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 7:42p.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 8:52p.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.”
17
Adams Row
