At the entrance, the director of the museum, Christian Machada, 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. їQuiйn 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 Yбсez.
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, "їQuй pasa? їQuй 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, "ЎSergio! iVen acб! iPronto!"
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 dying vainly to push the tourists away from the area of the paint-smeared floor.
"Get the director," Sergio yelled. "ЎEn seguida!"
The other guard hurried off toward the stairs. ЎQuй4 birria! What a mess!
Two minutes later Christian Machada was at the scene of the disaster. The director took one horrified look ad screamed, "Get some cleaning women down here - Quickly! Mops and cloths and turpentine. ЎPronto!"
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."