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make money while you sleep investing

Release date: 2022-12-01 09:11:22 Author:vOfcRgnY

The assistant manager escorted her to the suite she had requested, 411-412, in the south wing of the hotel on Calle Felipe V.

"I do not comprehend your message," Ramiro had said. "You ask me to extend my department's full cooperation to an American who is not even a policeman? For what reason?"

The telephone rang, startling Tracy. No one except Gunther Hartog knew she was in Madrid. She picked up the telephone. "Hello?"

"I trust this will be satisfactory, Miss Whitney."

Commandant Ramiro said smugly, "The bigger the better. We will watch her every move."

When Tracy awakened in the morning, groggy from a torturous night's sleep in the bed designed by Tom��s de Torquemada, she ordered a light breakfast and hot, black coffee, and walked over to the window overlooking the Prado. It was an imposing fortress, built of stone and red bricks from the native soil, and was surrounded by grass and trees. Two Doric columns stood in front, and, on either side, twin staircases led up to the front entrance. At the street level were two side entrances. Schoolchildren and tourists from a dozen countries were lined up in front of the museum, and at exactly 10:00 A.M., the two large front doors were opened by guards, and the visitors began to move through the revolving door in the center and through the two side passages at ground level.

"She's outsmarted half the police forces in Europe," Daniel Cooper asserted, as he entered the commandant's office. "And she'll probably do the same to you."

Tracy walked over to the window and looked out. Directly below, across the street, was the Prado Museum. "This will do nicely, thank you."

Tracy walked over to the window and looked out. Directly below, across the street, was the Prado Museum. "This will do nicely, thank you."

"I'm not sure. I can only tell you that it will be something big."

The assistant manager escorted her to the suite she had requested, 411-412, in the south wing of the hotel on Calle Felipe V.

On the previous day an X-D Urgent cable had come in for Santiago Ramiro, the police commandant in Madrid, informing him of Tracy Whitney's impending arrival. The commandant had read the final sentence of the cable twice and then telephoned Inspector Andr�� Trignant at Interpol headquarters in Paris.

The Ritz Hotel, on the Plaza de la Lealtad in Madrid, is considered the best hotel in Spain, and for more than a century it has housed and fed monarchs from a dozen European countries. Presidents, dictators, and billionaires have slept there. Tracy had heard so much about the Ritz that the reality was a disappointment. The lobby was faded and seedy-looking.

Tracy ordered a light dinner in her room and retired early. When she got into the bed, she decided that trying to sleep in it had to be a modern form of medieval torture.

It was all the commandant could do to control himself. "Se?or, we do not need anyone to tell us our business. Se?orita Whitney has been under surveillance from the moment she arrived at Barajas Airport this morning. I assure you that if someone drops even a pin on the street and your Miss Whitney picks it up, she will be whisked to jail. She has not dealt with the Spanish police before."

The suite was filled with the blaring sounds of the heavy traffic from the streets below, but it had what she wanted: a bird's-eye view of the Prado.

The Ritz Hotel, on the Plaza de la Lealtad in Madrid, is considered the best hotel in Spain, and for more than a century it has housed and fed monarchs from a dozen European countries. Presidents, dictators, and billionaires have slept there. Tracy had heard so much about the Ritz that the reality was a disappointment. The lobby was faded and seedy-looking.

"I do not comprehend your message," Ramiro had said. "You ask me to extend my department's full cooperation to an American who is not even a policeman? For what reason?"

The telephone rang, startling Tracy. No one except Gunther Hartog knew she was in Madrid. She picked up the telephone. "Hello?"

When Tracy awakened in the morning, groggy from a torturous night's sleep in the bed designed by Tom��s de Torquemada, she ordered a light breakfast and hot, black coffee, and walked over to the window overlooking the Prado. It was an imposing fortress, built of stone and red bricks from the native soil, and was surrounded by grass and trees. Two Doric columns stood in front, and, on either side, twin staircases led up to the front entrance. At the street level were two side entrances. Schoolchildren and tourists from a dozen countries were lined up in front of the museum, and at exactly 10:00 A.M., the two large front doors were opened by guards, and the visitors began to move through the revolving door in the center and through the two side passages at ground level.

Commandant Ramiro, like his counterpart in Paris, was not fond of Americans. He found them rude, materialistic, and naive. This one, he thought, may be different. I will probably like him.

Tracy ordered a light dinner in her room and retired early. When she got into the bed, she decided that trying to sleep in it had to be a modern form of medieval torture.

At midnight a detective stationed in the lobby was relieved by a colleague. "She hasn't left her room. I think she's settled in for the night."

It was all the commandant could do to control himself. "Se?or, we do not need anyone to tell us our business. Se?orita Whitney has been under surveillance from the moment she arrived at Barajas Airport this morning. I assure you that if someone drops even a pin on the street and your Miss Whitney picks it up, she will be whisked to jail. She has not dealt with the Spanish police before."

The Ritz Hotel, on the Plaza de la Lealtad in Madrid, is considered the best hotel in Spain, and for more than a century it has housed and fed monarchs from a dozen European countries. Presidents, dictators, and billionaires have slept there. Tracy had heard so much about the Ritz that the reality was a disappointment. The lobby was faded and seedy-looking.

"I do not comprehend your message," Ramiro had said. "You ask me to extend my department's full cooperation to an American who is not even a policeman? For what reason?"

"Bon. And you will consult with Mr. Cooper?"

In Madrid, Direcci��n General de Seguridad, police headquarters, is located in the Puerto del Sol and takes up an entire city block. It is a gray building with red brick, boasting a large clock tower at the top. Over the main entrance the red-and-yellow Spanish flag flies, and there is always a policeman at the door, wearing a beige uniform and a dark-brown beret, and equipped with a machine gun, a billy club, a small gun, and handcuffs. It is at this headquarters that liaison with Interpol is maintained.

Tracy walked over to the window and looked out. Directly below, across the street, was the Prado Museum. "This will do nicely, thank you."

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