“Danish, actually.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rikke.”
“Like the song?”
“Almost,” she said, and smiled. It implied that she was there to see to his every need and desire save one. “Would you care for the risotto or the boeuf bourguignon?”
The Dutch art dealer laid a hand protectively on the case. “Nothing for me, thank you.”
Ingrid expressed no interest in the contents of the case, for such questions were a violation of company policy. Instead she turned to Franco Tedeschi, who was staring at her over his half-moon reading glasses.
“Where’s Erika?”
“Another flight, I’m afraid.”
“I should have been told.”
“I’ll notify Herr Vogel about your concerns.”
“Please do.” He looked down at his phone. “Risotto.”
Ingrid retreated to the cramped galley. The oven, when opened, exhaled the foul odor ofcuisine industrielle. She delivered four portions of the boeuf bourguignon to the security men and presented Franco Tedeschi with his seafood risotto. Receiving no expression of gratitude or even acknowledgment, she turned to Peter van de Velde.
“Are you sure I can’t bring you something?”
“I’m quite fine, thank you.”
Doubtless because a moment earlier he had treated himself to a prolonged examination of Ingrid’s ass. “At least let me bring you some more coffee.”
“If you insist.”
She fetched the pot from the galley and poured. Van de Velde added the cream himself. “Not even a little curious?”
“About what, Mr. Van de Velde?”
He looked down at the transport case. “The contents of that box.”
“Not the least bit.”
“Your colleague never mentioned it?”
“Erika? Never.”
Ingrid started toward the rear of the cabin, but Van de Velde placed a hand on her forearm. “Do you like art?” he blurted.
“Who doesn’t?”
“You’d be surprised.” Another smile. “And what sort of art do you like, Rikke?”
“Twentieth century, mainly.”
“The Impressionists?”
“Sure.”
“Van Gogh?”
