said Krebs. “Franco will drive you to the Ciampino airport; the jet you came on is fueled and waiting and you should be back at your desk in Madrid”—he checked his wristwatch—“no more than four hours after you left. A long siesta, but not unknown in Madrid, I believe.” Salinas smiled and shook hands with both of us, with the usual assurances of goodwill, not entirely hiding what I saw, close up now, was extreme terror; he packed up his things and departed in something of a rush. I heard the Mercedes start up outside. “A useful little man, that,” said Krebs reflectively as the sounds of the car receded. “And a bitter man: well trained, but without the flair needed in a museum director nowadays. He was passed over for promotion as director of collections, and this is his revenge. And his prosperous retirement.” “He’s going to buy the painting for the Livia?” Krebs gave me an unbelieving look and laughed. “Of course not. His job is to give us a flawless provenance.”
