Free The Perfect Landscape by Ragna Sigurðardóttir Page B

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, spacious rooms are open, rooms that are like small exhibition spaces in a gallery. Hrafn looks twice at Larisa. She has taken off the jacket she wore over her cocktail 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 matter—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 throughthree 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, Picasso. 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 glass. Hrafn takes the glass but does not drink. He sees. Sees that Mariya is rich and powerful—she has servants, bodyguards, refined and educated escorts on her payroll—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 forhim 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.

4
A WALK IN THE ALPS REYKJAVIK, CURRENT DAY
    Hanna intends to fulfill her promise to Steinn and call Denmark today; he is not keen on this sort of phone call. She isn’t entirely sure which approach to take with the auction house in Copenhagen where Elisabet Valsdottir bought
The Birches
, artist currently unknown, but she intends to get what she needs. Steinn is tenacious, she thinks to herself, but I don’t give up so easily either.
    They both want to know who put
The Birches
up for auction, who profited nearly eight million Icelandic kronur from its sale. Hanna will need to be cunning but courteous; she must sheath her foil. Auction houses are invariably on their guard. There is