28 Psarou Beach
Psarou Beach
Ingrid’s house on the cliffs above Psarou Beach was smaller than the lavish finca on Ibiza where Alice Winter and her three friends from Cambridge had stayed before her disappearance, but only barely. White
as a sugar cube, it had two soaring great rooms, four large bedroom suites, a fitness center, a billiards room, and a hacker’s
paradise of an office filled with computers and servers. They dined that evening on her multilevel terrace beneath a canopy
of diamond-white stars. She listened with interest as Gabriel recounted the story of their twenty-four-hour journey from Amsterdam
to Athens, brought about by a swarm of drones circling Schiphol Airport.
“What do you suppose they’re up to?” she asked.
“Our Russian friends? The same thing they’ve been up to for the past two decades. Subversion, sabotage, election interference,
and sophisticated information operations, all designed to sow discord and undermine the West. Once upon a time, the KGB referred
to such tactics as active measures, and they were incredibly good at it. The new Russians call it hybrid warfare. And they’re
rather good at it too.”
“But why drones?” asked Peel.
“It’s not the first time a European airport has been shut down by drones. Remember, the airport in Copenhagen closed for several hours not long ago because of a drone sighting. So did Oslo Airport and Berlin Brandenburg. Imagine for a moment if those drones had been armed with high explosives.”
“The Russians would never dare.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because the West would retaliate.”
“How?”
“With economic and political sanctions, at the very least.”
“We’ve sanctioned the Russians repeatedly over the invasion of Ukraine. And what good has it done? There’s nothing left in
the West’s quiver other than a military response.”
“War with Russia? That will never happen.”
“I agree. But if the Russians were to carry out an attack on a NATO country without triggering a response, it might well spell
the end of the alliance. The Kremlin would like nothing more.”
The talk of Russia had set Ingrid on edge, and she appeared relieved, at least temporarily, when Gabriel explained that he
was now working for a certain DCI Douglas Chapel of the Metropolitan Police. Hearing this news, she smiled coolly and in German
said, “That would explain why you brought a policeman into my home.”
Gabriel, in the same language, replied, “I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped.”
“Really?”
“DCI Chapel insisted on placing a police officer at my side. Timothy was the solution. By the way, DCI Chapel would like a
word with you.”
“About what?”
“He seems to think you might have pocketed the five hundred million.”
Ingrid reverted to English for Peel’s benefit. “The money was long gone by the time I was able to hack into that bank.”
“I don’t suppose you were able to determine where it went?”
“It was moved from the original account into twenty-five other accounts and then transferred to twenty-five new accounts and
cryptocurrency wallets around the world. You can be certain the money has been transferred many times since then and is now
hidden in anonymous shell companies and layered trusts. It would take months for the US Treasury Department to track it down.
For someone like me it would be next to impossible.”
“How about something a bit less demanding?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“An organization in The Hague that facilitates anonymous philanthropic activity.”
“Not the Secret Sharer?”
“You know it?”
“I’m a client. A secret client, of course. My banker in Andorra acts as my go-between.”
“I’d like to know the source of several large donations to Oxfam, Save the Children, and Global Relief UK, to name a few.”
“Your wish is my command.” She directed her gaze toward Peel. In German she asked, “But did you really have to bring him here?”
“He saved your life once, as I recall.”
“Yes,” said Ingrid. “Never a dull moment.”
She launched her opening salvo against the Secret Sharer early the next morning. Gabriel and Peel, who were capable of offering
nothing more than moral support, spent the day relaxing by her pool. DCI Chapel rang sometime around three o’clock, but Peel
allowed the call to go to voicemail. He listened to the message while drinking an ice-cold Peroni.
“He’s wondering where we are and what we’re doing.”
“Perhaps you should tell him,” replied Gabriel from the shade of a parasol.
“But we’re not doing anything.”
“Men of lofty genius sometimes accomplish the most when they work the least.”
“The lofty genius,” replied Peel, “is now locked in her office.”
“Trust me, it’s better that way.”
“How on earth did she pay for this place?”
“Ingrid comes from a wealthy family.”
“What sort of work does her father do?”
“He’s a schoolteacher, I believe.”
“They make a lot of money, Danish schoolteachers?”
“Evidently.”
She made her first appearance at half past four, in a one-piece swimsuit that clung to her taut, athletic body. She plunged
wordlessly into the pool and swam twenty laps, seemingly without effort, then performed a perfect handstand on the sun-drowned
terrace. On her way back to her office she announced over her shoulder that the kitchen was closed and that her houseguests
would have to see to their own supper. They dined that evening at a beachfront taverna in the windswept village of Ornos.
Returning to the villa, Gabriel left a bag of takeaway outside Ingrid’s office. It was still there when he awakened the following
morning.
The ensuing day was a repeat of the previous one, though Gabriel and Peel spent part of the morning touring the island in
Ingrid’s BMW. She was still hard at work when they returned to the villa so they once again repaired to the pool. It was approaching
five o’clock when she took her swim, this time in a stunning two-piece suit. Peel was sorry to see her go.
“Is she seeing anyone?” he asked.
“I thought we’d covered this ground.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“She’s not your type. Besides, it’s never wise to mix business and pleasure.”
Peel pried the cap from another bottle of Peroni. “What do you call this?”
“We’re pacing ourselves.”
Ingrid, however, worked without a break—and without offering Gabriel a clue as to her progress. It was no matter; having watched
her hack the computer network of the Geneva Freeport, one of the world’s most secure storage facilities for art and other
valuables, he was more than confident of a successful outcome. And so he passed the following day as he had the previous two,
relaxing with his old friend Detective Inspector Timothy Peel at the luxurious Greek villa owned by a professional thief.
The sun was dangling low over the Aegean when she finally appeared, in a pair of jeans and a cotton pullover against the encroaching
evening chill.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Brutal,” answered Gabriel. “Yours?”
“Quite productive,” she said, and opened her laptop.