The Perfect Landscape Part 2

He pulls on the gloves lying beside the keyboard and rushes through to the storage room. He stands it up on an easel next to the computer to compare with the image on the screen and then sits back down next to Hanna. She looks hard at the real painting but can't make out any hint of the curved or diagonal lines that are so clear on the image Steinn showed her when he shone the light from one side.

She never expected the painting to be a forgery, and she's still not ready to believe it yet. The fact that there could be two paintings on the same canvas is not incredible. Artists regularly use the same canvas again if they aren't satisfied with the first attempt, and the artist's final painting is built up from many attempts. They paint over part of the picture, move one element slightly on the canvas, give the colors a different tone. Sometimes, perhaps more often in the past when colors and canvases were harder to come by, they resorted to painting over old pictures bought cheaply at flea markets or in secondhand shops. But, as Steinn pointed out, it's odd for that time for a landscape painting to be painted over an abstract painting. Abstract art was beginning to flourish in Denmark in the thirties and forties, whereas traditional landscape painting was viewed as conservative. It's virtually out of the question that Gudrun would have painted The Birches over an abstract work.

Steinn is a trained conservator, isn't he? With a recognized qualification in a.n.a.lyzing and restoring works of art. Hanna has never inquired about his background or his education; she just a.s.sumed he was qualified. Surely the art gallery wouldn't entertain employing a conservator who wasn't trained? Obviously she can't ask Steinn straight-out; she'll have to have a quiet word with Edda at an appropriate moment. Hanna isn't a trained conservator; she doesn't have the specialist, technical knowledge necessary to interpret the information these images reveal. And she is probably the only person at the gallery who knows there's something amiss with Steinn, but she's not sure what. Something seems to be up with his eyesight, but maybe Edda's right and he's just a bit absentminded.

Steinn's hand is resting on the table, curled around the mouse; his index finger is steady, poised to click if necessary. Hanna glances down at his hand, then back at the screen.

"It could be a yacht," she suggests. "A harbor scene. That fits the time frame. Harbors were popular subject matter around 1930. Or a street scene, maybe even a bridge? It's quite difficult to decipher, don't you think?"

Steinn doesn't answer. Maybe he doesn't want to be the first to voice the idea it's a forgery either. A painting that was bought from a reputable auction house in Copenhagen, a painting that in every way resembles Gudrun's work so closely and matches a painting on her auction list from that time, both in size and subject matter. How could it be a forgery? But as the UV image showed, there's undeniably something fishy about the surface paintinga"as though it has been altered. And if there's an abstract painting underneath, that's a strong indication something's amiss. Hanna continues to look questioningly at Steinn but is careful not to say anything. She imagines herself on the fencing piste, in the en garde stance. She can wait; she knows how to be patient.

"You're familiar with that forgery case, I suppose?" Steinn asks eventually, pulling up the UV image again while he talks. Hanna knows what he's referring to. He's going to keep on going, like a cat around a saucer of hot milk. But she's relaxed; she's got plenty of time. Steinn is referring to an extensive art forgery case investigated in Reykjavik a few years back when it came to light that there could be hundreds of forgeries in circulation.

"I found it a bit difficult to grasp the ins and outs of it. I was abroad at the time," she replies. "Did they consult the gallery or you personally?"

"No, they didn't," says Steinn dryly.

"I particularly remember one photo of a painting that was attributed to Kjarval," says Hanna, referring to Iceland's most beloved painter of the twentieth century. She's quite relieved to delay saying what's on her mind. "The sky was full of fluffy orange clouds. Nothing like Kjarval. I was really surprised."

"You wouldn't believe how amateurish some of this was," says Steinn, smiling and pulling a face. "It was a lengthy case. Extensive. The investigation took a long time. And then it all fell apart, on a formality!"

Steinn clicks the mouse sharply to enlarge part of the image on the screen. There are dark patches on a large part of the tree trunks, but they are hard to make out. Hanna looks at the painting on the easel, sees the raised brushstrokesa"the ones that don't match up with the top layer of the painting. This is what put him on the scent, she thinks, picturing Steinn's fingertips running slowly and delicately across the surface of the painting.

"Of course, there are lots of ways to forge a painting," she ventures. "I didn't really follow the case very closely. Were the paintings forged from the outset?"

Steinn doesn't answer immediately but looks pensive. "Well, it kind of varied," he says at length. "Some were marginally tampered with, and others were totally repainted."

Jumping to his feet, he suddenly goes to a rack farthest back in the workroom and picks up a painting wrapped in polyethylene off the shelf. Removing the plastic, he shows her a still life painting of flowers in a vase.

"See this. Look at how the painting is structured!" Hanna senses the tension in his voice. "Who would put the vase here, right at the bottom of the picture?" he asks without waiting for an answer, and Hanna sees straightaway that there's something odd about this still life. "This was attributed to Kristin Jonsdottir."

Hanna looks at the painting. It could be, but then again maybe not. At any rate it's not typical of Kristin's dramatic flower paintings, with their dark colors and powerfully rhythmical brushstrokes. But she can't be sure. Maybe this was a painting from early in her career. Before she found her stride. It's hard to say.

"What do you think?" asks Hanna.

"It's hard to say," Steinn replies, "but look at this." He shows her Kristin Jonsdottir's signature in the bottom left-hand corner of the painting. "The original signature could have been scratched out and this one put in its place."

Hanna looks in surprise at the painting, which is oddly structured on the canvas. Suddenly it all becomes clear. A painting from an obscure artist has been taken off the canvas stretcher and cut, removing the original signature. Obviously it's not good enough to paint over the signature, which would show up on the UV image, Hanna thinks.

"Then the forger puts the painting on another canvas stretcher. It's no big deal to get a hold of an old one and paint whatever signature on it he chooses," says Steinn. "Or leave it without a signature."

"That's a bit crude," says Hanna. "Isn't that rather obvious?"

"Did you notice it before I mentioned it?" Steinn asks. She doesn't reply. Steinn is right. At first glance she didn't notice anything untoward. Steinn shrugs and wraps the painting back up.

"Don't forget that some folks who buy paintings have a limited knowledge of art. Many of them, but not all, of course. People also have faith in galleries. Who would imagine that a reputable gallery would sell a forgery? And some people simply have so much money. Owning an old master has long been a status symbol. D'you know what I saw advertised in the paper the other day?" Steinn asks in an irritated tone. "Wanted: a Kjarval painting, in beautiful colors."

"They actually specified *in beautiful colors'?" laughs Hanna. "I wonder what colors those are."

Steinn lightens up and laughs back; their eyes meet in mutual understanding.

"That shows what the market's like, how these things can happen," he adds. "But in this forgery case, you know, this major one we were talking about, lots of paintings were forged from scratch there. Sometimes they painted on old paper or canvas. Some paintings were done on colored paper. Sometimes they used old paintings, usually by some Danish artist, and just changed the signature. The original signature was removed with sandpaper and then painted over and a new one put in its place."

While Steinn talks, Hanna wonders what they should do next, since the painting is evidently a forgery. The possibility is not so far-fetched. In the light of history, it's really rather likely. She looks at the painting on the easel and sees Steinn is watching her. This is the moment he has been waiting for, her a.s.surance. It's so typical of Steinn to go to enormous lengths to get her to see it for herself. She realizes that her newfound conviction wouldn't be as strong if Steinn had just said it straight-out. She would have protested, thought it far-fetched.

"I still don't understand why that court case collapsed. I mean, they were all acquitted, weren't they?" says Hanna, looking at the painting. It's far from amateurish. If it's a forgery, whoever did it is no fool. She's been admiring and relishing the painting herself, and she's a qualified art historian with specialist knowledge of Gudrun's work. She finds it hard to even look at the painting now, knowing that Gudrun probably had nothing to do with it. Steinn is pensively contemplating the painting, his expression betraying his curiosity. He intends to get to the bottom of this, Hanna thinks, now realizing why he didn't bother looking at all the sketches with her. He knew it was simply a waste of time.

"Initially one man was sentenced for three of the paintings, which were attributed to Jon Stefansson. They were clearly forgeries," Steinn replies. "Then two men were charged with embezzlement and found guilty in the district court, but they took the case to a higher court and were finally sentenced by the High Court to something like two years. But the case as a whole took much longer. Over a hundred paintings were investigated, some watercolors and some oil paintings. The investigation revealed that the majority were probably forged."

"Were they charged with embezzlement?" asks Hanna. "Not just fraud?"

"Amazingly enough," says Steinn, looking at the painting, "it turned out it wasn't possible to charge them with breach of copyright just for selling fraudulent goods. They were found guilty in the district court on up to fifty counts. But then this was overturned in the High Court."

"How come?"

"Yes, well, the High Court." Steinn rubs his right eye. "They really went to town with it. The conclusion was that specialist opinions were not relevant in this case because the specialists were also the ones bringing the charges. Which wasn't even true."

Thinking like a fencer, Hanna immediately sees the next move. "So wasn't the district court verdict also dismissed and other specialists brought in? Wasn't the case reopened?"

"No," Steinn answers, and they fall silent.

Hanna is disturbed. She followed the case at the time, but being abroad meant she soon forgot about it. Now she reproaches herself for her indifference.

"It was one of the most costly and lengthy cases in Icelandic legal history, and it was a complete fiasco," Steinn adds, frowning. "Just petered out. And the paintings went straight back into circulation." There's a hint of irritation in his voice, yet Steinn generally doesn't get annoyed at anything.

"Back in circulation!" Hanna doesn't believe him. "That can't be right."

Steinn nods emphatically. "The law doesn't prevent it."

Hanna looks back at The Birches. Steinn is keen to uncover the truth about this painting. He has been living here and working in the arts, and over recent years he has witnessed justice not being done. Of course it's intolerable. Steinn is a man who never gives in. Hanna can see herself getting involved in this with him; although the task is far from what she imagined when she took the job as director of the Annexe.

"We need to take a closer look at the ownership history," Steinn says. "Kristin mentioned that Elisabet bought the painting at an auction of Holst's estate, but that doesn't ring true. I've asked around."

Hanna looks at him thoughtfully. "Is that so? Did she say that?" Frowning, she tries to remember what Kristin said at that meeting. Steinn doesn't wait while she's thinking.

"It doesn't matter what she said. The point is that Elisabet bought the painting at a different auction house from the one who auctioned the slaughterer's estate. That means that someone else bought the painting from his estate and then put it back up for auction. A few months later. With a different auction house."

"Oh," says Hanna.

"We need to find the missing linka"whoever bought the painting at the first auction. Maybe it was a totally different price then. It's a pain that auction houses don't give out that kind of information."

"Don't they? Why not?"

Steinn is lost in thought and doesn't respond, so she doesn't push it for now. She must be able to find a way forward now that he's so pessimistic.

The silence between them deepens. Hanna senses his eyes resting on her as though he wants to say something but can't bring himself to. Not knowing what he is thinking, she starts to feel uncomfortable but can't ask him straight-out. It's just the way he is. They've only worked together for three weeks, and their private lives have never come up in conversation. Their friendship is purely professional, although it's also genuine. They don't know one another well enough for her to ask what's the matter, what he wants. She will have to work that out for herself, like she worked out that the painting is likely to be a forgery, even though neither of them has said as much out loud.

She looks at the painting on the easel, at the image on the computer screen, at Steinn's hand on the mouse. Thinking about how Steinn b.u.mped into the doorpost just now, how he leaned forward over the computer screen, how he knocked her knee, it finally dawns on her what this is all about. She suddenly sees his helpfulness in a new light, his friendliness and kindness and the encouragement he's given her on a daily basis since she joined.

Now it's her turn. Steinn needs her support. He can't do this on his own, and he's also frightened about something, maybe losing his sight or not being able to do his job properly any longer.

Of course, Hanna's specialist knowledge of Gudrun's paintings will play a big part in this. Right from the first day, Steinn realized that they would be ideal brothers in arms. Of course I'll help you, she thinks. We're in this together. And what you fear, whatever that is, I'll be there for you. Nodding her head, she sees his relief. He turns back to the computer.

"Here, look at this. Do you remember? The UV image here shows best of all that something has clearly been tampered with."

Hanna sits next to him, and now she doesn't worry about sitting close; in this moment they are comrades. All we need now is to swear an oath, she says to herself, to slice our palms and mingle our blood. She smiles to herself. Steinn would look good with a sword.

"I need to get an X-ray," he says. "An X-ray might show more clearly what's underneath, but it's time-consuming. To do this sort of thing properly, we'd really need to send it abroad. Maybe I can sort something out over here. I'll look into it. If it becomes apparent that there's an abstract painting underneath this landscape, then it's almost certainly a forgery."

For a moment Steinn hesitates; then, taking a deep breath, he begins talking uncharacteristically fast.

"Then we might just consider whether we should simply wash off the whole of the upper layer." He breathes out again as if he'd been holding his breath for some time, and Hanna is startled. There it is. What he'd been thinking about all the while. This is what he wants.

"Wash off the entire top layer? But what about Gudrun's landscape? What will happen to that?" Steinn looks at Hanna and then it dawns on her. The likelihood is there is no landscape of Gudrun's on this canvas.

Steinn is sure of his case. Now that they've started on this journey there's no turning back. They have to go the whole way, to see it through. In her head she draws her foil out of its sheath, lifts it up, and holds it there at the ready against an unseen enemy.

It's her job to confirm his conclusions, to examine the images on the screen more carefully, alongside the painting on the easel. It's up to her to write the reporta"she's worried about the response it will trigger, she's scared to hear something she doesn't want to hear. Is that why she doesn't ask Steinn about his eyesight? She sits still. She wasn't expecting this.

Steinn turns the computer off. Hanna forces herself to move, to stand up. Walking over to the painting, Hanna gazes at the birch grove, as if she's trying to reach out through time and s.p.a.ce and make contact with Gudrun. With the person who painted this landscape. The painting hasn't changed. The mountain is immovable, the birch trees are finely nuanced, the trunks are light and bright, and colors dance on the forest floor. Unchanged, yet not the same as it was. With a deep sense of disappointment, Hanna breathes in quickly and turns around, to Steinn. He's standing there, waiting.

3.

INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS CONFERENCE MOSCOW, 2004.

Hrafn pulls his hands as far as he can up into his jacket sleeves. He has broad, meaty hands, like soft paws, which he tries to hide by wearing suits specially tailored for him, with sleeves just long enough to disguise the size of his hands. He is ashamed of them and thinks they bear false witness to years of toil as a workman, a farmer, or a sailor. Hrafn has never lifted his hands in manual labor; he hasn't tilled the soil, let alone hauled a fish from the sea. The work his fingers recognize is tapping a computer keyboard, and his palm fits comfortably around a mouse. He is proud of never having had to do manual labor, but these hands run in the family, inherited from earlier generations, an inheritance Hrafn has no use for in his line of work.

He is sitting in an avant-garde conference hall in a new building in Moscow. The seats are wine red, wide, and plush, the color faintly reminiscent of old political leanings. The hall is crowded, primarily with men in suits of varying shades of gray. Hrafn has his computer open on the swivel table attached to his seat, reading the business pages of the English newspapers while the words of the Icelandic minister go in one ear and out the other.

"As the minister for fisheries and agriculture it is a great pleasure for me to address this international business conference here in Moscow," announces the minister. "For many decades, Russia and Iceland have enjoyed good business relations," he continues. "In previous years, these relations were largely confined to fish processing, the sale of herring, fishing tackle, and equipment, but nowadays we have business deals springing up in many spheres. Today we not only have representatives of the Icelandic fishing industry, but also stakeholders of large telecommunications and pharmaceutical corporations. We have representatives from Icelandic banks and, last but not least, up-and-coming young musicians and artists."

The fisheries minister glances over the crowded hall, his eyes flitting from one delegate to another; they rest briefly on Hrafn before he returns to his speech. "Icelandic fisheries are different from those of other countries," he says proudly. "Different in the sense that they do not enjoy public funding. They are privately run."

And so his speech goes on. Hrafn looks around the hall. He knows some of the Icelanders here; he has personal connections with the Icelandic visual arts and regularly attends arts events in Reykjavik, so he recognizes many faces among the artists. Hrafn is an only child who inherited a collection of paintings from his father, Arni, who was a shipowner, pa.s.sionately patriotic, with a heart of gold and a fondness for drink. Arni was a hands-on man; he knew all his employees and their families personally and could address their children by name. It annoyed Hrafn to listen to his father singing the praises of his workers and his country, singing patriotic songs in a haze of bluish smoke with his London Docks cigar in one hand and a gla.s.s of cognac in the other, sitting under a painting by Gunnlaugur Scheving of sailors battling a storm. He felt his father's att.i.tude belonged to a bygone age.

Arni was a generous man who loved the arts and knew how to enjoy the good things of life, but in his later years, his business went into decline and he lacked the drive to expand or to update his a.s.sets. He didn't keep abreast of developments in his field; he just stuck with tried-and-trusted methods. After his death, Hrafn totally turned the business around, got it back up again, and tripled its turnover.

The paintings Arni had collected were a haphazard selection of works by amateurs and professional artistsa"pictures of the harbor, townscapes of Reykjavik, landscapes, and sentimental paintings of sunsets. Arni bought paintings from most of the people who knocked on his door. In his eyes, artists' contributions formed an important part of the nation's self-image. These men stood side by side with Arni in the struggle to achieve a decent life for an independent nation. Men, for there were no women who knocked on Arni's door; he was not that progressive.

After his father's death, Hrafn had experts value the collection; he got rid of the sunsets but held on to the cultural heritage. In his eyes, the paintings are a financial investment. Hrafn is not given to patriotic feelings. He knows his art collection inside out; he has made it his business to know the life's work of the most highly respected painters and the price their works will fetch. He knows which periods are the most sought after, where the missing links in the chain are, and where the market has been saturated. Hrafn rates his paintings according to their value; the most valuable ones are in storage. He collects works almost exclusively by deceased artists.

Hrafn feels his phone vibrate in his breast pocket. He recognizes the number. He has been in discussion with Kristin, the director of the Reykjavik gallery, recently. She is constantly networking in the private sector for financial support, both for one-off exhibitions and ongoing projects, and one of her pet projects is to get rid of the entrance fee. So far he has avoided committing himself, but now he needs to make a decision, either to refuse or agree to support her project, but he still has not made up his mind. He doesn't pick up. The gallery is not his priority, and Kristin will have to wait for the moment; he will talk to her later. Hrafn is keen to support the gallery financially, but he is not sure he wants to fork out the sum she's after and not get anything tangible in return.

Hrafn views paintings through the eye of common sense and not from the heart as his father did. He is not at all interested in the artists here at the conference, paid for by the state with the aim of enhancing his country's image abroad and showing that Iceland is a player on the international stage. He has no interest in art. Modern art is meaningless to him; he doesn't understand it and doesn't see what drives these artists.

Having looked over the stock market situation, Hrafn subtly tilts his computer screen toward him and opens up the web page of a Copenhagen auction house. Dealing in paintings is his private business. Hrafn keeps a regular eye on the web pages of auction houses in London and Copenhagen, and he wants to see which paintings have come up for auction since the previous evening.

He spots Vasiliy Ivanov Gubin's balding head two rows in front; Vasya, his father's old business colleague. His father, Arni, and Vasya were best friends, and Hrafn rarely feels as close to his father as when he meets Vasya, who is like a kindly uncle to him. Vasya reminds him of his father's good points: courtesy, hospitality, friendship, and compa.s.sion for his fellow men. On the other side of the hall he spots Stanislav Petrov's rosy, youthful facea"his contact in the pharmaceutical company, whom he wants to clinch a deal with during this trip. Hrafn wants more shares and he needs Stanislav's support.

"Icelanders own more mobile phones per capita than any other nation," the minister continues. Hrafn doesn't listen to him but quickly runs his eyes down the auction house web page. Some paintings have been added; one of them seems familiar. He looks at it more closely; the artist is listed as unknown. He tries to work out who it could be. Enlarging some of the detail on the screen, he looks carefully at the brushstrokes, but he can't be sure. It's a landscape painting, probably Danish but could be Icelandic. Or a painting by some Icelandic artist who trained in Denmark. He checks the value and the work's origins. The value is very low and the ownership history seems convincing; the painting has been in the same family for years. The auction is just about to begin, and he puts in a generous bid. He could be onto something. A faint scent of perfume stirs his senses; behind him sits the owner of the gallery where the art side of this business conference is housed.

She wears her dyed blonde hair up in a plait, and her lips are bright red. Hrafn has not been introduced to her, but the minister pointed her out to him before the meeting. "Mariya Kovaleva," he'd said. "One of the wealthiest women in Russia today." Hrafn's interest had been aroused and he'd resolved to talk to her before the day was out.

"I think we can say without a doubt that Icelandic business is booming like never before," the minister says in closing. Hrafn glances back at his screen; there's something about this painting that interests him.

There is a dinner at the Hotel Kosmopolitan that evening, in a restaurant on the twenty-fifth floor with a view over the city. Hrafn is sitting next to Mariya Kovaleva and a young woman called Larisa, who seems to be her personal a.s.sistant. Stanislav is also at the table, along with the minister, two bankers, and their wives. It's a veritable banquet, and there are lavish quant.i.ties of food and drink. Hrafn is used to this sort of thing and he knows how to manage an event like this; he drinks mineral water and eats little. He observes the others around the table who do not employ quite the same table manners as he does. He is a polite man, modest by nature and not given to pushing himself forward. His open face has a cla.s.sic bone structure; he has a sportsman's build and a rare smile. He is accustomed to attracting looks from both men and women no matter where he is. But he is not talkative, and this evening he only talks to Stanislav or remains silent. He pays attention to the conversation around the table without taking part. From time to time he catches Larisa's eye or smiles at Mariya Kovaleva across the large round table, raising his gla.s.s to a toast.

His fellow diners have been celebrating since the opening at Mariya Kovaleva's gallery this afternoon. The gallery is enormous; it is in a new building in the city center right next to the Pushkin Museum. It currently houses an exhibit of contemporary Russian artists alongside Icelandic artists. Many delegates from the conference attended the opening, but Hrafn talked almost exclusively to Vasya. Not about business, but about the family. Hrafn told him he was expecting his third child. Vasya talked about his wife's illness. Hrafn asked if there was anything he could do, offered to cover the medical costs at a private clinic in America, but Vasya refused.

The evening is wearing on, and the banker's wife sitting next to Hrafn is tired and tipsy. She has tried various topics of conversation with Hrafn with little success before discovering that he is a horseman. They have something in common. Hrafn listens politely as she talks about her horses and her riding.

"So you obviously don't eat horse meat, do you?" she asks, leaning in toward him, somewhat red-eyed with tousled hair and circles under her eyes. Her husband watches her out of the corner of his eye. But Hrafn is not interested in this woman or in talking to her about horses; he is contemplating moving so he can talk to Mariya and Larisa.

"Only fillet," he says, pushing his chair from the table in order to extricate himself from this gathering and move away. He hears the banker's wife repeating his words to her husband.

"He's hardly likely to eat his own horses," replies the husband, and then their words are drowned out in the general babble.

"Mr. Arnason? Mr. Arnason!" Mariya calls to him, and Hrafn walks over to her and takes her outstretched hand. She shakes his hand warmly, too warmly in Hrafn's view, and too long. He is curious but says nothing.

"This is Larisa," says Mariya without further explanation. "We're off to a private party. Come and join us." At this Larisa obediently gets up from the table, up from the dessert, profiterolesa"choux pastry filled with whipped creama"which are just being served. The cream puffs are shaped like swans, and Mariya reaches out for one, biting off its head and smiling up at Hrafn.

"I hear you're an art collector," she says in her stiff English with a marked accent, stuffing the remains of the swan into her mouth. "The minister told me. I must show you my private collection."

Hrafn allows himself to be led away from the table without saying good-bye to his fellow diners, who are still drinking; he makes do with patting Stanislav lightly on the shoulder. He is relieved to get away; he finds eating and drinking with people he has no interest in getting to know a waste of time. He has already got all he needs in life. But he can't resist a business opportunity and is sure that getting to know Mariya, or Masha as she has asked him to call her, will provide new breaks into the Russian market, although he doesn't yet know what sort. She is well connected at any rate.

On their way out Masha signals to two men who are about to follow them. Speaking in undertones, she says something in Russian, and they shake their heads but let the matter drop. They look like bodyguards. Larisa takes Hrafn's arm and smiles without saying anything. She is blonde with brown eyes and has a dimple in her heart-shaped face. They go out of the back entrance and into a black car waiting there; the windows are tinted.

Hrafn loses his sense of direction almost immediately and doesn't know where they are. For a second he sees lit-up buildings reflected in the Moscow River, Reka Moskva, then for some time the car winds its way along poorly lit back streets. Hrafn feels Larisa's hand resting gently on his knee. He doesn't react; he is waiting to see how this will turn out. The car comes to a standstill outside a block of flats on a side street. Mariya and Larisa quickly jump out, and Hrafn follows them. The car glides away, virtually silent. Masha gets out her key, which she slips into the lock, and opens the door to the main entrance with a flourish. Once inside, they don't go into the luxury flat Hrafn sees through an open door off the richly carpeted hallway, but straight up to the next floor. Again Masha opens up with the key. There is some coming and going down below, and they hear someone rushing toward the stairs. Masha calls something down in Russian, and the footsteps fade away again.

They enter a darkened room with parquet flooring. Hrafn picks out a faint smell of oil paints and linseed oil varnish, as though they've come into an artist's studio. When Larisa switches on the light, the sheer volume of paintings on the walls takes him by surprise. The sliding doors between the large, s.p.a.cious rooms are open, rooms that are like small exhibition s.p.a.ces in a gallery. Hrafn looks twice at Larisa. She has taken off the jacket she wore over her c.o.c.ktail dress; the dress is beautiful, but not as beautiful as she is. He concentrates on the paintings on the walls; he is familiar with the subject mattera"Russian landscapes in nineteenth-century style. Hrafn points to one of them.

"Shishkin?" he asks, naming the one Russian painter that comes to mind. Shishkin was around in the nineteenth century, and his paintings are among the more expensive ones on the market. Smiling, Larisa nods. Together they walk through three large rooms full of paintings; Larisa lets their art speak for itself. Hrafn has never seen a private collection on par with this. The most famous artists in history. Rembrandt, Velazquez, Goya, Matisse, Pica.s.so. The collection is clearly extraordinarily valuable and to invite him in is most unusual. Someone who owns a collection like this would hardly be inclined to advertise the fact to a stranger, and Hrafn guesses that there are security guards on the lower floor.

Masha has disappeared. Larisa settles down on a leather sofa over in the far corner and invites him to come and sit next to her, but Hrafn declines. She is open about what she has in mind, but he has never cheated on his wife. In his eyes, cheating is a sign of instability and immaturity. Nor does he trust business colleagues who are unfaithful to their wives. Larisa accepts his refusal with exceptional courtesy, as though nothing had happened. She simply gets up, leads the way back, and slips her jacket back on without him noticing.

"This is the largest private collection of nineteenth-century Russian paintings inside Russia," says Larisa as she takes a bottle of champagne from the table and pours them each a gla.s.s. Hrafn takes the gla.s.s but does not drink. He sees. Sees that Mariya is rich and powerfula"she has servants, bodyguards, refined and educated escorts on her payrolla"and Larisa is an art historian. What's Mariya's game?

Hrafn smiles at Larisa and thanks her for inviting him. It was an honor to view this beautiful and remarkable collection. But he must be off now; he has a number of taxing meetings ahead of him tomorrow. Larisa asks him to wait a moment, then disappears. Shortly after a man dressed in black comes and escorts Hrafn to the door. The same black car is waiting for him out on the street. The man in black hurries Hrafn out and into the car as if a hidden marksman were around the corner, waiting for his moment.