In a brief introductory chapter, an experienced but weary agent Bob waits in a hotel room in Amsterdam confident he is about to “grab the brass ring,” a long hunted terrorist, but the agent is wrong and is killed.

 

       The original Swallow & Hooper Department Store--Serving America since 1732--did not enjoy the luxurious space afforded to its offspring in the suburban malls. Instead it existed cramped within the confines of a downtown city block, grudgingly relinquishing one narrow strip of pavement at its back entrance for executive parking.

          Dan eased his Buick into the "D. Swallow O'Donovan" slot. . . .    As Dan gathered up his suit jacket and briefcase from the car seat beside him, he caught sight of his own eyes in the rearview mirror. It always seemed as if he was looking not at his own reflection but at his father's dark Irish eyes twinkling with secret mirth at the timid lives of others.

           Off to count ladies' gloves and crockpots, are you, Danny my boy?

         "It's only been a couple of months," Dan muttered at the mirror.

       You'll end up like your uncles, lad! taunted the eyes in the rear view mirror.

           "Faith, and would you have me end up like you?"   Dan bolted out of the car and slammed the door.  He barely missed stepping in front of the Mercedes convertible as it eased into the “Preston Hooper” slot.    

       "You're early," said Dan.

       Pres flung open the door and swung his legs onto the ground. "Today," he announced happily, "is Executive Trainee day.  I’m doing my session on impulse items." He winked broadly at Dan. "I have a gift for impulse."

       Pres wore a new dark blue silk suit, impeccably combined with shirt, tie, and shoes. Pres always resembled a magazine ad, smiling into the sunlight. On the trainee days, he outdid himself.  He took inordinate pride in "his" Executive Trainee program. It was the only real responsibility ever entrusted to him, and then only because Dan had insisted.

       "He's got to be given some responsibility, Uncle Daniel. One day it’ll be Pres and me. And Mary Sue."

       "Pres is a damn Styrofoam dummy with the brains of a five-dollar wig!“ . snorted Uncle Daniel.

 

      As they go through the store where employees are getting ready for the day's business, Dan is spotted by his Uncle Daniel who is furious about the Spanish imports that his brother, Dan's Uncle Harold, is buying.

 

       "The mighty merchant seems to be snorting dragon smoke this morning," Pres observed.

       "The mystery of our overstocked Spanish imports. Or Uncle Harold’s sudden senility in buying them.“

          Pres nodded. "Refugees from a back alley bazaar.  You know Spainhas to have better stuff than that. But old Harold ordered it. I saw his signature myself.   On the PO fax.   The old goat's really lost touch."

       "Imports aren't a one-man operation anymore, because they're not the occasional oddity anymore. Uncle Harold's lost touch with the times."

         "Old Harold's never been in touch.   But he sure used to have a keen eye for a hot-selling item. Remember those Russian samovars he wired for light? I still have one. I still have one. Great little conversation pieces. You know, to put a woman at ease the first time she comes over. To smooth over that first awkward moment." Pres lost the thread of conversation again, smiling inwardly at happy, lustful memories . . . .

 

      Rafael Aguirre glanced at his watch as he floated slowly up the moving stairs. Good, he was at the right place at the right time. From the escalator he could survey the opulent arrays of costume jewelry, cosmetics, sportswear, and leather purses.   He hadn't expected to like the United States so well. As he had entered the store, he had read the brass plaque with a smile.

       "Swallow & Hooper--Serving America since 1732."

       As if that were a very long time! By 1732, Spain had twenty centuries of glory behind her. Such a young and innocent country, the United States, so often at war, yet so untouched by war. War for these people was far away and against strangers. Never their own homes in rubble. Never hatred within their own walls. Old memories crowded his mind again, stubborn memories that refused to die or dim. . . . Memories of watching good men die. Old memories. Fresh memories. It had never really ended. The monster lived on, always ready to spring snarling from its slumber. He knew the signs. He couldn't just stand by.  Yes, he told himself again, he was doing the right thing by coming here. . ..

     A young mother began to shepherd her clan off the moving stairs. The youngest boy hurtled past, stumbled, and fell.  It was the perfect opportunity. With a quick jump, Rafael Aguirre reached for the child but instead fell with a wrench and clutched at his leg in pain.

      Pres Hooper stepped on the escalator and gazed up at the great pumpkin smiling down at him like a big orange omen of happiness.  He was so pleased with the pumpkin that he didn't notice the commotion at the top of the escalator until he was halfway up.

       "Mr. Hooper! Come! Quick!"

     Pres looked around for Dan.  Dan always handled emergencies.  But Dan was nowhere in sight.  I can handle it, Pres told himself.  He squared his shoulders, accepted the challenge, and bounded two metal treads at a time towards the clump of people at the top. The crowd parted to let Pres through.

       On the floor lay an average-looking older man, dressed in a good business suit, clutching at his leg.  "I think is broken." 

       "I've called for an ambulance," said Mrs. Linden, Area Manager for linens.

         "Good," said Pres. "Good." He had no idea what to do with an injured customer. Lawsuits and accusations and payoffs suddenly loomed like monsters in a child's dream. He needed to call Security. They should know what to do.

        "Let me have a look." A man shouldered his way through the crowd. "I'm a doctor." He looked at Pres. "You're in charge here?"

       Pres smiled. Recognition was always pleasant. He held out his hand. "I'm one of the owners. Preston Hooper."

 

    Pres goes to the hospital, and when the doctor returns from attending to Aguirre, they have coffee and the conversation turns to travel and Spain.

        

        "Spain's beautiful. You've never been there?"

       "No," said Pres. "I never have.  Never thought about it, really."

       "Then arrange a business trip," advised the doctor jovially.  

       Pres smiled, a little melancholy about the truth.       "They'd never send me. Actually, old Harold does most of our traveling. It keeps him out of the stores.“ 

      Dr. Garrison laughed. "From our brief encounter, I’d say that sounds wise." . . . 

       "It's not that I don't know the business!"

       "Of course you know the business!" replied Dr. Garrison. "The way you handled this emergency! Believe me, most owners panic when there’s an injury on their property.  But not you.  Cool as the old cucumber!"

       A glow as warm and cheery as a Christmas hearth encircled Pres' heart. The doctor was very sincere.  He had no reason not to be.  Pres wished that old Daniel and old Harold could hear how the doctor, an uninterested, objective party, had witnessed how he, Pres, had been cool as the old cucumber. . . .

       "A smart man," said Dr. Garrison with a wink, "can always combine business with pleasure. In fact, I recommend it to many of my patients. Especially top executives like yourself.  Pleasure reduces stress."

       "Really? You know, I've always said that pleasure isn't necessarily frivolous. I've said it a lot to Dan."

       "You're absolutely right.  Business mixed with pleasure is a healthy, time-honored cocktail."

         Pres raised his coffee cup in a toast. "I'll drink to that."

       Dr. Garrison matched cup to cup. "You should!  Now, if a man like you, for example, went to Spain on business, naturally you'd take care of business.   But, you wouldn't forget that Spain," he winked again, "is theland of romance."

       Pres sat up in his chair. "The land of romance?“

  

     Meanwhile, back in the stores, Uncle Harold is leaving his  wake of destruction, raging inwardly because it's a sale day which means the store is full of people.

     “They were a damned nuisance and smelled of sweat!  Daniel should have the customers just mail in their orders. Prepaid. And Daniel should do something about speeding up the damn escalators. A man could grow mold riding from one floor to the next.

       Harold Swallow jerked his watch close enough to read. Damn! He should never have stopped at the store. He had a plane to catch. He had an appointment with Count Vilas tomorrow in Madrid. Damn! He couldn't even make his way up his own damn escalator!

       He could go up faster if he walked, but the step ahead was blocked by one of those modern, unbudging, stiff-spined career women. There she stood, a pin-striped monument to the ERA, right in the sacred, escalated bowels of Swallow & Hooper-- "Serving America since 1732."

       "Damn!" sputtered Harold Swallow. He gave her a good shove.

       "Watch it, Gramps!" Deliberately, she shoved him back.

      The unexpected force of her shove caught Harold Swallow off guard. Harold Swallow planned his life to be always the shover, never the shovee. He rocked, grabbed the air, and crashed into the escalator stairs. That damn clumsy woman had even stepped on him. His shoulder suddenly felt as if it had been fed into the metal treads.

        "Damn, damn, damn!"

     "Not again!" cried Mrs. Linden. She stared a moment at the crumpled form on the stairs as it moved slowly towards her. "Good grief!" she cried. "It's Mr. Harold!" For the second time that day, she dove for the house phone. "Hello, Marlene? You're not going to believe this!  It's the escalators again!"

       "No way, Betty Linden! You're putting me on."

       "No, I'm not. Can you get Mr. Swallow?"

       "He's out of the store. Chamber of Commerce."

        "How about Mr. O'Donovan?"

        "He's meeting with the Area Managers for clothing and lingerie."

      "I don't care if he's meeting with the Governor. It's Mr. Harold Swallow who's hurt."

        "Grim Heart himself?"

       "Himself!  I refuse to deal with that old man."

       Mrs. Linden turned to check Harold Swallow's progress. He had almost reached the top of the stairs.

       "Hurry, Marlene! Please!"

       Dan arrived on the run just as the prone figure of his Uncle Harold rolled off the top tread of the escalator in a crumpled, cursing heap.

       "Damn! Damn! Damn!" cursed Uncle Harold, but his roar was weak. "Is that you, Danny?"

       Dan tried to look sympathetic, but amazement threatened to win out. What an incredible stroke of good luck!

       Then he saw the woman in the pin-striped suit at the foot of the Down escalator. She nodded to him and disappeared.  Dan's first impulse was to vault down the escalator and grab her. But the steps of both escalators were solid with customers. The pin-striped suit was already lost in the crowd. She'd be out the door before he could catch up with her.

       "Damn them!" he cursed under his breath. 

      . . . .This time they had gone too far.  Fighting to control his anger, Dan locked his fingers together so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He didn't even bother to conceal his glare as the man across the dimly lit desk methodically removed his white coat and stethoscope.

      "Not my family!" Dan said in low, deliberate syllables. "I've told you before. Not my family!"

          “We had to move fast," said Garrison calmly.

           "We've had to move fast before," snapped Dan.

       Garrison hung the white coat in a small closet behind a mahogany panel.  "I think I would have made a good doctor," he said conversationally as he returned to his chair behind the desk. "You know, I went to medical school for a year and a half.  I have a real air of authenticity." . . . 

        Dan unlocked his fingers. "So what's the verdict on Aguirre?"

       Ted located a file in the middle drawer and laid it on the desk.   "He's the genuine article. Everything he said matched up, just the way Marcos predicted. The rest should be easy. Glide in. Glide out."   Garrison leaned back in his chair and drew a long puff of smoke. Now that he was deskbound, telltale habits no longer mattered, and he relished a good cigar.

     Dan leaned back, too. "It's never worked before. Not with teams of agents.  Not with elaborate plans.  Not with the latest twist, a single agent."

       A shadow passed through Garrison's steady gaze as he carefully contemplated his cigar. "Good old Bob. They should have assigned one of my people. . . .

        Garrison reached for the file. His chiseled faced looked almost joyful. He reached into the file and extracted a snapshot. He held it up for Dan to see, dangling it like a golden apple.

       "This," he said triumphantly, "is also the genuine article. The impossible has just been downgraded to routine."

 

   But of course it wasn't "routine."  Within hours of arriving in Madrid, everything starts to go wrong.