Chasing Tomorrow

“Yes. Really. It’s going to happen in the next few days unless you act now to prevent it.”

The voice on the end of the line was male, American and supremely confident. Comisario Alessandro Dmitri disliked its owner instantly.

“Who is this?”

“My name isn’t important. You need to take notes. One of the men involved is short, around five foot seven, with dark curly hair and a hooked nose.”

“No one is going to steal the Shroud.”

“He often wears a green parka and is known to the exhibition staff as a police officer.”

Alessandro Dmitri was starting to lose his temper. “I don’t have time for this. Unless you tell me your name, I—”

“You should also try to trace a Mr. Daniel Cooper. He’s a similar height with brown eyes and a small mouth and looks kind of effeminate. Cooper is dangerous and brilliant. You must increase your security, comisario.”

“Who the hell put you through to my office?” Dmitri fumed. “I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for conspiracy theories. The security at the Sábana Santa exhibition is excellent.”

“No, it’s not

. It’s okay, but nothing Cooper can’t get around. Hell, I could get around it.”

“I sincerely advise you not to try,” Dmitri said icily. “Anyone foolish enough to attempt to steal the Shroud will be apprehended immediately. You’d be looking at twenty years in a Spanish jail, Mr.—?”

“Please. Just listen to me . . .”

Dmitri had hung up.

“SEÑORA PRIETO?”

“Yes?”

Magdalena Prieto answered in English. A long career as a museum curator had given her a good ear for accents. She could hear at once that the caller was American, and switched from Spanish without even thinking.

“Someone is planning to steal the Sábana Santa.”

Great. A crank call. That’s all I need.

The curator of Seville’s most prestigious exhibition had already had a long and trying day. The fine-art-and-antiquities world in Spain was still almost exclusively run by men, and Señora Prieto battled sexism and bigotry on a daily basis. A lot of noses had been put out of joint when Magdalena had landed the plum job of curating the Sábana Santa’s first exhibition outside of Italy. Every day was a struggle.

“A man posing as a police officer may be involved,” the caller went on. “He’s using the name Luís Colomar and is already known to your staff. Another man, Daniel Cooper, may be working with him. Cooper’s an ex–insurance investigator. He’s incredibly sharp and—”

“Señor. If you seriously suspect anybody of attempting to steal the Sábana, I suggest you call the police.”

“I already have. They didn’t take me seriously.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Magdalena Prieto observed drily. “I can assure you that our security here is state-of-the-art.”

“I know your security systems,” the caller said, somewhat disconcertingly. “They’re good. But Daniel Cooper’s better. Please, tell your staff to be hypervigilant.”

“My staff is always hypervigilant. Do you have any evidence of this supposed plot?”

The caller hesitated. “Nothing concrete.”

“Then I suggest you stop wasting my time, señor.”

For the second time in an hour, Jeff Stevens heard the click of a phone line going dead.

Damn it!