The Seventh Treasure

Chapter One:

The Alpujarras

The rain was getting heavier. Still reflecting on her pleasant afternoon near the mountain village of Capileira, Gina put on her headlights and switched the wiper blade of her Mercedes 500 SL to a higher speed.

Just outside of the city of Granada, Capileira crowns the Poqueira Gorge, an area in the heart of the Alpujarra Alta where the last Andalucian Moors sought refuge after their expulsion from Spain at the end of the sixteenth century. Those areas of Spain, where Arab and Spanish cultures and architecture mixed, exuded a magic and mystery to Gina, and the villages in the Alpujarras still preserved their Moorish character—whitewashed, cube-shaped houses, clinging to mountainsides—very similar to the villages in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco.

The wind picked up as dusk descended, and the road became more challenging for the old 1986 convertible Gina had purchased in Switzerland a few years ago. She had loved driving up the curving mountain roads to her afternoon rendezvous, top down and enjoying the cooling breeze, which grew ever cooler after each ascending curve of the road. Now, returning home in the rain, she just looked forward to seeing signs that would guide her to National Highway 323 and back to her apartment in Granada.

She felt a sudden queasiness in her stomach as she rounded a sharp, descending curve and the brake pedal went soft. The car made the curve, but she felt the centrifugal force take her much closer to the edge of the road than she wanted to go. Let’s slow it down, baby, she said to herself and started to pump the brakes, easy at first, but then harder, faster, and with greater anxiety. That queasiness now permeated her whole body as the car continued to accelerate down the tortuous road, made more treacherous by the steady rain. What the hell is going on? her mind screamed as she wove left and right, faster and faster down the mountain. The brake pedal now went all the way to the floorboard without effect.

Huge pine trees and a wall of boulders lined the road to her right, but she had to make it to that side of the road—quickly. She tried to fight the forces that were sliding her to the left on a long, winding curve. Night had quickly fallen; beyond the road, she saw nothing but blackness, save the tiny lights of the villages in the distance. She turned the wheel hard right toward the trees and ominous rocks and fishtailed violently. Four thousand pounds of silver-blue metal strained against the wet road, sliding toward that black nothingness.

There was a barrier on that side of the road, wooden telephone pole–like stumps connected by braided metal cable. That will hold me. The car will be badly damaged, but it will be all right. A good driver, she instinctively turned left to correct the spin out. It corrected the tailspin and straightened the car’s trajectory but took her head-on into the roadside barrier at the end of the curve, hitting the cable hard. It didn’t sound like she thought it would. No loud bang, just a kind of soft crunch and a sudden forward lurch of her body as the barrier stopped her momentum—she thought. Then a slow, forward tilt of her body, and suddenly, she was thrust backward as the remaining strands of the cable snapped and the car plunged down. I’m going over, she thought somewhat calmly, aching fingers still tightly clutching the steering wheel. Then she thought of Gino as the lovely, silver-blue Mercedes quietly floated through the air, its headlamps lighting up the pine-dotted landscape below it.

Chapter Two:

Baghdad, DC

Gene Cerone put on the stereo as he walked into his Powder Mill home only a short drive from his office. The preset FM station played mostly oldies—a lot of Sinatra, soft doo-wop, and big-band music from the forties and fifties. This range of music probably appealed to folks over fifty like him, and it was soothing. Gene always could escape into the music.

He opened a white wine, Gran Viña Sol, an inexpensive but delightful chardonnay from Spain his sister Gina had turned him onto some years ago. When they would come home to New Jersey for the holidays, they all brought something, and one Christmas, Gina brought a case of Spanish wines, reds and whites, which he thought were terrific. Gene kept a modest wine cellar dominated by Spanish and Italian wines, with a few California cabernets to be patriotic. Nothing French. He poured himself a glass of the cool, amber-colored wine and dropped himself into the soft leather chair in his den. Running his fingers through his hair, he thought about the events of the day.

The office for Eugene Cerone was the Attack on Principal (AOP) Unit of the US Secret Service Special Agent Training Center in Beltsville, Maryland. He had more than thirty years with the Secret Service and was barely in his midfifties. For the last three years, he had headed up the AOP unit, whose responsibility was to develop real-world crisis scenarios for agents in protective mission training. The exercises were sometimes held at the Beltsville training facility but more often than not, were on location. This meant using hotel facilities, airports, streets and highways, golf courses—anywhere his budget could support and his arm-twisting could elicit—reflecting potential real-life situations for the principals the Service was charged to protect. That meant simulation exercises involving the protection of the president of the United States, the vice president, and their families, as well as foreign dignitaries, realistically staged and executed by the AOP team.

The planning and execution of these exercises had all the aspects of a Hollywood production, except that it was real-time and the trainees were not aware of the plot twists and turns that would confront them. They were indoctrinated to react within a set of protocols, but at times, they were forced to improvise. The principal would be put in harm’s way, and the agents’ responsibility would be to prevent the incident altogether or to prevent harm to the individuals they were protecting and ultimately to ensure the apprehension of those attempting the deed.

The simulation today had been a bust. The group in training this week was made of veterans, currently part of several protective details excluding the president’s. There were eleven of them, seven men and four women, and they blew it.

The exercise involved the protection of the vice president—an actor stand in—and was carried out at the Capital Hilton Hotel on Sixteenth Street NW, about two long blocks from the grounds of the White House. It was the same place as the John Hinckley Jr. assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan, when Eugene Cerone was part of the presidential protection team in August 1980.

Josh Bigelow planned and was responsible for the AOP simulation exercise this day. Gene had recruited Bigelow from Lester Dreyfus’s Digital Light Brigade, made famous for its incredible special effects, which had dominated Hollywood film spectaculars since their first Galaxy Conquest movie. They wrote the book on film innovation and continued developing it beyond the movie audience’s imagination.

Cerone knew it was not good enough for any agency of the US government engaged in security or protection to rely entirely on its own thinking. We’re too inbred, too structured, too process oriented, Cerone believed. We need to tap into the imaginations of the most creative minds in the country. Digital Light Brigade was one such place where there were no boundaries on innovation and creativity. Cerone was thinking about hooking up with Hollywood when he took over the AOP Unit. Then 9/11 confirmed they had to think differently, and on September 18, 2001, he sat down with Lester Dreyfus.

Josh Bigelow graduated from Cal Tech with an engineering degree and worked for Silicon Graphics before joining DLB. He had made some money before the Internet bubble burst in the late nineties but had strong feelings about social responsibility. In the spring of 2002, he was the Service’s first recruit from DLB. After completing the standard agent training programs, he became part of the AOP unit. Today’s simulation was Bigelow’s first as project leader, and Cerone thought how fortunate the Service had been in getting this talented young man.

Josh Bigelow staged this event as precisely as he had dozens of scenes in The Return of the Pharaoh, his last project before leaving DLB. Today delivered a double whammy. First, the vice president stand-in’s motorcade was damaged by an explosive device—compressed air, confetti, and red dye—at the intersection of Connecticut Avenue and Eighteenth Street. Then, the coup de grâce: As the protection team rushed the injured vice president to George Washington University Hospital—the same place Ronald Reagan was taken after the 1981 assassination attempt—a suicide bomber ambushed them at the emergency-room entrance. More white smoke, confetti, and red dye.

Josh’s compressed-air delivery devices functioned perfectly. Everything looked so real, but at that moment, his emotions must have been very mixed. It was, after all, the ultimate gotcha. But this wasn’t a movie set. This could be life or death for the leaders of our country, and in this simulation, the principal was lost. If not lost by the first event on Connecticut Avenue, the pregnant woman suicide bomber at the hospital finished the job for sure. The terror from nameless roadside bombers in places like Baghdad and Kandahar had finally been transported to our nation’s capital. In this case, the bad guys had won again, and the Service had lost the vice president! At least theoretically.

That was what Gene Cerone was thinking as he sipped his wine and tried to wind down in the comfort of his den with Johnny Mathis singing The Twelfth of Never, a song about a time that would never be. He reflected on this war on terrorism, the conflicts throughout the Middle East and the hordes of people who truly hated the United States. Are we up against the Twelfth of Never here? Will there ever be an end in sight?

It was already 8:30 p.m., and Cerone should have been thinking of dinner. The music had now moved to the Skyliners, singing This I Swear, but he couldn’t get the haunting Mathis tune out of his head. He sat with his feet up on a worn ottoman, slowly sipping his wine.

Chapter Three:

The Call

The next morning, Cerone was in the conference room with Josh Bigelow and the full staff of AOP project leaders and direct-reports. They had convened right after the incident and had been going through debriefings and minute-by-minute, step-by-step analyses of yesterday’s simulation ever since. Gene had already met with both Deputy Director Danny Boggs and Service Director Ed Barnes—colleagues from the Reagan protection team—and alerted them to the events of yesterday. While troubled by the seriousness of the situation and the failure of a group of veteran agents, no one was shocked. The suicide bomber had yet to surface on our shores, but everyone believed it was only a matter of time. The same could be said for a large-scale attack on a civilian population either with chemical or biological agents. The question was always When?

Cerone’s administrative assistant, Nancy Tanaka, entered the conference room. Apologizing for the interruption and well aware of what had happened in the training exercise, she said Gene had a call from Granada, Spain. A captain from the National Police Corps needed to speak with him. It sounds urgent, she whispered.

Cerone knew that his sister Gina had moved to Spain some months ago. He rose and quickly left the room, his brow furrowed with concern. He went to his office, a short distance down the hall, and picked up the receiver of the phone. Eugene Cerone here, he said.

A woman’s voice responded, "Un momento, Señor."

There was a click, and then he heard a deep and heavily accented voice say, Señor Cerone, this is Capitàn Julian Balmaseda of the Policia Nacional, in Granada, España. Are you related to a Señorita Gina Cerone?

Yes, Cerone replied, I am her brother. Is Gina all right?

"I am sorry to bring you such noticias, Balmaseda said, but I have to inform you that your sister has been killed in a traffic accident."

The world went into slow motion for Cerone. He heard the words Captain Balmaseda was saying, but they seemed distorted, echoing as if coming from a deep cavern. The events of yesterday and the concerns about what must never happen suddenly moved to a whole other intensity. Yesterday was just an exercise, another scene crafted by the Digital Light Brigade. Yesterday, nobody died—not really. But what did he just hear? Your sister was killed? He asked the voice on the other end of the line to repeat what he said. Gene went through the What? Are you sure? When? How? But are you certain? routine.

The result was the same, Your sister was killed …

He took down all the pertinent information from Captain Balmaseda and gently returned the phone to its cradle. Nancy Tanaka stood at the open doorway and could see the lost expression on Gene Cerone’s face. His glazed eyes then focused on Nancy. They said my sister is dead.

The years of investigative experience then took over, and he began to give directions to Nancy. Here. He handed her the notes he had written. This guy is supposed to be a captain in Spain’s National Police Force. He said the American embassy in Madrid has been notified of an accident involving my sister. Call them and check up on this Balmaseda and confirm what he has said. Cerone stayed seated at his desk, staring blankly at the open doorway. Only a few minutes passed before Nancy returned to Gene’s office.

They have the same information, Gene. I’m so sorry.

Chapter Four:

Baby Lotion Hair

Gene turned his chair toward the window behind his desk and looked out in the direction of Little Paint Branch Park, really seeing nothing except the image of Gina, his beautiful, bright, energetic little sister. It didn’t seem real. Sorrow soon grew to overwhelming feelings of guilt.

He had not been close with his sister. The primary reason had been the age difference between them. Gino, as he was called as a boy and young man growing up in Harrison, New Jersey, was seventeen years old when his sister was born. She was a change-of-life baby, they told him. He remembered being embarrassed by his mother’s pregnancy. Certainly not naive about the birds and bees at his age, Gino just did not want to picture his middle-aged parents "doing it."

The birth was uneventful, even for his mother’s advanced age of forty-four years. Baby Gina was a beauty. Her eyes were a green, almost emerald, color, and they got greener as she grew older. Gino’s mother kept Gina’s hair long with soft flowing curls when she was a little girl. She used to rub Johnson and Johnson’s Baby Lotion in her hair so that it always shined and smelled beautiful. Staring out into an overcast morning, he could remember that smell so vividly.

The guilt began to swell. After his freshman year at Rutgers University, he moved to the campus dormitories, and his life simply evolved further and further from his sister’s. With him working part-time in the campus police force, where he was turned on to a career in the US Secret Service, the estrangement evolved even further. After graduation, with a big assist from Frank Doherty, chief of the Rutgers University Police Department and a retired Secret Service agent, Gino entered the training program for special agents of the United States Secret Service.

That was when Gino became Eugene, his birth name. The service was very WASP-y in those days, though there seemed to be an extraordinary collection of Irishmen he came in contact with as part of the recruitment process. Very few Mediterranean types appeared to be members of the Service, and Gino felt that Eugene or Gene would work better for him. He had no intention of hiding his Italian heritage or changing Cerone, but he felt he didn’t have to wear it on his sleeve every day. So, Gino became Gene on that first day of criminal investigation training at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia—a world apart from Harrison, New Jersey.

Nancy Tanaka had remained in the doorway while Gene looked out his office window. Can I get you anything, Gene? How can I help?

Turning back, Gene said, "You know, she used to call me Double-O Seven like James Bond. It was so hard to be part of her life when she was growing up. I was never around. I always tried to get home for the holidays and for all the special events involving Gina, but it became so difficult when I joined Reagan’s protective detail, way back when he was a candidate for the presidency. I always brought her gifts from wherever I traveled, but it was like a pit stop into her life. Never there for very long. When she was about thirteen or fourteen, she began to write pretty regularly, and her letters always began ‘Dear 0 0 7.’ She thought I was someone special. I was in the Secret Service, a secret agent. Even now, when she would email, it was still ‘Dear 0 0 7.’ God damn it," he said forcefully, thumping the desk with his fist.

She was a professional photographer, wasn’t she? Nancy said.

Yes, and a damned good one, Gene replied with a new energy. I did make it to Gina’s graduation from high school, and I gave her a thirty-five-millimeter camera as a present. She took it with her everywhere that summer. I later gave her a telephoto lens, and she sent me close-up pictures of everything, from our grandparents to squirrels and big toes with red nail polish. Even a profile of our father’s nose, just his nose. He laughed.

And she was smart, Nancy. She earned a partial scholarship to Seton Hall University, majoring in communications and journalism. She also studied Italian and Spanish in college and became proficient in both languages by the time she graduated. But photography became her passion and eventually her career. By the time my career began to stabilize, she had become the world traveler and a very successful photographer. She was beginning a new assignment in Spain and now, nothing. Nothing. I need to go there, Nancy. I need to bring her home.

I’ll get right on it, Gene. Let me handle everything, Nancy said, turning and moving to her desk.

Gene’s head shook ever so slightly as he thought of the last time he had spent any time with Gina. It was more than three years ago. She was living in Switzerland. On a rainy day in September, their parents had done some shopping at the Livingston Mall and were driving back to the old neighborhood in Harrison for some food shopping. A young Hispanic kid lost control of his SUV and crashed head-on into their Pontiac Grand Prix. The police believed that the Cerones were killed instantly. Gene said none of this when he reached Gina at her Lucerne apartment. There were no pleasantries, no small talk. Mom and Dad have been in a serious accident, Gina, he remembered saying. You need to come home as soon as possible. Send me your flight information and I’ll pick you up at Newark.

Gene and Gina spent more time together during those weeks than in any time of their lives. Their parents were laid to rest in the Gate of Heaven Cemetery in East Hanover, just a short distance from their home on Windsor Way, where they moved to when Gina was almost seven years old. Together, brother and sister reconciled the issues of notifying friends and relatives, planning the funeral Mass and burial, dealing with insurance, putting the house on the market, and disposing of all their parents’ possessions. It was a profoundly sad time, but for the first time, brother and sister were together as equals, as two adults, working together. Gene smiled as he remembered how they got to know each other again, but at a different level, and how impressed he was at the woman she had become.

Soon, however, he was driving Gina to Newark airport to catch her flight to Zurich, where she would then travel by train back to Lucerne. Her last words to him were, Bye, Gino. Love ya. They promised to keep in touch more frequently, and for a while, they did. Then they just fell into old patterns. No way to go back on that now. No way to keep that promise. The words from The Twelfth of Never and a time that would never be came into his head, and he could smell the fragrance of Johnson and Johnson Baby Lotion. He got up from his chair, closed the door to his office, returned to the window, and wept.

Chapter Five:

Granada

Things at the AOP unit couldn’t be more hectic, or critical, for that matter. Cerone had always been totally dedicated to his work, to a point where he had very few romantic relationships or real relationships in the last thirty years. There were liaisons as well as some close, nonromantic friendships with a couple of women that lasted for relatively long periods, but for the most part, Gene had a passion for his work, and it generally consumed him. Grief and guilt consumed him now, and no matter what the crisis was at the Service, he had to leave to get his little sister.

That afternoon, Cerone was on a shuttle to Newark to catch a Continental flight directly to Madrid that evening. It was an overnight flight, and after clearing customs, he boarded an Iberia flight to Granada. By 10:00 a.m.—a little tired from jet lag and those long, lonely hours he spent thinking about this morning—he arrived in Granada. He had to confirm the identity of the accident victim, and though there was no doubt that it was his sister in that car, he continuously pictured himself saying, That’s not Gina! This is another simulation, another test staged by Josh and his team. It isn’t real. That gnawing hope was still there as he hailed a taxi to take him to the address given to him by Captain Balmaseda.

Aided by some material Nancy had prepared for him, he learned there were three separate police structures in Spain. The Guardia Civil, with green uniforms and funny patent-leather hats, were the elite national guard, responsible for national security, customs, and patrol on the major roadways. At the local level, there were the municipal police, responsible to the city or town mayor and town council. They had a crime-control responsibility, but for the most part, daily activities involved traffic control and parking. In the middle, there was the National Police Force, which combined some of the activities of the Secret Service like the protection of the royal family—Spain was a monarchy like the United Kingdom—and government officials and broad criminal investigation responsibilities similar to the FBI. Balmaseda was part of the National Police Force, responsible for the province of Granada, reporting to the commissioner of the Cuerpo Nacional de Policia (CNP) for the regional autonomy of Andalucia.

Apparently, the accident took place somewhere near Bubión and Capileira, small villages in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Capileira was the closest municipality to the accident site, but it had a three-person police force—shared with two other villages in the area—and no access to recovery equipment. Under such circumstances, the local municipality would report the incident to the headquarters of the provincial CNP, in this case Granada, and they became the responsible agency.

The trip from the airport went smoothly, and Cerone wondered if there was a rush hour in Granada. The land looked dry, reddish in color, and the shrubs were more silver-green than the typical lush green seen throughout the Maryland countryside, or in New Jersey for that matter. It reminded him immediately of California. What looked like groves of olive trees, all uniform in straight lines, could be seen in the distance along with patches of pine tree forests. As the city of Granada came into view, it was clear why Gina was so fascinated with this area. If one could take the cars and trucks away, one would be looking at something from another century, maybe many centuries in the past—ancient stone walls, old cathedrals and in the background, a dusting of snow on the peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It was the twenty-first century, but many scenes could have been from the middle ages. Even inside the city, there were few modern buildings, and the streets off the main avenue appeared to be quite narrow and old. As they drove, plazas, many with fountains, appeared to be everywhere.

Nancy had made hotel reservations at the Alhambra Parador, but he was anxious to bring closure to this journey, so he went directly to the CNP office. The taxi traveled down Paseo del Violon and pulled up to a building with an Ayuntamiento de Granada sign. It was the municipal building that contained, among other departments, the offices of the Policia Nacional. Cerone left the taxi with his carry-on luggage, paying with euros he had changed for dollars at the Madrid airport.

The uniformed woman at the reception desk of the police office did not speak English. However, when he asked for Captain Balmaseda and gave his name, the officer showed immediate recognition, and he knew he was expected. The woman took him to a room, which was either a small conference room or an interrogation room, offered coffee, to which he said Si, and advised in Spanish that Capitán Balmaseda would be with him momentarily. At least that was what it sounded like. Cerone was appreciating the jolt of caffeine from the strong, dark espresso when Balmaseda entered the room.

The captain was a big man, maybe six feet or six-one and slightly overweight. Not fat. He had dark hair with some gray at the temples and a black mustache. His spoke in strongly accented English, his voice deep and slightly nasal in tone. He wore black slacks with strong pleats, a white shirt with epaulets, and a black tie, reaching just short of his waistline. He escorted Gene to his office and asked him to sit. Balmaseda sat in the chair beside him, not behind the desk across from him. As the captain went over the report again, Gene sensed a genuine compassion in the man, who shook his head often as he described the accident.

The next step, Balmaseda explained, was to confirm the identity of la señorita. Gene appreciated that Balmaseda used the term la señorita, not body or corpse or other painful descriptions. La señorita showed far more compassion. As they left his office, Balmaseda introduced Cerone to Lieutenant Garcia, who would drive them both to the morgue, located in the Hospital Real (Royal Hospital), part of the University of Granada, only a few minutes away. The Granada CNP forensic unit was also housed within the Hospital Real.

The lieutenant was a female officer with a husky voice, which was almost as deep as Balmaseda’s. She would drive her boss and Gene Cerone to the one place he dreaded. It was significant that Balmaseda didn’t just hand him over to Garcia but chose to accompany him to the Hospital.

* * *

It was Gina. Gene nodded to Captain Balmaseda. Gene feared she would be horrendously disfigured and broken, but she wasn’t. There was no fire associated with the accident, and while there was clear evidence of trauma, she looked calm. She could have been sleeping were it not for the pallor of her complexion and the bruises on her face and head. He touched her hair, thought of the long chestnut curls, and imagined the smell of Johnson and Johnson Baby Lotion. He shook his head, not wanting to believe this tragedy, and stood with his hand holding a tendril of Gina’s hair. Captain Balmaseda and Lieutenant Garcia quietly exited the room and left him alone. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, his heart pounding and his breathing labored, gently patting Gina’s head and smoothing out her hair. He slowly leaned over and kissed his sister on the forehead and then straightened, took a deep breath, and exited the room.

May I suggest that you check into your hotel, Señor Cerone, Captain Balmaseda said as Gene joined them. Perhaps you can rest while Lieutenant Garcia starts the paperwork for you to return to the United States with la señorita—if that is all right with you. Gene agreed and gave the lieutenant his return flight details. She called police headquarters and instructed that Cerone’s luggage be brought to the hotel.

If it is satisfactory with you, I will return at two o’clock, the lieutenant said as she snapped her cell phone shut. We can have lunch and go over some things to expedite your return to the United States with your sister.

Cerone nodded affirmatively, his body weak with sadness.

Chapter Six:

Mercedes Garcia Rico

Gene went upstairs to his room, marveling at his surroundings. His room was a rustic mix of Arab and Spanish styles, with a view of unbelievable gardens below and what looked like some kind of palace on a hill above the gardens. He was transported to visions seen only in movies, of cultures many centuries in the past. He then thought of Saddam Hussein, of all people, and what his Baghdad palaces were like. I need some sleep, he thought. The last thing I want to think about is Saddam Hussein, damn it. He took off his sport coat, kicked off his shoes, and lay down on the bed.

He opened his eyes about ninety minutes later, feeling better. Well, at least the jet lag was gone. Lieutenant Garcia said she would drop by—What did she say, two o’clock? He had about twenty minutes.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, he went down to the lobby of the hotel or monastery or palace or whatever it once was. The reception area was small, so he waited outside in the courtyard. He saw Lieutenant Garcia walking toward him. She wore a straight black skirt, low-heeled black shoes, and a white blouse with a black ascot. She was about five foot six and built, well … very nicely. She had a black shoulder bag and held a briefcase in her left hand. Her black hair was pulled back, gathered in a braid held tightly against the back of her head. She had blue eyes, probably was in her late thirties, and was very attractive. He had hardly paid any attention to her earlier, but his analytical mind was starting to break out of its fog.

"Buenas tardes, Señor Cerone. You look much better. Were you able to get some rest?" she asked in that raspy, husky voice, which he did remember.

Yes, thank you, he said. I’ll probably regret taking that nap tonight.

I hope not, she said. Shall we have some lunch, and I can bring you up-to-date on the accident investigation?

Gene actually was hungry, but more than anything, he wanted to expedite the administrative process so he could bring Gina back home. Lieutenant Garcia suggested the hotel dining room. The paradors of Spain always have excellent food, and we should be able to find a quiet corner to go over the paperwork.

They were led to a table, and Gene continued his fascination with this place. The dining room had an elaborate coffered ceiling, and there was a beautiful terrace that overlooked manicured gardens, surrounded by tall palm trees. In the distance, he gazed at a facing hill containing an intriguing labyrinth of narrow streets and whitewashed houses. He paused to look, and Lieutenant Garcia said, "That is called the Albaicin. It is the oldest quarter of the city, and many of its buildings date back to the eighth century or earlier. A Roman fortress once occupied the Albaicin hill, and there are ruins throughout Andalucia that can be traced to the first century. She took Gene’s arm and steered him to the table, where their waiter was waiting. When the Moors settled here, many Jews inhabited the city, some living there, in the Albaicin. The two cultures coexisted for centuries until both were expelled from Spain at the end of the fifteenth century, at about the same time Cristobal Colon—Christopher Columbus—was discovering the Americas."

Gene stood while the waiter assisted Lieutenant Garcia with her chair and then sat opposite her. He was impressed at how easily she could rattle off these historical facts like a tour guide. Looking around, he could understand why Gina had wanted to come here, to Granada, to begin her new assignment. The thought of Gina brought him out of ancient history and, in a flash, back to the present. As they shifted in their seats and made themselves comfortable, he asked, Just what kind of investigation is being done, Lieutenant? Help me understand the process here.

Well, Señor Cerone, she began, taking a pack of cigarettes out of her bag, offering him one—to which he shook his head no—this is a comprehensive process in many ways. She lit her cigarette with what looked like a red Bic lighter, blew smoke up and away from Cerone, and fanned the air. First, there is the administrative process of responding to a request from a local municipality. The accident took place within the jurisdiction of the village of Capileira, which is in the mountains called Alpujarra De La Sierra, about forty-five minutes from here. Capileira officials requested the assistance of the national police, and we are required to be very complete in our investigation. Reports need to be filed with the Scientific Police Commission in Madrid, who will sometimes actively participate in the investigation, especially if there are deaths involved. That process is going on as we speak. The lieutenant took a deep drag on her cigarette, and Cerone watched as the glowing ember moved at least an inch toward the filter.

Jeez, he thought.

Second, your sister is an American tourist. I understand that she applied for a work visa, but nevertheless, she was a tourist, and we have the obligation to provide information to your embassy, in addition to trying to locate relatives on our own. Your sister was carrying her passport, and you were listed under emergency contact. That is how we were able to reach you so quickly. However, there still needs to be a formal report filed with the US Embassy. Had this accident happened on a national highway, the Guardia Civil would have the investigative responsibility. But in this case, as GR411, the road where the accident occurred, is a provincial road, we retain primary responsibility. She crushed out her cigarette in a ceramic ashtray and again fanned the air of any lingering smoke.

"Third, there is the process of—and I hope I do not offend you—shipping a dead person out of the country. In addition to the arrangements you will need to make with United States Customs and the airline, we are required to have autopsy reports approved by the Guardia Civil. Spanish customs laws require certain forms be submitted to the Guardia before the shipping of remains can take place. And fourth, you are who you are and everyone wants to make sure that everything is done by the book.

I can assure you, Señor Cerone, she continued, noting Cerone’s pursed lips and furrowed brow, that while the process sounds very bureaucratic—and it is—I will do all in my power to expedite it as quickly as possible. I was an investigator with the Scientific Police Commission for several years. I have experience in forensic analysis, and I know the individuals who have been sent here from Madrid. I will work closely with them.

Somewhat overwhelmed by all she had said, Cerone nodded his head, understanding the process and protocols that would be followed. "I appreciate your assistance, Lieutenant. Thank you. May I also say that your English is wonderful? I can’t tell you