Page 22 of The Collector
“I do not pretend to be the last word on Dutch Golden Age painters, but I was confident it was the Vermeer.”
“Did you get a second opinion?”
“Monsieur O’Donnell wouldn’t allow it.”
“What was the final sale price?”
“Fifty million,” said Durand. “The handover took place in Barcelona a week later. I was lucky to survive that as well. I delivered the painting to Amalfi the next day, and Monsieur Van Damme paid me my commission.”
“Mazel tov, Maurice.” Gabriel removed a manila file folder from the zippered pouch of his overnight bag. Inside was the photograph that General Ferrari had given to him in Amalfi. He placed it before Durand and said, “I assume you recognize the man.”
“Oui.”
“What about the woman?”
Durand shook his head.
“She called herself Ursula Roth.”
“German?”
“So she said.”
“What can you tell me about her methods?”
“Evidently, she sweet-talked her way into Van Damme’s villa and broke into the vault after dinner.”
“The lock was very secure.”
“She seems to know her way around safes and computers.”
Durand slid the photograph into the file folder. “And if I’m able to find her?”
“I will returnThe Concertby Johannes Vermeer to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. And against all better judgment, I will once again overlook your deplorable conduct.”
“And if my inquiry proves unsuccessful?” asked Durand.
“I’m quite confident it won’t.”
“How long do I have?”
“How long do you need?”
“A week, at least.”
“In that case,” said Gabriel, “you have exactly seventy-two hours.”
12
Skagen
The custom-made Pinarello road bike, the envy of Jutland’s thriving cycling community, leaned against the exterior of Norden Bar & Café on Havnevej. Ingrid Johansen, in a Gore-Tex jacket and full-length leggings, sat at a nearby table, phone in hand. The town around her, with its quaint buildings painted Skagen yellow, was bathed in the intense golden sunlight that had drawn a circle of painters to the little fishing village in the late nineteenth century. Ingrid scarcely noticed it; she was distracted by an article she had stumbled across in the Naples dailyIlMattino. The one about the murder of a wealthy South African expatriate living on the Amalfi Coast.
Rising, she swung a leg over the sloping top tube of the Pinarello and set off along the empty street. At the southern edge of the village, she rounded a traffic circle and eased onto the bike path bordering Primærrute 40. With the wind at her back, she covered the thirteen and a half kilometers down to Hulsig in twenty minutes. Then she headed west, across tabletop-flat farmland, to Kandestederne.
In the gorse-covered dunes was a colony of holiday cottages occupied mainly in summer. Ingrid’s modern dwelling, with its soaringwindows overlooking the North Sea, was a few paces from the beach. The lock on the front door was electronic, with a hard fourteen-digit passcode that she changed frequently. She typed it into the keypad, then wheeled the bike into the entrance hall and silenced the bleating of the commercial-grade alarm system. The information screen showed no intrusions during the two hours she had been away.
She removed her cycling shoes and in stockinged feet padded into the great room. The floors were pale wood, the furnishings were Scandinavian and modern. Luxurious, yes, but with the exception of her reference-level Hegel audio system there was nothing to suggest that Ingrid might have access to hidden sources of wealth. The government was under the impression she was a well-paid freelance IT professional, which was indeed the case. Her company, Skagen CyberSolutions, had taken in more than four million Danish kroner in 2021. Her legitimate earnings were down slightly this year, though she had more than made up the shortfall with her illicit income, which had soared to record levels.
