Page 72 of An Inside Job

Gabriel explained.

“Never a dull moment,” observed Ingrid. “You really need to find a new hobby, Mr. Allon.”

“Be that as it may, can it be done?”

“If a computer network can be accessed via the Internet, it can be penetrated and manipulated. There is, however, a downside when it comes to SBL.”

“You’re referring to the fact that it’s controlled by the Camorra?”

She nodded. “Rule number one in the criminal world, Mr. Allon. Never steal from the Italians. And don’t eventhinkabout stealing from the Camorra.”

“We stole from the Russians.”

“And they weren’t terribly happy about it, were they? Still, it would be a shame to leave the painting in the hands of the Mafia, especially if it’s a Leonardo.”

“Itisa Leonardo.”

“With all due respect, the odds are it isn’t.”

“When did you become a connoisseur of the Italian High Renaissance?”

“I did steal a Vermeer once.”

“Vermeer was Dutch,” said Gabriel. “And the painting you stole is still missing.”

“What better way to atone for my sins than to help you recover what might be the last Leonardo?” She watched the rain beating against her windows. “I only wish that Corsican witch hadn’t cast a spell on me.”

“Nothing?” asked Gabriel.

“No,” she said with a sigh. “The thrill is gone.”

***

That evening they drove to Skagen and had dinner at the Brøndums Hotel. In the nineteenth century it had been a gathering spot for a circle of Scandinavian artists who came to the fishing village each summer, drawn by the unusual quality of the light. Having little in the way of money, they oftentimes handed over finished canvases to the proprietor in lieu of payment. Ingrid, at the conclusion of a delicious meal, suggested that Gabriel settle their bill in the same manner.

“With what?”

“You’ll paint something tomorrow.”

“I was hoping to spend the day reviewing the balance sheet of a dubious Lugano-based financial services company.”

“I’m fast, Mr. Allon, but not that fast.”

“How long will it take?”

“You should count on an extended stay here in northernmost Denmark.” She placed a stack of banknotes atop the bill. “A month or two, at least.”

On the second floor of the cottage in Kandestederne was a spacious guest suite with a private bath and a fine view of the sea. Regrettably it was located adjacent to the computer-crammed lair where Ingrid locked herself away a few minutes after their return from Skagen. Gabriel, having endured two previous hacks, braced himself for a long night of keyboard clatter and experimental Nordic jazz, and was richly rewarded with both. He finally headed downstairs at five fifteen and brewed a pot of coffee. Another four hours went by before the sky turned from black to iron gray. Ingrid appeared shortly thereafter, in leggings and a workout tank. Her bare arms were toned and inkless. Her eyes were shot with red.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“Never better.”

“What are your plans for the day?”

Gabriel gazed out the window at the raw, damp morning unfurling itself over the sand dunes. “A bit of sunbathing and a swim in the North Sea.”

“A fine idea, Mr. Allon. We’ll make a Dane out of you yet.”