Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(81)

“By cash.”

“Did he do or say anything unusual when he came in?”

“No. Not that I noticed. He was smiling. He seemed relaxed.”

The man in the green jacket turned and walked away.

THE ALFONSO HOTEL WAS the grandest in town, a 1929 landmark built in an Andalusian style and full of opulent, Moorish touches. The lobby and bars boasted marble pillars and mosaic floors, high, ornately carved ceilings and walls hung with exquisitely eclectic artwork and lit by thousands of gold lamps, like vast Aladdin’s caves. There were one hundred and fifty-one guest rooms, accessed by old-fashioned, 1930s elevators with gold grille gates, or by a wonderfully grand and sweeping staircase that wound its way around a central courtyard filled with flowers.


Jeff’s room boasted an antique walnut four-poster bed and a bath big enough for a family of five to live in. He figured if he were going to leave the comforts of Professor Domingo Mu?oz’s farm, it should be for somewhere spectacular. The Alfonso was certainly that.

The only downside was that it was full of American tourists, as Jeff discovered when he went downstairs to the bar.

“Couldn’t we have met somewhere more private?” The contact Jeff was meeting glanced furtively around the wood-paneled room. They were seated at a corner table, sipping grappa. “I feel like a monkey in a zoo.”

“I can’t think why,” Jeff observed drily. “Nobody’s looking at us. They’re all on vacation, getting drunk.”

Right on cue, a group of American business men at the bar laughed loudly, patting one of their party on the back in some sort of private joke.

“What have you got for me?”

The man pulled some photographs out of his coat pocket and slid them across the table. The first two showed a man with a Roman nose and curly dark hair deep in conversation with a traditionally dressed Arab. They appeared to be in a hotel lobby. Not here though, thought Jeff. There were too many Arabs in the background for the photo to have been taken here in Seville. The hotel looked grand and opulent. Maybe Dubai?

Jeff’s contact asked, “Do you know them?”

“No. I’m assuming the guy in the robes is this Iranian Domingo mentioned?”

“Sharif Ebrahim Rahbar. The world’s sixth richest man. Reclusive. Ruthless. And not an enormous amount of fun. Drinking, sex, personal freedom of any kind, are all no-nos for this dude. He’s not the biggest fan of women’s rights either.”

“A woman hater?” Jeff sounded curious.

“I wouldn’t say that. He has at least eleven concubines in a harem in Qatar. Anyway it’s the other guy you’re interested in, right?”

“I was,” Jeff said. “But I’m not sure it matters anymore.” He studied the man in the picture. “That’s not Daniel Cooper. Domingo’s sources must have made a mistake.”

“Could be. But I’ll tell you this. Whoever he is, he’s interested in the Sábana Santa. And he’s interested in you, my friend.”

Jeff flicked through the other pictures. They showed the same man, but this time in Seville. In some shots he was entering the museum housing the Shroud. In others he was walking in the vicinity, sometimes taking pictures or stopping to talk on the phone. Most of the time he wore a green parka.

“He’s visited the Antiquarium fourteen times in the last five days. He claims to be Luís Colomar, a detective in the Cuerpo Nacional de Policía.”

Jeff nodded. The CNP were Spain’s national police.

“Problem is, no one’s ever heard of him. Not in Seville, not in Madrid, not anywhere as far as I can tell. He could be secret service.”

“CNI, Centro Nacional de Inteligencia?”

“It’s possible. Or even CIA. His Spanish is flawless, but plenty of Americans speak good Spanish. Or, he could be here to steal the Shroud for Rahbar. Maybe he’s working with this guy Cooper.”

“I doubt it,” said Jeff. “Cooper’s not much of a team player. Then again, I don’t see how he could even attempt a job like this without help. And he does like to hang back in the shadows. Maybe this Colomar is his front man?”

“Maybe. Anyway he was at the exhibition again today, following you. He asked a bunch of questions after you left. Maybe he thinks you’re here to steal the Shroud.”

Jeff shook his head. “Why would he think that?”

“Because apparently someone’s trying to steal it. You are a con man, Jeff, the best, and an antiquities specialist. And here you are in town, hanging around the exhibition. If this guy is with an intelligence organization”—he jabbed the photographs with a pudgy forefinger—“you’d better watch your back.”

“He’s not with any intelligence organization,” said Jeff, looking at the photos intently, one after another. “He’s a thief. I can feel it in my bones. He’s working for this Sharif Rahbar. Possibly with Daniel Cooper’s help.”

Jeff’s contact said, “I think so too. So what now?”

Jeff thought about it. “If he has Rahbar’s money and Cooper’s expertise behind him, he’s dangerous. They might actually do this thing. They might actually steal and destroy the Shroud.”

Jeff pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to the other man, who swiftly slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for this. You’ve been a great help.”