Page 31 of The Collector
Her plug-in hybrid Volvo suggested she was also something of an environmentalist, as did the unkempt heather and gorse that grew wild on her property. Gabriel paused at the end of the sandy footpath that stretched toward the cottage’s entrance. The door was solid wood, with a keyless entry system and a camera. A camera, he thought, that was recording his every move.
Turning, he followed the lane down to the beach and, alone at the tide’s edge, weighed his options. A forcible entry and rapid search of the cottage was the most obvious course of action, though the chances of avoiding detection were slim, and there was no guarantee he would find the painting. There was also a risk, slight, that he would land in a Danish jail cell—or that he might meet the same fate as Lukas van Damme. No, the smarter move would be to take a pagefrom her playbook. He would make her acquaintance, earn her trust. Then they would strike a deal, one professional to another. And with any luck, Gabriel would be back in Venice in time to save his job and his marriage.
But how to get close to her without tipping his hand? Office doctrine forbade direct approaches. An Office field agent boarded the streetcarbeforethe target, not after. And he always,always, waited for the target to make the first move. But the field agent was permitted—encouraged, in fact—to prey on his target’s weaknesses, to tempt his target with objects of great beauty or value. Especially if the target was a sticky-fingered cat burglar with a weakness for cash and jewelry. As luck would have it, Gabriel had an ample supply of both.
Lost in thought, he failed to notice the approaching wave that heaved itself onto the beach and washed over his handmade Italian suede loafers. Returning to the cottage, he composed a note, unsigned, businesslike in tone, offering the target complete immunity in exchange for information leading to the recovery ofThe Concertby Johannes Vermeer. Then, in keeping with the finest traditions of his old service, written and unwritten, he carried it into the larger of the two bedrooms and stuffed it between the mattress and box spring.
There was a single hotel in Kandestederne, with an excellent restaurant that opened on weekends during the off-season. That evening Gabriel had the dining room to himself. Erika, his pretty young waitress, was glad of his company.
“What brings you to Kandestederne at this time of year?” she asked.
“A desire for solitude,” replied Gabriel in his most neutral accent.
“Is this your first visit?”
Oh, no, he assured her. He had been to Kandestederne on two previous occasions. His last stay had involved the interrogation of a kidnapped Iranian intelligence officer, but he left that part out.
“Which cottage have you taken?” asked the waitress.
He raised a hand toward the north. “I couldn’t possibly pronounce the name of the street.”
“Dødningebakken?”
“If you say so.”
“A friend of mine lives there. The large cottage by the beach. Don’t worry, she won’t interrupt your solitude. Ingrid enjoys the pleasure of her own company.”
She rolled past Gabriel’s cottage again at ten fifteen the next morning. This time, after allowing exactly five minutes to pass, he slid behind the wheel of the rented Nissan and set off after her. He spotted her just west of Huslig, sailing along at an impressive forty-four kilometers per hour. As he overtook her, she stared straight ahead, her knees pumping rhythmically. In the rear pouch of her Gore-Tex jacket, he noticed the distinctive outline of a firearm. Something small and ladylike, he thought. Something along the lines of a Glock 26 subcompact.
They both headed south on Primærrute 40. Gabriel accelerated and soon she was a speck in his rearview mirror. He drove to Frederikshavn, a busy port town on the Baltic side of the peninsula, and purchased hiking boots, thick woolen socks, base layers, undergarments, two pairs of corduroy trousers, a fleece pullover, an anorak, a traditional Danish zippered sweater, a waterproof coat, a pair of Zeiss Conquest HD binoculars, a Frenchplein aireasel, a palette, six canvases of various dimensions, twelve tubes of oil paint, four Winsor & Newton sable-hair brushes, a bottle of solvent, and a bag of painter’s rags. His last stop was a bakery near the ferry terminal where he purchased two loaves of freshly baked bread. As he wasleaving, he nearly collided with his neighbor, who was looking down at her phone and brushed past him with neither a word nor a glance.
It was nearly one o’clock when she returned to her cottage in Kandestederne. With the aid of his powerful Zeiss field glasses, Gabriel was able to make out much of the fourteen-digit passcode she entered into the keyless lock of her front door. She carried the bike inside and, upstairs, stripped off her cycling gear. Gabriel knew this because she opened the shade of her bedroom window before disrobing. He quickly lowered the binoculars and prepared his lunch, all the while wondering if her cabaret had been for him.
Later thatafternoon, Gabriel erected the French easel on the beach and produced a rather good seascape he would later callKandestederneStrand at Sunset. His neighbor observed his efforts from her terrace for several minutes before disappearing from view. The telltale was still in place when Gabriel returned to the cottage, but he nevertheless headed straight for the bedroom. The money, jewelry, and note were where he had left them.
He dined at home that evening with a bottle of red wine and a Danish television newscast for company. An update on the Copenhagen murder case appeared in the second block of the program. Gabriel found the story online, translated it into English, and read that the victim was a rare book dealer, that he had been shot twice at close range with a silenced handgun, that his killer had escaped on a motorcycle, and that police believed the motive for this brutal, well-oiled assassination was robbery, though they had yet to determine what, if anything, had been stolen.
The next morning dawned cloudless and calm. Gabriel produced a work he calledCottages in the Dunes, then made the fifteen-kilometer hike along the beach from Kandestederne to Grenen, the slender spitof sand at the northernmost tip of the Jutland peninsula where the incoming waters of the North Sea collide with the outgoing current of the Baltic. He arrived there to find his neighbor, in Wellington boots and an anorak, standing alone at the tip of the headland.
Turning, she regarded him for a long moment without expression, then set off along the Baltic side of the peninsula toward the car park at the old nature center. Gabriel headed in the opposite direction and took his time walking back to Kandestederne. The telltale fluttered onto the threshold when he opened the door of the cottage, but the money, jewelry, and offer of immunity were nowhere to be found. The likely perpetrator of the crime had left a note on the bedside table, handwritten, formal in tone, inviting him to dinner that evening at eight o’clock. It was addressed to “The Honorable Gabriel Allon.” The salutation read, “With admiration, Ingrid Johansen.”
19
Kandestederne
Gabriel showered and shaved and dressed in corduroy trousers, the Danish wool sweater, and his suede loafers, which somehow had survived submersion in the frigid waters of the North Sea largely unscathed. He deliberated over whether to carry his Beretta and, recalling the gun in the pocket of her cycling jacket, thought it wise. On his way out the door he grabbed a bottle of red wine from the kitchen counter and, perhaps presumptuously,KandestederneStrand at Sunset. He didn’t bother with the lock. He had nothing left to steal.
Outside, the sky was cloudless and awash in hard white stars—diamond-white, thought Gabriel as he pursued his shadow up the lane toward her cottage. The door swung open before he could ring the bell, and there she was again, in shimmering black pants and a black rollneck pullover. Her earrings were pearl, and the bracelets on her left wrist were gold. On her right wrist was a handsome tank-style watch with a band of black leather. She wore two rings on her left hand and three on her right.
But no diamonds, noted Gabriel. Not a diamond in sight.
Inside, she accepted the bottle of wine, then the painting. “Is it really for me?”
“I didn’t have time to buy flowers. And thanks to you, I didn’t have any money, either.”
She feigned ignorance. Quite well, in fact. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“You removed a significant quantity of cash and jewelry from my cottage this afternoon when you left the invitation to dinner. Because none of it actually belongs to me, I’d like it back before we begin.”
