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A t the tip of Denmark’s Jutland peninsula lies a slender, sandy spit of land formed by the ceaseless clash between the North Sea and its smaller rival, the Baltic.

Ingrid Johansen lived a few kilometers to the south in the bleak, windswept dunes of Kandestederne.

Though it was one of Scandinavia’s most popular summer resorts, she much preferred the winter months, when she had the place largely to herself.

Yes, the weather was dreadful and the days were short, but her cottage was fully winterized and filled with distractions, including an enormous collection of books, a high-end Norwegian-made audio system, and her computers.

She did not mind the solitude; indeed, she actively sought it.

The director-general of the Danish security and intelligence service was one of the handful of people in the world who knew how to reach her.

The ground rules of their relationship required Ingrid to notify the director each time she returned to the country.

She had done so a fortnight earlier, having spent most of the autumn lying low at her villa on Mykonos.

She had purchased her Greek hideaway with the proceeds of a summerlong crime spree in Saint-Tropez.

A number of large scores in Switzerland, including a cash-stuffed briefcase she snatched one afternoon in the elegant lobby bar of the H?tel Métropole in Geneva, had financed the wholesale renovation of her cottage in Kandestederne.

The director of Danish intelligence was well aware of Ingrid’s criminal past, as were his colleagues in the Ministry of Justice.

They had nevertheless granted her official absolution when, at the behest of a legendary spy named Gabriel Allon, she agreed to slip into Russia and steal a secret Kremlin plan to wage nuclear war in Ukraine.

The operation had ended violently at the Finnish border.

Ingrid had only a vague memory of how she had managed to survive.

Eleven officers of the Russian Border Force had not been so fortunate.

At present the weapon was tucked into the rear pocket of her fleece-lined winter cycling jacket.

She was headed westward across the peninsula on the Skagensvej, sailing along at just under forty kilometers an hour.

According to her onboard computer, her cadence was a brisk ninety-seven pedal strokes per minute.

Her heart rate was only slightly higher.

She stopped for coffee at a café near the ferry terminal in Hirtshals, then started toward the Baltic port town of Frederikshavn.

By the time she arrived, the clouds had moved in, and a light rain was beginning to fall.

She headed north to Hulsig, then turned directly into a fierce headwind for the five-kilometer stretch run back to Kandestederne.

Her cottage stood at the northernmost edge of the settlement, at the end of a narrow lane.

She arrived there to find a petrol-powered Audi sedan parked next to her all-electric Volvo EX90.

The ground rules of her relationship with the director of Danish intelligence required her to report any and all suspicious activity around her place of residence.

Instead she flung open the front door and hurried inside.

***

“Nothing?” asked Gabriel.

“Zilch.”

“Surely you’ve picked a pocket or two.”

“Only one, Mr. Allon.”

He patted the front of his cashmere sport jacket and realized that his billfold was missing. Ingrid must have stolen it during their brief embrace. “You certainly haven’t lost your touch.”

“But I’ve definitely lost the craving to steal.” She returned the plundered booty with a frown. “That crazy Corsican witch doctor is to blame. She’s ruined me.”

The Corsican woman in question would have been appalled to hear herself described in so disparaging a manner.

She was not a witch doctor, she was a signadora , a healer of those afflicted with the occhju , the evil eye.

She also possessed the power to see the past and foretell the future, as Ingrid had discovered during a visit to the old woman’s parlor.

She pulled the cork from a bottle of Sancerre and poured two glasses.

Rain was hurling itself against the soaring windows of her sitting room, blurring the remarkable view of the North Sea.

The furnishings were modern and Scandinavian, as was the artwork adorning her walls.

One of the canvases, a winter seascape with two distant figures walking along the water’s edge, looked curiously out of place.

Gabriel had made the painting on the beach below Ingrid’s terrace and given it to her as a peace offering.

Seeing it hanging on her wall, he regretted not having burned it.

“And what about your other pastime?” he asked, accepting a glass of the wine.

“My charitable endeavors, you mean?”

“No,” he answered. “Click, click, click.”

It was how Ingrid referred to her uncanny ability to penetrate even the most sophisticated computer network as though she were walking through an open door.

“My last hack was that bank in the British Virgin Islands.”

“If memory serves, you didn’t break much of a sweat.”

She smiled. “Candy from a baby.”

“Do you think you can hack SBL PrivatBank of Lugano?”

She rolled her pale blue eyes. Her hair was the color of toffee and streaked with blond. Parted in the middle, it framed a face of straight, even features. There was nothing out of place, not a line or mark.

“I’m insulted that you would even bother to ask. But why SBL?”

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 even think about 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.”

“It is a 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 Br?ndums 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.”

And with that, she headed upstairs and vanished once more behind the closed door of her lair.

Gabriel drove to Frederikshavn and purchased two changes of warm clothing, a pair of waterproof hiking boots, and a consignment of painting supplies, including four pre-stretched canvases and a French plein air easel.

He erected the easel on the beach during a sudden burst of fair weather and, brush and palette in hand, raced to capture the extraordinary interplay between light and sea.

The finished canvas was leaning against the wall in the sitting room when Ingrid, in the same clothing, her hair in disarray, wandered downstairs a few minutes after 7:00 p.m.

“Sign it,” she insisted.

Gabriel shook his head.

“You’re like Leonardo. He never signed his work either.”

“And he never would have made a painting as dreadful as that one.”

“He did produce the first landscape in the history of Western art, though. It was a sketch of the countryside near Florence.”

“Is that so?” asked Gabriel archly.

“I did a bit of research last night.”

“You were supposed to be hacking SBL PrivatBank of Lugano.”

“I did that too.”

“Am I allowed to ask how it’s going?”

“I’ve breached the outer perimeter. Now I’m just waiting for someone to grant me access to the inner ring.”

“Any candidates?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Allon. It won’t be much longer.”

She made them a simple dinner of mushroom omelets and a green salad and then returned to work, leaving the dirty dishes in Gabriel’s hands.

He listened to the four Brahms symphonies on Ingrid’s audio system and at midnight crawled into bed.

There he endured the clatter of keyboards until 2:00 a.m., when the racket in the next room suddenly fell silent.

The respite was brief, three hours at most, then it started up again.

Gabriel, his head throbbing, went downstairs and made the coffee.

Ingrid showed her flawless face shortly after eight.

“Not a word,” she muttered, and was gone.

Alone once more, Gabriel stared mystified at a Danish morning television program until ten o’clock.

Then he pulled on his warms and his waterproof boots and made the fifteen-kilometer hike along the beach to Grenen, where the incoming waters of the North Sea collide with the outgoing current of the Baltic.

He lunched at a coffeehouse near the Skagens Museum and was back in Kandestederne in time to make a painting of the sun setting over the gorse-covered dunes.

It was a few minutes after five when he returned to the cottage.

On the low table in the sitting room he found a chilled bottle of Sancerre, two wineglasses, a portable hard drive, and a handwritten note.

The hard drive contained the current balance sheet of SBL PrivatBank of Lugano, along with several hundred thousand pages of supporting documents.

The note concerned their dinner plans. They had a reservation at the Br?ndums Hotel at 8:00 p.m. The proprietor had agreed to accept two unsigned landscapes in lieu of payment.