sly smile.

  In the photographs from the files was a small piece of artwork from antiquity. It was part sculpture in stone, part carving in wood. It was well worn from the centuries, but it was easy to distinguish what it represented.

  “What you see before you,” Rivera said, “is the first sculptural lamentation in recorded history.”

  The carving was that of Mary comforting the body of her slain son. The faces had eroded over the centuries, but the arms, body, robes, and legs of two figures remained clear.

  “It is believed to be from the time of Constantine the Great,” Rivera said. “Perhaps three centuries after the time of Christ. It was under the rule of Constantine that the eastern and western Roman Empires were united, and the new capital of Constantinople was founded on the site of Byzantium. Constantine also issued the Edict of Milan, which made Christianity legal throughout what remained of the Roman Empire. He himself converted to Christianity on his deathbed. It was thus an era when much early Christian art flourished among the artisans who were faithful to the church. So it is believed that this particular piece is from that time.”

  Alex and the others in the room followed along as Rivera, switching back and forth now between very precise English and his native Castilian Spanish, explained the background of the stolen object.

  “This category of art is, strictly speaking, a lamentation,” he said, backtracking slightly. “A lament or lamentation is, in artistic terms, often a song or poem expressing grief, regret, mourning. Many of the greatest and most timeless poems in human history have been lamentations. They can be found in the Iliad and the Odyssey, in Beowulf, in the Hindu Vedas. There are laments in the Jewish Tanakh, what Christians know as the Old Testament. In many oral traditions, the lamentation is or has been typically performed by women. Similarly, in the traditional music of Scotland, a lamentation is a genre of musical composition for the bagpipes. In this form, these slow pieces are a theme and variations, beginning with a slow air that is played with embellishments. The simple melody returns to finish the piece. These laments are usually named after a person; traditionally, a warrior slain in battle.”

  Down the table, the Frenchman LeMaitre was pouring water from a plastic container into a glass. Rolland Fitzgerald, the young man from Scotland Yard, was looking steadfastly at the hard copy of the photograph while simultaneously jiggling his laptop screen to life. Alex did a quick count and noticed that she was one of three in the room who had arrived with a laptop. The rest, older school, worked off note pads and pens. Rizzo sat resolutely with his arms folded, nothing in front of him, listening, his own personal computer in his head.

  Rivera continued. “The term pieta originated from a custom of the Roman Empire around AD 64,” he explained, “referring to the act of prostrating oneself, and putting forth an emotion of intense spiritual love, accompanied with a reverence for the Roman gods. Eventually, the term slipped from Latin into Italian, taking the meaning ‘pity.’ But in the context of these pieces of art, the early Christians also adopted the term and took la pieta to connote the great grieving sorrow over the death of Christ, as well as a reverence for the Almighty.”

  Rivera paused.

  “Now look at the photograph.”

  The missing piece, he explained, was an extremely rare example of late third-century sculpture. The early pieta had been created by a craftsman in an unusual manner. The covered body of Christ was limestone. The exposed head, arms, legs, and feet were ma
rble of a faint pink hue. On the base of the sculpture was ancient writing that looked possibly like Arabic. And the work was small by the standard of a pieta. Alex recalled Mike Gamburian mentioning that it was about six-by-eight inches.

  “The original provenance of the carving has never been known for certain,” Rivera explained. “But studies during the twentieth century suggested that it might have been excavated originally at Morgatina. Morgatina was a site in central Sicily well known for having been looted frequently and the abundance of artifacts that resulted from it. It was believed that an early civilization of Christians from Rome established a colony and a fortress there. With the fortress came a church and a monastery. And with the monastery came early artwork, much of it from the islands of Sardinia, Corsica, and Malta. Much of this was plundered or destroyed during the fifth century AD when the Roman Empire disintegrated under the press of barbarian invasions from the east, and Vandals finally sacked the city.”

  Alex looked up and watched Rivera. He was still speaking without notes.

  “In an effort once to confirm this pieta’s origin,” Rivera continued, “the limestone was analyzed by computer in 1975. The samples matched a limestone found in Malta. The specific site has never been identified as it no longer exists. But there is no doubt that the limestone was from Malta. Hence the name, The Pieta of Malta . There is even to this day, I might add, a small town on the island of Malta that goes by the name Pieta.”

  He moved toward conclusion.

  “Allow me one or two other historical notes. The strategic importance of Malta was recognized by the Phoenicians, who occupied it, as did in turn the Greeks, Carthaginians, and Romans. The apostle Paul was shipwrecked there in AD 60. With the division of the Roman Empire in AD 395, Malta was assigned to the eastern portion of the empire dominated by Constantinople.

  “Throughout history,” he continued, “small Christian carvings and relics such as this one were collected and enshrined. It was believed that the holiness of the art would evoke a power to heal and or to intercede for the faithful owner. Similarly, if such an item had actually been in the possession of a saint, its aura and powers would have been enhanced by the contact with the saint’s spirit. The fact that this faith was later exploited for money does not alter its basic character. The practice forms an interesting comment on the inherent longing for physical contact, even if once removed, with great men or spiritual leaders. Even into the present day, millions of people will place immense value on such objects.”

  A pause and he continued.

  “Now look very carefully at the base of the carving. Much of the original engraving has been lost over the years.” Rivera was indicating the area that Alex had already noticed, one that looked like ancient writing, but not European.

  “What you will see,” he said, “is ancient Arabic calligraphy. It combines the Arabic word for peace and a depiction of a dove. As you all know, in Judaism and Christianity, a white dove is generally a sign for peace. The Torah tells us that Noah released a dove after the flood in order to find land. The dove came back, an olive branch in its beak, telling Noah that the waters had receded and there was land once again. The same image holds through in the modern and ancient Islamic languages. The motif can also represent ‘hope for peace’ and even a peace offering from one man to another. The dove is represented here with wings spread, still in flight, a reminder of its role as messenger as well as the unfulfilled promise. The dove is, of course, in art also the traditional representation of the Holy Spirit, frequently seen hovering above Christ’s head when He is baptized by John the Baptist.”

  Alex flicked her gaze around the room. All of the attendees appeared focused on Rivera’s minilecture, except possibly Floyd Connelly of US Customs, the Orson Welles look-alike, who seemed to be jetlagged. His eyelids were drooping and he had obviously tuned out, even though Rivera kept glancing at him.

  “Now, it has been suggested, for centuries, that The Pieta of Malta has had magical powers,” Rivera continued. “According to legend, whoever was in possession or guardian of it, could not suffer a mortal death. Similarly, those who possessed it-nations, armies, civilizations-would never be vanquished. Hitler for example was obsessed with this object and personally snatched it in Rome in 1943 after Mussolini’s overthrow. At the close of World War II, American soldiers under Patton ‘rescued’ it from Hitler’s chalet on the Obersalzburg. The United States government owned it for a while, then generously returned it to the Austrians in 1955. It was then put on display in the museum of Vienna’s Hofburg Palace yet was largely ignored. Eventually, Francisco Franco acquired it for Spain in exchange for some Austrian art that had gone to Madrid during the war. Shortly before his death, he turned it over to Prince Juan Carlos, Franco’s designated successor and the future king. Juan Carlos turned it over to the Museo Arqueologico.”

  And there it had remained, he said, largely ignored again, until less than two weeks earlier.

  “You all have further background in front of you to read. Those of you who came equipped with laptops can turn in your reports, and we will provide you with a download of the identical information. Needless to say, the overall information shared in those documents is to be privy only to those in this room and any immediate superiors who assigned you to this investigation.”

  He scanned the room. “I also expect you will exchange credentials and ways to access each other to work together to retrieve The Pieta of Malta for the people of Spain.”

  He paused again.

  Around the table, most eyes remained trained on the files or the individual computer screens. Some nodded soberly. Floyd Connelly, US Customs, looked pleased that the meeting was over. He opened a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, chomped it, and gazed at the ceiling.

  LeMaitre, the Frenchman, sitting across from him, studied Connelly with barely concealed contempt until he shifted his gaze slightly and caught Alex looking at him. He gave her a smile and turned back to Rivera.

  “We know we are asking for a great achievement in a short period of time,” Rivera continued. “But the recovery of this object is the only remedy we can ultimately accept. So today and tomorrow you will be briefed by me and various branches of the Spanish police as to what has happened to date. After that,” he said, “I trust you will pursue this investigation with the vigor and skill of which I know you are all capable.”

  As Rivera spoke, from her right, Alex caught a nearly subliminal glance from Rizzo, whose gaze slid sideways for a moment to hold hers, then drifted away again and didn’t return.

  “Questions?” Rivera asked.

  Maurice Essen of Interpol was the first to speak. “Have your local police or national police made any inroads in their own investigation?” he asked. “The use of municipal police uniforms suggest there may have been some local organization involved in this.”

  Colonel Torres of the national police picked up the question.

  “There is nothing so far,” Torres said. “We have our leads out, much as is mentioned in the report. But so far, there is nothing.”

  “Is there any indication that the theft was engineered with any international group?” asked Rizzo.

  “No indication one way or another,” Rivera answered.

  Alex pondered for a moment. A few half-shaped questions and theories began to emerge in her mind. But she wanted to study the full dossier that had been given to her before she ran her thoughts in any particular direction. It was an old habit that had served her well.

  Think first, then speak.

  The room was quiet. There were no further questions. The meeting adjourned.

  FOURTEEN

  MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, NOON

  M aria Elena Gomez had turned thirty-three years old on the same day that The Pieta of Malta was stolen from the Museo Arqueologico in Madrid. At thirty-three, an unmarried mother of a twelve-year-old daughter, she was a woman of considerable charm and good looks, solid and wholesome in the traditional style of a working class Madrilena.

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nbsp; To see Maria at the clubs or even at a soccer match, laughing, singing, or knocking back wine with friends, one would never have guessed the stolidly mundane nature of her career and employment.

  As an employee of the Madrid subway system, just a few years earlier Maria would have been limited to working in a ticket booth. But now, thanks to laws forbidding sex discrimination in employment, Maria had graduated to the Madrid Metro job that she really liked. She was a track walker.

  Five days a week, after the subway shut down for the night and before service resumed the next day, armed with heavy flashlights and cell phones, she and her partner would hop down onto the tracks and walk from one station to the next. They would check the links between the individual rails and check to see if the pressure of passing trains had created cracks in rails that, if the rail was not replaced, could lead to a train jumping the tracks. Now, more recently, track walkers were on duty during the day too. They kept a special eye open for anything unusual that could be connected with terrorism. New York, London, and Madrid had all been hit savagely by al-Qaeda, as everyone knew. While the chances of a repeat were always present, no one wanted to make it easy.

  It wasn’t a job for everyone, but Maria liked her work.

  “But, mujer! The darkness, the vagabundos in the tunnels, the filthy rats!” her female friends would say.

  “No me importa nada,” she would answer. And to her it was nothing. She didn’t care a whit about dark or rats, maybe because she had been a tomboy as a girl, which hadn’t sat well with the nuns when she was in school. But she had left school at the age of sixteen when her father died.