16 New Bond Street
New Bond Street
It was a two-minute walk from the mews house to Edward Knight’s office, but Gabriel and Ingrid had an hour to kill so they
wandered over to New Bond Street. Ingrid slowed to a stop outside a Chanel boutique and scrutinized the long-limbed mannequin
posed in the window.
“I absolutely adore that jacket,” she declared.
“I like the one you’re wearing better,” replied Gabriel.
“This little rag?” She tugged at the sleeve. “It’s nothing.”
“Let’s have a look at the label.”
She opened the front of the blazer.
“Givenchy? That little nothing cost you four thousand euros, at least.”
“Actually it was complimentary.”
“Ingrid . . .”
“I know, I know,” she said with a theatrical sigh. “But it was just hanging there.”
“I thought you’d managed to get a handle on your little problem.”
“So did I. But it seems the spell that crazy Corsican witch doctor cast on me has finally worn off.”
The Corsican in question was not a witch doctor. She was a signadora, a healer of those afflicted with the occhju, the evil eye.
“Perhaps we should pay her another visit,” suggested Gabriel.
“I still haven’t recovered from my last one. Besides, I’ve always enjoyed my little affliction. It’s made me rather well off,
which in turn has allowed me to contribute greatly to those in need.”
Ingrid was like one of those characters one saw in films or read about in novels. She stole from the rich and gave to the
poor, keeping only what she needed to finance her comfortable lifestyle. She was a true gentleman thief.
Gabriel nudged her along the pavement. “Is that why you were in Luxembourg?” he asked. “To raise funds for your charitable
endeavors?”
“I told you, I was visiting a friend.”
“What kind of friend?”
“You’re not attempting to pry into my personal affairs, are you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
It occurred to Gabriel, not for the first time, that he knew next to nothing about Ingrid’s private life, or the extent to
which she even had one. She lived alone in a cottage overlooking the North Sea in Denmark and owned a large villa on the Greek
island of Mykonos. The Danish government had rewarded her heroics in Russia by granting her official absolution for her past
misdeeds—and by turning a blind eye to the substantial fortune she had stashed away at Banca Privada d’Andorra. She led a
charmed though somewhat solitary existence. With the exception of Gabriel and his wife and children, Ingrid preferred the
pleasure of her own company.
She paused next outside the Montblanc boutique. “Can I get you something? A nice fountain pen, perhaps?”
“Thank you, no.”
“What about a lovely leather documents case?”
“I have one.”
“How about another? After all, variety is the spice of life.”
“My life is spicy enough as it is.”
She checked the time on her wristwatch. It was a beautiful Cartier tank with a shiny black crocodile band. She noticed the
cold glint of suspicion in Gabriel’s eye.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Allon. Really.”
It was approaching seven o’clock. They ducked into the bar at Claridge’s for a drink, then walked down Davies Street to Berkeley
Square. Liam Higgins was standing on the pavement outside the Knight Group’s building, talking to a young woman wearing jeans
and a King’s College hoodie. She was gone before Gabriel and Ingrid arrived.
“A friend of yours?” asked Gabriel.
“A visitor to our fair city. She was looking for Hyde Park.”
“She doesn’t know how to use Google?”
“Apparently not.” Higgins glanced at Ingrid. “Your cyber consultant?”
Gabriel smiled but said nothing.
Upstairs, Edward Knight sat alone at the head of the polished wooden table in his conference room, dressed in a blazer and
a regimental tie. Like Higgins before him, he regarded Ingrid with puzzlement. “You’re not what I was expecting.” He rose
and offered his hand. “I’m Edward Knight.”
“Erika Carlsen,” said Ingrid.
“Danish?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Mr. Allon assures me that you’re the best in the business.”
“In my experience,” replied Ingrid, “Mr. Allon is a man of his word.”
Gabriel placed the burner phone on the table and marked the time.
It was 7:42 p.m.
The promised dinner was arrayed on the credenza, but no one touched a thing.
Knight managed to remain in his seat until eight fifteen.
Then he lit a cigarette and stalked the room as the clock slowly advanced.
Desperate for a distraction, he peppered Ingrid with questions about her life in Denmark.
Her answers, delivered in a cool and level voice, bore no resemblance to the truth.
Gabriel, for his part, enjoyed the performance.
He never tired of watching Ingrid at work.
But by eight forty-five even Ingrid was beginning to show the strain. She helped herself to one of Knight’s cigarettes, then
to two fingers of his single malt whisky. Knight poured a generous measure for himself and dropped once more into the chair
at the head of the table.
“And you’re sure the photograph is genuine?” he asked.
“As sure as I can be,” she replied, and then explained the current contest between the deepfakers and the deepfake detectors.
She did so at considerable length—seven long minutes, by Gabriel’s watch. Knight was engrossed. The next time he checked the
time it was 8:52 p.m.
“You’re very clever, aren’t you, Ms. Carlsen?”
She helped herself to another cigarette and touched the end to the slender blue flame of Knight’s lighter. She held on to
the lighter afterward, twirling it between her fingers like a card sharp. Knight watched her with fascination, then turned
to Gabriel.
“Where on earth did you find her?”
Gabriel, ignoring the question, checked the time.
8:54 . . .
“How much do you suppose they’ll demand?” asked Knight.
“It doesn’t matter how much. They’re not going to get it.”
“I was asking for an estimate, Allon. Not a lecture on negotiating tactics.”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
“Unless they don’t call.”
“Don’t worry, they will. That’s the only way they’ll get their money.”
Two more minutes crawled past. Knight closed his eyes, Ingrid smoked and twirled the lighter. Gabriel, still as a statue,
stared at the burner. It rang with the suddenness of a fire alarm at 8:57, three minutes ahead of schedule. He lifted the
phone to his ear and heard the same automated female voice. She bade him a pleasant evening, then issued a detailed set of
demands and instructions. Gabriel didn’t bother to write anything down; there was no point. The only thing that mattered was
the time of the next phone call. It would take place at six o’clock the following evening.
He killed the connection and laid the phone on the tabletop.
“How much?” asked Edward Knight.
“A billion,” answered Gabriel.
Knight appeared strangely relieved. “Is that all? I was certain it was going to be more.”