Page 43 of A Death in Cornwall

“I’ll take care of those, too.”

“How?”

Gabriel, with a movement of his hand, indicated that he was going to paint them himself.

“A Modigliani, a Van Gogh, a Renoir, a Cézanne, and a Monet?”

He shrugged.

“And the sixth?”

“I’ll leave that to you.”

“Is Toulouse-Lautrec part of your repertoire?”

“No sheet music required.”

“Perfect,” said Anna. “Toulouse-Lautrec it is.”

17

Mykonos

The all-electric BMW i4 sedan slid into a parking space outside Café Apollo on the island of Mykonos at two o’clock the following afternoon. The woman who emerged from behind the wheel wore a leather jacket against the blustery February weather and a pair of stretch jeans that flattered her slender hips and thighs. Her shoulder-length hair was the color of toffee and streaked with blond. Her eyes, concealed behind a pair of fashionable Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses, were pale blue.

She entered the café and sat down at a table against the window. It looked eastward toward the sun-bleached terminal of Mykonos International Airport. A friend was arriving on a flight from Athens. He had given her little notice of his travel plans—and no explanation as to why they included a midwinter visit to a popular Greek island. She was confident it was not a social call. Her friend, the former director-general of Israel’s secret intelligence service, was a very busy man.

That was certainly not the case for the woman, a citizen of Denmark named Ingrid Johansen. She had spent the better part of that winter holed up at her luxurious villa on the island’s southern coast with no company other than her Hegel audio system and a stack of Henning Mankell and Jo Nesbø novels. Her Israeli friend was to blame for her present circumstances. Two months earlier, he had sent Ingrid into Russia to acquire the only copy of a secret Kremlin plan to wage nuclear war in Ukraine. The operation was her introduction to the world of espionage, but hardly the first time she had stolen something of value. A professional thief and skilled computer hacker, Ingrid had purchased her villa on Mykonos with the proceeds of a summerlong crime spree in Saint-Tropez. A single pair of Harry Winston diamond earrings, plucked from a hotel safe in Majorca, had paid for the BMW.

The Russia operation had resulted in a windfall profit of $20 million, more than enough money to allow Ingrid to retire. Regrettably, her lifelong clinical compulsion to steal, an affliction that surfaced when she was a child of nine, remained as powerful as ever. For that reason alone, she was looking forward to her friend’s visit. He needed her for something; she was certain of it. Her fingers were already tingling with anticipation.

A waiter finally wandered over to Ingrid’s table, and in passable Greek she ordered coffee. It arrived as an Aegean Airlines Airbus was dropping out of the cloudless sky. Twenty minutes went by before the first passengers trickled from the door of the terminal. Ingrid’s friend was the last to appear. He turned his head to the left and right. Then, looking mildly annoyed, he stared straight ahead.

Ingrid’s phone rang a few seconds later. “Pronto?” she said.

“Is that you I see sitting in that café?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Am I alone?”

“We’ll find out in a minute.”

He set off toward the café with the phone pressed to his ear. Ingrid, after determining that he was not under surveillance, aimed her remote at the BMW and pressed the unlock button. He tossed his overnight bag into the boot, then dropped into the passenger seat.

“Nice sled,” he said.

Ingrid killed the connection and hurried out of the café, with her angry waiter in close pursuit. She handed him a twenty-euro banknote and, begging his forgiveness, slid behind the wheel of the BMW.

“Smooth as silk,” said Gabriel. “Very impressive, indeed.”

“Exactly the way I planned it.” She started the engine and reversed out of the space. “What brings you to Mykonos, Mr. Allon?”

“I was wondering whether you might be interested in renewing our partnership.”

“Where are you planning to send me this time? Tehran? Beirut?”

“Somewhere a bit more dangerous.”

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