Page 56 of The Collector
“Yes, of course. But the police are looking for the wrong version of me.”
“How many are there?”
“I have more than a dozen different looks and identities that I use, but not all of them are women.”
“I see.”
“You’ve never?”
“Posed as a man? I do it all the time.”
“As a woman,” said Ingrid.
“I posed as a Catholic priest once. But never as a woman.”
She looked at him carefully. “I have to say, youdolook a bit like a priest, Mr. Allon.”
“There’s no one by that name in this car.”
“What shall I call you?”
“How about Herr Klemp?”
“Klemp?” She was aghast. “No, that won’t do.”
“How about Herr Frankel instead?”
“Much better. But what’s your first name?”
“Why not Viktor?”
“There was a German Expressionist painter by that name,” said Ingrid. “His daughter survived the war and settled in Israel. She lived in a kibbutz called Ramat David. She was a painter, too. Irene Allon was her name.”
“I knew her son,” said Gabriel. “He was a real shady character.”
The sun was an orange disk by the time they crossed the towering Great Belt Bridge. Vissenbjerg, population three thousand, lay another ninety kilometers to the west. It was dark when Gabriel and Ingrid arrived at their destination, a Q8 petrol station and convenience mart on an otherwise uninhabited stretch of road north of the town center. Next to the petrol station was a café with four outdoor tables. All were unoccupied, as were the tables in the brightly lit interior. Standing behind the counter, eyes on her phone, boredom on her face, was a magenta-haired woman in her mid-thirties.
“Perhaps I should make the approach,” said Gabriel.
“Why you?”
“Because during your previous two visits to Jørgens Smørrebrød Café, you committed serious crimes, including the theft of an iPhone 13 Pro that belonged to a dead rare books dealer.”
“But there’s no evidence of my crimes.”
“There is, however, a witness who undoubtedly told the police about a customer who was working on her laptop when the surveillance video magically disappeared.”
“I can handle her,” said Ingrid, and climbed out of the car without another word. When she entered the café, the magenta-haired woman behind the counter looked up from her phone and smiled warmly. The ensuing conversation was by all appearances convivial. Perhaps, thought Gabriel, he had been mistaken about the woman’s recollections of the incident involving the faulty network video recorder.
After a moment the woman placed a cup of coffee and a Danish smørrebrød sandwich on the counter. Ingrid paid for her order in cash and sat down at the table nearest the window—the same table, noted Gabriel, at which she had been sitting the night that Grigori Toporov of the SVR murdered Peter Nielsen and stoleThe Concertby Johannes Vermeer for a third time. But why didn’t Grigori simply wait for Nielsen to deliver the painting to his client Magnus Larsen? Why a risky assassination in a fashionable quarter of Copenhagen?
Gabriel reprimanded himself for once again trying to force the pieces. Better to wait until he had a capable hand to guide him. Rimona was right; he would get only one bite at the apple. One chance to convince Magnus Larsen to see the error of his ways. An appeal to his conscience wouldn’t do; Magnus, it seemed, hadn’t one. Gabriel would have to break him, smash him to pieces, and then offer him a chance at redemption. The girl would be his ally. The dead girl in Magnus Larsen’s past.
Volodyaput his thumb on the girl. And the girl vanished without a trace...
The two women in Jørgens Smørrebrød Café were each gazingintently at their phones, though Ingrid was typing on hers with text-message intensity. Pausing, she glanced over her shoulder at the magenta-haired woman, who instantly looked up from her device with a start. Ingrid dispatched another text, to which the magenta-haired woman immediately replied. Two more exchanges of messages followed. Then the magenta-haired woman stepped from behind the counter and sat down at Ingrid’s table.
Ingrid quickly sent one final text message. It landed on Gabriel’s phone a few seconds later.
