Portrait of an unknown w.., p.24
Portrait of an Unknown Woman, page 24
“I imagine Monsieur Fleury was rather nervous that afternoon in mid-March,” he said.
“Panic stricken. A French policeman named Jacques Ménard had come to the gallery unannounced to question Fleury about Portrait of an Unknown Woman. He was afraid the entire house of cards was about to collapse.”
“Why did he contact you and not Phillip?”
“I’m in charge of sales and distribution. Phillip owns the galleries, but he keeps the dealers at arm’s length. Unless there’s a problem, of course.”
“Like Valerie Bérrangar?”
“Yes.”
“What did Phillip do?”
“He made a phone call.”
“To whom?”
“A man who makes his problems go away.”
“Does this man have a name?”
“If he does, I’m not aware of it.”
“Is he American?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“That he is a former intelligence officer who has a network of skilled professionals at his disposal. They hacked into Madame Bérrangar’s mobile phone and laptop, and broke into her villa in Saint-André-du-Bois. That’s when they discovered the entry in her desk calendar. And the painting, of course.”
“Portrait of an Unknown Woman, oil on canvas, one hundred and fifteen by ninety-two centimeters, attributed to a follower of the Flemish Baroque painter Anthony van Dyck.”
“It was a dreadful mistake on Fleury’s part,” said Magdalena. “He should have told me that he had handled the original version of the painting. The truth is, it was so long ago it slipped his mind.”
“How did the forger produce his copy?”
“Apparently, he used a photograph he found in an old exhibition catalogue. It was a minor picture produced by a nameless artist working in Van Dyck’s style. The forger simply executed a more skillful version of it and, voilà, a lost Van Dyck suddenly reappeared after centuries in hiding.”
“At the same Paris gallery where Valerie Bérrangar’s husband purchased the original version thirty-four years earlier.”
“The scenario wasn’t out of the question, but it was suspicious, to say the least. If the French art squad had opened an investigation . . .”
“You would have been arrested. And Phillip Somerset’s forgery-and-fraud empire would have unraveled in spectacular fashion.”
“With disastrous consequences for the entire art world. Fortunes would have been lost and countless reputations ruined. Emergency measures had to be taken to contain the damage.”
“Eliminate Madame Bérrangar,” said Gabriel. “And find out what, if anything, she had told Julian Isherwood and his partner, Sarah Bancroft.”
“I had nothing to do with the Bérrangar woman’s death. It was Phillip who arranged everything.”
“A single-car accident on an empty stretch of road.” Gabriel paused. “Problem solved.”
“Or so it appeared. But less than a week after her death, you and Sarah Bancroft showed up at Phillip’s estate on Long Island.”
“He told us that he had sold Portrait of an Unknown Woman. He also said that a second review of the attribution had determined that the painting was in fact a genuine Van Dyck.”
“Neither of which was true.”
“But why did he purchase his own forgery in the first place?”
“I explained that to you earlier.”
“Explain it again.”
“First of all,” said Magdalena, “Masterpiece Art Ventures didn’t actually pay six and a half million pounds for Portrait of an Unknown Woman.”
“Because Isherwood Fine Arts unwittingly purchased it from Masterpiece Art Ventures for three million euros.”
“Correct.”
“Nevertheless, Phillip handed over a substantial amount of money for a worthless painting.”
“But it was other people’s money. And the painting is far from worthless to a man like Phillip. He can use it as collateral to obtain bank loans and then sell it to another art investor for much more than he paid for it.”
“And by routing the original sale through Isherwood Fine Arts,” added Gabriel, “Phillip gave himself plausible deniability if it was ever discovered to be a forgery. After all, it was Sarah who sold the forgery to him. And it was Julian, a well-respected expert in Dutch and Flemish Old Masters, who concluded that the picture was painted by Anthony van Dyck and not by a later follower.”
“Julian Isherwood’s blessing increased the painting’s value significantly.”
“Where is it now?”
“Chelsea Fine Arts Storage.”
“I suppose Phillip owns that, too.”
“Phillip controls the entire physical infrastructure of the network, including Chelsea. And he was afraid that you and Sarah were going to bring it all down.”
“What did he do?”
“He made another phone call.”
“To whom?”
“Me.”
With a small portion of the money that Magdalena had earned working for Phillip Somerset and Masterpiece Art Ventures, she had purchased a luxurious apartment on the Calle de Castelló in the Salamanca district of Madrid. Her circle of friends included artists, writers, musicians, and fashion designers who knew nothing of the true nature of her work. Like most young Spaniards, they usually ate dinner around ten and then headed off to a nightclub. Consequently, Magdalena was still sleeping when Phillip rang her at one o’clock on a Monday afternoon and told her to clean up the mess at Galerie Fleury.
“What sort of cleanup did he have in mind?”
“Destroy the forgeries in the gallery’s inventory and, if necessary, return the million euros that you and the violinist paid for A River Scene with Distant Windmills.”
“I was right about it being a forgery?”
She nodded. “Evidently, you told Phillip that you had given it to Aiden Gallagher for scientific analysis. Phillip was convinced that Aiden would be able to tell it was a fake.”
“Because Aiden is the best in the business.”
“The final word,” said Magdalena.
“And when you heard the gallery had been bombed?”
“I knew that Phillip had once again misled me.” She paused. “And that he had made a dreadful mistake.”
For three weeks, she continued, she remained a prisoner of her apartment in Madrid. She followed the news from Paris obsessively, chewed her nails to the quick, painted a Picassoesque self-portrait, and drank far too much. Her suitcases stood in the entrance hall. One of them contained a million euros in cash.
“Where were you planning to go?”
“Marrakesh.”
“Leaving your father to face the music for your crimes?”
“My father did nothing wrong.”
“I doubt the Spanish police would have seen it that way,” said Gabriel. “But please go on.”
She instructed the network’s remaining galleries to freeze all sales of forged paintings and reduced her telephone-and-text contact with Phillip to a bare minimum. But in late April, he summoned her to New York and told her to open the spigot.
“One of his largest investors had requested a forty-five-million-dollar redemption. The kind of redemption that leaves a mark on the balance sheet. Masterpiece needed to replenish its cash reserves in a hurry.”
And so the forgeries flowed into the market, and the money flowed into Phillip’s accounts in the Cayman Islands. By June the bombing of Galerie Fleury had receded from the headlines, and the eyes of the art world were on London, where Dimbleby Fine Arts was preparing to exhibit a newly discovered version of Susanna in the Bath by Paolo Veronese. The painting had purportedly emerged from the same unidentified European collection that had previously produced a Titian and a Tintoretto. But Magdalena knew what the rest of the art world did not, that all three paintings were forgeries.
“Because the forger’s front man,” said Gabriel, “made quite a scene at Galerie Hassler in Berlin.”
Magdalena looked at Rossetti. “I was suspicious about those paintings even before your front man tried to sell the Gentileschi to Herr Hassler.”
“Why?”
“I know a provenance trap when I see one, Mr. Allon. Yours wasn’t terribly clever or original. Still, I wasn’t surprised by the reaction of the art world. It’s the secret of our success.”
“What’s that?”
“The gullibility of collectors and so-called experts and connoisseurs. The art world desperately wants to believe that there are lost masterpieces just waiting to be rediscovered. Phillip and I make dreams come true.” She managed a smile. “As do you, Mr. Allon. Your Veronese took my breath away, but the Gentileschi was to die for.”
“You had to have it?”
“No,” she answered “I had to have you.”
“Because the market for museum-quality Old Masters is small? Because two major Old Master forgery rings cannot compete against one another and survive?”
“And because Phillip’s forger is unable to supply enough paintings to meet the demands of my distribution network,” said Magdalena. “And because, for all his talent, he cannot hold a candle to you.”
“In that case, I accept your offer.”
“What offer?”
“To join the team at Masterpiece Art Ventures.” Gabriel switched off the video camera. “Let’s take a walk, shall we, Magdalena? There are one or two details we need to finalize before you call Phillip and give him the good news.”
50
Villa dei Fiori
They made their way down the gentle slope of the drive, beneath the canopy of the umbrella pine. The first brushstrokes of dawn lay over the hills to the east, but overhead the stars shone brightly. The air was cool and still, not a breath of movement. It smelled of orange blossom and jasmine and the cigarette that Magdalena had charmed from Luca Rossetti.
“Where did you learn to paint like that?” she asked.
“In the womb.”
“Your mother was an artist?”
“And my grandfather. He was a disciple of Max Beckmann.”
“What was his name?”
“Viktor Frankel.”
“I know your grandfather’s work,” said Magdalena. “But good genes alone can’t explain talent like yours. If I didn’t know better, I would have guessed that you were an apprentice in Titian’s workshop.”
“It’s true that I served my apprenticeship in Venice, but it was with a famous restorer named Umberto Conti.”
“And you were no doubt Signore Conti’s finest pupil.”
“I suppose I have a knack for it.”
“Restoring paintings?”
“Not just paintings. People, too. I’m trying to decide whether you’re worth the effort.” He gave her a sideways glance. “I have a terrible feeling you’re beyond repair.”
“The damage is self-inflicted, I’m afraid.”
“Not all of it. Phillip targeted you for recruitment. He groomed you. Preyed on your vulnerabilities. Got you hooked. I know his techniques. I’ve used them a time or two myself.”
“Are you using them now?”
“A little,” he admitted.
She turned away and expelled a slender stream of smoke. “And what if I told you that I willingly stepped into the trap Phillip set for me?”
“Because you wanted the money?”
“It certainly wasn’t for the sex.”
“How much is there?”
“In addition to the million euros in the suitcase in my apartment?” She lifted her gaze skyward. “I have another four or five scattered around Europe, but the bulk of my money is invested in Masterpiece Art Ventures.”
“Current balance?”
“Maybe fifty-five.”
“Million?”
“It’s a fraction of what I deserve. If it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t be a Masterpiece Art Ventures.”
“It’s not exactly a résumé enhancer, Magdalena.”
“How many people can say they built a multibillion-dollar global forgery network?”
“Or brought one down,” said Gabriel quietly.
She frowned. “How did you find me, Mr. Allon? The truth, this time.”
“Your attempt to recruit Lucien Marchand gave me valuable insight into the way you ran your operation.”
Magdalena took a final pull at the cigarette and with a flick of her long forefinger sent the ember arcing into the darkness. “And how is Françoise these days? Still living in Roussillon? Or has she settled permanently in Lucien’s villa on Saint-Barthélemy?”
“Why did you try to hire him?”
“Phillip wanted to expand our inventory to include Impressionist and postwar works. His forger wasn’t capable of it, so he asked me to find someone who was. I made Lucien a generous offer, which he accepted.”
“Along with one million euros in cash.”
She made no reply.
“Is that why you had him murdered? A lousy million euros?”
“I’m sales and distribution, Mr. Allon. Phillip deals with problems.”
“Why was Lucien a problem?”
“Do I really need to explain that to you?”
“After Lucien and Françoise accepted the money and then reneged on the deal, Phillip was concerned that they posed a threat to you and Masterpiece Art Ventures.”
Magdalena nodded. “Françoise is lucky that Phillip didn’t have her killed, too. She was the real brains behind that network. Lucien was the brush and Toussaint the cash register, but Françoise was the glue that kept it together.” She slowed to a stop before a small shrine to the Virgin Mary, one of several scattered about the estate. “Where in the world are we?”
“The villa was once a monastery. The current owner is quite close to the Vatican.”
“As are you. Or so they say.” She made the sign of the cross and set off again.
“Are you a believer?” asked Gabriel.
“Like ninety percent of my fellow Spaniards, I no longer attend Mass, and it has been more than twenty years since I last set foot in a confessional. But, yes, Mr. Allon. I remain a believer.”
“Do you believe in absolution as well?”
“That depends on how many Hail Marys you intend to make me recite.”
“If you help me take down Phillip Somerset,” said Gabriel, “your sins will be forgiven.”
“All of them?”
“A few years ago, I met a woman who ran a modern art gallery in Saint-Tropez. It was a money-laundering front for her boyfriend’s narcotics empire. I got her out of the situation cleanly. Now she’s a successful dealer in London.”
“Somehow I doubt there’s an art gallery in my future,” said Magdalena. “But what did you have in mind?”
“A final face-to-face meeting with Phillip in New York next week.”
“About the newest member of the team at Masterpiece Art Ventures?”
“Exactly.”
“I imagine he’s quite anxious to have a look at your Gentileschi.”
“Which is why you’re going to overnight it to Chelsea Fine Arts Storage.”
“I hope your front man is covering the shipping costs.”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t included in the hammer price.”
“I guess ten million euros doesn’t go as far as it used to. But how are we going to get the painting through Italian customs?”
“I believe we’re covered on that score.” Gabriel handed her a mobile phone. “This call is being recorded for quality assurance. If you try to pass a message to him, I’ll hand you over to General Ferrari and wave goodbye.”
She dialed the number and raised the phone to her ear. “Hello, Lindsay. It’s Magdalena. I’m sorry to be calling at such a dreadful hour, but I’m afraid it’s rather urgent. I promise not to keep Phillip long.”
51
Villa dei Fiori
Rossetti drove Magdalena back to Florence to collect her belongings from the Four Seasons and settle the enormous bill. By noon they had returned to Villa dei Fiori, and Magdalena, in sunglasses and a stunning white two-piece swimsuit, was stretched upon a chaise longue by the pool, a glass of chilled Orvieto wine in her hand. General Ferrari observed her disapprovingly from the shade of the trellised garden.
“Is there anything the staff of the Hotel Carabinieri can do to make her stay more comfortable?” he asked Gabriel.
“What would you have me do? Confine her to her room until we leave for New York?”
“Surely this place has a dungeon. After all, it was built in the eleventh century.”
“I believe Count Gasparri converted it into his wine cellar.”
Ferrari sighed but said nothing.
“Has the Art Squad never cut a deal with a thief or a fence to get to the next step of the ladder?”
“We do it all the time. And more often than not, the thief or the fence tells us only part of the story.” The general paused. “Just like that beautiful creature lying comfortably next to the swimming pool. She’s smarter than you realize. And quite dangerous.”
“I’m a former intelligence officer, Cesare. I know how to handle an asset.”
“She’s not an asset, my friend. She is a criminal and a confidence artist who has millions of dollars stashed around the world and access to private airplanes.”
“At least she doesn’t have tattoos,” remarked Gabriel.
“Her one and only redeeming quality. But I assure you, she is not to be trusted.”
“I have enough leverage to keep her in line, including her videotaped confession.”
“Ah, yes. A tragic tale about a once promising artist who was lured into a life of crime by the evil and manipulative Phillip Somerset. You realize, I hope, that perhaps half of it is true.”
“Which half?”
“I haven’t a clue. But I find it difficult to believe that she doesn’t know the name of the forger.”
“It’s entirely plausible that Phillip kept it from her.”
“Perhaps. But it is also entirely plausible that she was the one who took Phillip to that loft in Hell’s Kitchen, and that the forger is now lying in the Umbrian sun with a drink in her hand.”
