Page 36 of The Collector
“The client told Peter?”
She nodded.
“And Peter never mentioned his name to you?”
“No, Mr. Allon. For the third time, he never told me the name of the client.” She nudged Peter Nielsen’s phone across the table. It was an iPhone 13 Pro. “But I have a feeling we might be able to find it here.”
“Have you tried to crack it?”
“Newer-model iPhones are beyond my capabilities. But there’s a zero-click malware called Proteus that should do the trick. It was developed a few years ago by an Israeli firm called ONS Systems. The licenses are rather hard to come by.”
“Not as hard as you think,” said Gabriel.
“Can you lay your hands on a copy?”
“A distinct possibility.”
“How’s your Danish?”
“Nonexistent. But Proteus has an auto-translation function.”
“That software is dreadful. You really should have a native Danish speaker looking over your shoulder. Preferably someone who knew Peter well.”
“You?”
She smiled.
“You seem to be forgetting that you were the one who stole the Vermeer in the first place.”
“Who better to help you find it? Besides, if I stay here in Denmark, I’m liable to end up dead, too.” She lowered her voice. “Please, Mr. Allon. Let me help you find the painting and the man who killed Peter.”
He took up the phone. “Do you know what will happen when we turn this on?”
“It will pop onto the Danish network. Which means we have to do the work outside the country.”
“How about Paris?” suggested Gabriel.
“Any particular reason?”
“A friend of mine would like his jewelry and money back.”
“In that case,” said Ingrid, “Paris it is.”
Gabriel walked back to the rental cottage by the blue-green glow of his mobile phone. Inside, he hastily packed his clothing and toiletries. Then he stuffed his paints and solvents and rags into a plastic rubbish bag, along with the contents of the refrigerator and the undrunk wine. The Frenchplein aireasel, Winsor & Newton brushes, palette, and unused canvases he set alight in the wood-burning stove.Cottages in the Duneshe left behind as a small token of his esteem. If it belonged anywhere, he thought, it was here.
He loaded his things into the rented Nissan and drove the three hundred meters to Ingrid’s cottage. She was stepping from her doorway as he drew to a stop. She entered the fourteen-digit passcode into the keypad, then started down the footpath, an overnight bag over her shoulder. Gabriel pressed the internal trunk release and climbed out of the car to help her. Which was when he heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle, the first motorcycle he had heard in Kandestederne since his arrival two days earlier.
He spotted the headlamp an instant later, moving at high speed down the settlement’s main road. For a moment it looked as though it might be headed toward the hotel, but a hard turn to the right sent it careening directly toward the spot where Gabriel and Ingrid now stood.
The motorcyclist was controlling the bike with a single hand, his left. With his right, he was reaching into the front of his jacket. When it emerged, Gabriel saw the unmistakable silhouette of a gun fitted with a sound suppressor.
He seized Ingrid and drove her to the ground behind the Nissan. Then he drew the Beretta from the small of his back as two superheated rounds split the air a few centimeters from his right ear. He did not seek cover or even flinch. Instead, he poured four rounds into the motorcyclist’s torso, blowing the man from the saddle.
Riderless, the bike continued along the lane. Gabriel sidestepped the machine, then walked over to the spot where the man was lying motionless on the pebbled concrete. His silenced firearm, a Makarov 9mm, had come to rest next to him. Gabriel pushed the weapon aside and removed the man’s helmet. He recognized the face at once. In fact, he had seen it that very evening on the video from Jørgens Smørrebrød Café.
The front of the man’s leather jacket was pierced with four bullet holes and soaked with blood, as was the black crewneck base layer he wore beneath it. The holes corresponded to the four in the center of the chest. Directly above the wounds was tattooed the letter Z. The bleeding was torrential. He didn’t have long to live.
Gabriel snapped a photograph of the dying man’s face. Then he asked, “Where’s the painting?”
