Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

PROFESSOR DOMINGO MUÑOZ TURNED the Byzantine coin over in his hand. The gold gleamed as if it had been minted yesterday. The engraver’s artistry was exquisite.

“Beautiful.” Domingo smiled at Jeff Stevens. “Truly beautiful. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Please. It was a labor of love. Those coins are where they were always meant to be.” Jeff raised a glass of vintage Tempranillo in salute to the elderly professor. “Not that the half a million dollars didn’t come in handy,” he added with a grin.

“Well, you earned it, my boy.”

It was March, three full months since Jeff had left New York with the Heraclian Dynasty coins safely Bubble Wrapped in his luggage. He’d spent a month in England, organizing his affairs and spending time with Gunther Hartog, who was close to death. Gunther’s physical deterioration was hard to watch, but it was the unraveling of his once-­razor-­sharp mind that Jeff found the most heartbreaking. He talked a lot about Tracy. In particular, he had one rambling fantasy about Tracy living in the mountains somewhere and working with the FBI. Jeff humored him, nodding and smiling in all the right places.

“You should find her, you know,” Gunther would mumble during his bouts of lucidity. “She always loved you.”

Each word was like a dagger in Jeff’s heart. He changed the subject as often as he could. Gunther still loved hearing about his capers and exploits. He was delighted by Jeff’s tales of New York, and stealing the Russian oligarch’s priceless coin collection while the Winter Ball was in full swing.

“Do tell me more about bedding the vile Svetlana. How long did it take her to fall for Randy Bruckmeyer’s charms? You know I’ve always been keen on the Texan. One of your better characters, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Through Gunther’s eyes, everything seemed like fun, like a great game that they were all caught up in. Jeff thought, It used to be like that for me. Not anymore.

He decided not to tell Gunther about his encounter with Elizabeth Kennedy. It would only get the old man back onto Tracy again, and Jeff couldn’t stand that.

Bizarrely, Elizabeth had discovered Jeff was in town and had come to see him at his hotel, supposedly to bury the hatchet after all these years. In fact she had some splashy jewel theft planned that she wanted to cut him in on. It was odd meeting her again. Jeff had expected to feel all his old anger toward her, but in fact there was nothing, no feelings at all. Elizabeth was flirtatious, coquettish even, but Jeff felt nothing toward her. It was a disappointment and a relief at the same time, which made no sense, but there it was. They’d parted on cordial terms. Only after he left New York did Jeff learn of Elizabeth’s arrest for her failed con on Bianca Berkeley. Thank God I didn’t take her up on her offer to get involved.

Jeff felt guilty admitting it, but it was a relief to leave Gunther and get away to Spain.

Professor Domingo Muñoz was Jeff’s client. It was he who’d commissioned the theft of the Byzantine coins. But he was also a friend and fellow lover of the ancient world. Domingo had extended an open invitation for Jeff to stay at his “casa,” an idyllic, sprawling farmhouse nestled in La Campina, the fertile valley surrounding the Rio Guadalquivir in the south of Spain. About twenty miles outside Seville, the farm boasted stunning views of the Sierra Morena countryside, with its gently rolling hills thickly clad with oak trees and its patchwork fields of wheat and olive groves. The combination of Domingo’s hospitality, the idyllic surroundings and so much history and art and architecture on one’s doorstep was too much for Jeff to resist.

A maid brought another enormous platter of paella to the table. They were dining outside, beneath a pergola overgrown with laurel, watching the bloodred sun bleed into the horizon.

Jeff said, “I have to get out of here soon. Leave you in peace.”

“Nonsense. Stay as long as you like. Spain is good for the soul.”

“Less good for the waistline, though.” Jeff patted his groaning stomach. “A few more suppers like this and I’m gonna have to take up a new profession. Maybe opera singing. No one wants to hire a fat cat burglar.”

“You’re hardly a cat burglar,” Domingo corrected him, refilling his glass. “You’re an artist.”

“And a thief.”

“A gentleman thief. As you said, the coins are where they’re supposed to be. You could hardly leave them in the hands of that grasping, philistine young woman, could you?”

Jeff agreed that he could not.

“So what’s next?” Domingo asked him, his bony fingers coiling around the stem of his wineglass like a snake choking its prey. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you.”

“I have no idea.” Jeff sat back in his chair. “This is actually the first time in forever that I haven’t had jobs lined up back to back. I might take a vacation. Travel through Europe, revisit some of my favorite museums.”

“You’ve seen the Shroud in Seville, I assume?”

The Holy Shroud of Turin was on display in Seville’s Antiquarium, a museum housed beneath the city in an ancient Roman crypt, for twelve weeks. It was the first time the relic had been allowed out of Italy in a generation, so the exhibition had attracted worldwide interest. Believed by many Catholics to be that actual cloth in which Jesus’ body had been wrapped after crucifixion—­and by most historians to be an elaborately worked medieval fake—­the Holy Shroud was almost certainly the most celebrated and revered religious artifact in the world. For many, including Jeff Stevens, the beauty and serenity of the man’s face so perfectly captured on the faded cloth meant more than all the wild conspiracy theories regarding its origin. Whether or not it was Jesus’ face didn’t matter to Jeff. The Shroud was a thing of sublime beauty, of magic, an image of human suffering and goodness that transcended religion and science and even time. The thought of going to see it, in the flesh, made his hair stand on end with excitement, like a small child about to enter Santa’s workshop for the first time.

“Not yet,” he told Domingo. “I’ve been saving it for last.”

“Well, don’t wait too long.” The professor finished his rioja and poured himself another glass. “Rumor has it there’s a sting in the offing. Someone’s going to try and steal it.”

Jeff laughed loudly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Why?”

“Because it’s impossible. And pointless. Trust me, I should know. Why would anybody want to steal the Shroud of Turin? It’s not like you can sell it. It has to be the most recognizable artifact in the known world. It’d be like trying to fence the Mona Lisa!”

Domingo shrugged. “I’m only passing on information. But I’ve heard it from a number of sources. Besides, you used to tell me there was no such thing as impossible,” he added, a wry smile playing on his thin lips.

“Yeah, well. I was talking out of my behind.” Jeff laughed, but he didn’t seem amused. “What sources?”

Domingo gave him a look that clearly said, You know I can’t answer that.

“What have you heard, exactly?”

“Nothing ‘exactly.’ Just rumor, some of it conflicting. But the common thread is that there’s a fundamentalist out there, Iranian, unimaginably wealthy. He wants the Shroud so he can destroy it. ‘Burn the tokens of the heretics,’ that sort of thing. I’m sure you know the type.”

Jeff shuddered. He felt physically ill.

Domingo went on. “Anyway, supposedly this ayatollah wannabe has hired some brilliant American to come up with a plan to spirit the Shroud out of Seville. I gather he’s been offered an insane amount of money.”

“How much is insane?”

“The figure I heard was ten million euros. Why? Are you thinking of going into competition with him?” Domingo asked teasingly.

“I wouldn’t steal the Shroud of Turin for a hundred million,” Jeff said hotly. “Especially not for a guy who wants to burn it. That’s disgusting! That’s criminal and inhuman and anyone involved in something like that should be shot.”

“Heavens above, calm down. I was only joking with you.”

“Has anybody informed the authorities?”

“Called the police, you mean? Of course not. These are rumors, Jeff, nothing more. You know how ­people like to gossip in this underworld of ours. It’s probably all hot air. After all, you said yourself that stealing the Shroud would be impossible.”

“It would.”

“Well then. Have another drink.”

Jeff did. But he could no longer relax. The image of some bearded, robed, Iranian lunatic dousing the Holy Shroud in gasoline refused to dislodge itself from his brain. Eventually he asked Domingo, “Did you hear a name at all? Among all these sources of yours. Did anyone know who the ‘brilliant American’ was supposed to be?”

Domingo said, “As a matter of fact, I did. Not that it meant anything to me.” He looked Jeff directly in the eye and asked innocently, “Have you ever heard of Daniel Cooper?”

“HAVE YOU EVER HEARD of Daniel Cooper?”

This time it was Jeff speaking. He was at another dinner table, also in Spain, fourteen years earlier. Had it really been that long?

Madrid. Jeff and Tracy were both in town to steal Goya’s Puerto from the Prado, although neither would admit to the other. Jeff had booked a table at the Jockey, an elegant restaurant on Amador de los Ríos. Tracy had agreed to join him. He could see her now, sitting opposite him, radiant as always. Jeff couldn’t remember what she was wearing, but he remembered the challenge blazing in her green eyes. They were competing with each other. The dance had begun.

Jeff thought, I love her.

I’m going to beat her to that painting.

And then I’m going to marry her.

“Who?” Tracy asked.

“Daniel Cooper. He’s an insurance investigator, very bright.”

“What about him?”

“Be careful. He’s dangerous. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Don’t worry.”

Jeff had put his hand over Tracy’s.

“But I have been. You’re very special. Life is more interesting with you around, my love.”

Madrid had been the start of everything. Jeff and Tracy had fallen in love there. And all the while Daniel Cooper had hovered like a shadow in the background. On the trip to Segovia, Cooper had tailed them in a Renault. That night, Jeff had taken Tracy to the bodega where they’d watched some flamenco dancers perform, their wild frantic rhythms mimicking Jeff and Tracy’s own desire, undeniable now.

Cooper was there too. Brooding. Waiting.

Jeff did beat Tracy to the Puerto, stealing it out from under her nose after she’d done all the hard work, poor darling. It was years before she forgave him.

But Tracy wasn’t the only one who’d been outsmarted. After Madrid, Daniel Cooper followed Tracy and Jeff across Europe, always just half a step behind. Jeff had grown increasingly fearful of him, but Tracy never took him seriously.

Jeff thought, Cooper was the third person in our relationship from the start. He was Tracy’s shadow.

“JEFF?” DOMINGO MUÑOZ’S VOICE dragged Jeff back into the present. “Are you all right?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I’m fine.”

“I lost you there for a moment. So I take it you do know Daniel Cooper?”

“In a way,” said Jeff. “Although when I knew him he wasn’t a criminal. Quite the opposite in fact. Is he here, in Seville?”

“That’s what I heard.”

Jeff frowned.

Domingo said, “You look worried. Do you think Cooper might really try something like this?”

“I don’t know what he might try,” Jeff said truthfully.

“Do you think he could succeed?”

Jeff thought for a moment.

“No. It’s impossible. Daniel Cooper’s very smart. But no one could steal the Shroud.”

THAT NIGHT IN BED, Jeff made a decision.

I’ll go to Seville tomorrow. Stay for a few days and check out the Antiquarium for myself. Just to make sure.

He didn’t really believe Domingo’s “rumors.” It was all too far-­fetched. But if the Shroud of Turin were stolen, and destroyed, and he’d done nothing to prevent it, Jeff Stevens would never forgive himself.