Portrait of an unknown w.., p.31
Portrait of an Unknown Woman, page 31
68
Pierre Hotel
Ray Bennett, the Pierre Hotel’s head of security, was roughly the same size as Capitano Luca Rossetti. Well over six feet tall, at least 225 pounds. Most of that weight remained in reasonably good shape for a man of his age, which was mid-fifties. His hair was metallic gray and well groomed, his face was wide and square. It was a face, thought Gabriel, that had been made to take a punch. He asked its owner whether it would be possible for them to have a word in private. Ray Bennett said he preferred to speak in the lobby.
“That would be a mistake on your part, Mr. Bennett.”
“And why is that, sir?”
“Because your colleagues will hear what I have to say to you.”
Bennett contemplated Gabriel with a pair of all-seeing cop’s eyes. “What’s this about?”
“A missing guest.”
“Name?”
“Not here.”
Bennett led Gabriel through a doorway behind Reception and down a corridor to his office. He left the door open. Gabriel closed it soundlessly and turned to face the larger man.
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
Gabriel delivered a lightning-strike blow to Bennett’s larynx, then raised a knee to his exposed groin, just to keep things sporting. After all, Gabriel was the smaller and older of the two combatants. A generous point spread was in order.
“You were standing at the elevator when she came downstairs. You told her something that put her mind at ease and escorted her to the delivery entrance. A black Escalade was waiting outside. You forced her into the backseat.”
Bennett made no reply. He wasn’t capable of one.
“I have a feeling I know who put you up to it, Ray. Nevertheless, I’d like to hear you say his name.”
“S-s-s-s-s-s . . .”
“Sorry, but I didn’t catch that.”
“S-s-s-s-s-s . . .”
“Leonard Silk? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
Bennett nodded vigorously.
“How much did he pay you?”
“H-h-h-h-h . . .”
“I beg your pardon?”
“H-h-h-h-h . . .”
Gabriel patted the front of Bennett’s suit jacket and found his phone. It was an iPhone 13 Pro. He waved it before Bennett’s face, and he was in. The same New York–based cellular number appeared three times in his recents. One incoming, two outgoing. The last call was approximately an hour earlier, at 6:41 p.m. It was outgoing.
Gabriel showed the number to Ray Bennett. “Is this Silk?”
Bennett nodded.
Gabriel snapped a photograph of the screen with his Solaris. Then he handed Bennett the receiver of his desk phone. “Tell the valet to bring Ms. Bancroft’s car to the Fifth Avenue entrance. Not the East Sixty-First Street doorway. Fifth Avenue.”
Bennett pressed the speed-dial button and emitted an incomprehensible croak into the mouthpiece.
“Bancroft,” said Gabriel slowly. “I know you can do it, Ray.”
Upstairs on the twentieth floor, Gabriel forwarded Leonard Silk’s phone number to Yuval Gershon before cramming his belongings into his overnight bag. In the room next door, Sarah packed with equal haste. Then she hurried across the hall and stuffed Magdalena’s clothing and toiletries into her costly Louis Vuitton carry-on. At the writing desk, Evelyn Buchanan hammered away at her laptop without pause, oblivious, or so it seemed, to the commotion around her.
At 7:40 p.m. the phone in Sarah’s room rang. It was the valet calling to say that Ms. Bancroft’s car was waiting, as requested, outside the hotel’s Fifth Avenue entrance. Evelyn Buchanan shoved her laptop into her bag and followed Gabriel and Sarah into the elevator. Downstairs in the lobby, there was no sign of Ray Bennett. Sarah informed the young woman at Reception that she and Mr. Allon were checking out earlier than expected.
“Is there a problem?” the woman inquired.
“Change in plans,” lied Sarah effortlessly, and declined the woman’s offer of a printed receipt.
A bellman relieved them of their luggage and loaded it into the Nissan Pathfinder. Evelyn Buchanan crawled into the backseat and immediately removed her laptop. Sarah settled into the passenger seat; Gabriel, behind the wheel. As he sped through the intersection of Fifth Avenue and East Sixtieth Street, he turned his head to the right, hiding his face from the two men sitting in the Suburban outside the Metropolitan Club. They made no attempt to follow them.
“Is kidnapping complimentary at the Pierre?” asked Sarah. “Or is there an extra charge?”
Gabriel laughed quietly.
“Where do you suppose she is?”
“I have a terrible feeling she’s about to leave the country, whether she wants to or not.”
“With Phillip?”
“Who else?”
“She doesn’t have a passport.”
“Maybe she won’t need one where they’re going.”
“Phillip keeps his Gulfstream at Teterboro,” said Sarah.
“He’s too smart to use his own plane. He’ll leave on a charter that someone has booked on his behalf.” Gabriel paused. “Someone like Leonard Silk.”
“Perhaps we should telephone Mr. Silk and ask him where his client is headed.”
“I rather doubt that Mr. Silk would prove receptive to our advances.”
“In that case,” said Sarah, “we should probably contact the FBI.”
“Could get ugly.”
“For Magdalena?”
“And me.”
“Better than the alternative, though.”
“The FBI can’t arrest Phillip without a warrant. And they can’t obtain a warrant based on my say-so alone. They need credible evidence of criminal wrongdoing.”
“They’ll have it soon enough.” Sarah glanced over her shoulder at Evelyn Buchanan, who was typing furiously on her laptop. Then she turned and gazed down the length of Fifth Avenue. “I hope you realize that none of this would have happened if we’d stayed at the Four Seasons.”
“Lesson learned.”
“And I never got my martini.”
“We’ll get you a martini after we stop Phillip from fleeing the country.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Sarah.
Not surprisingly, Ray Bennett chose not to inform Leonard Silk that the number for his personal mobile phone had fallen into the hands of the world’s most famous retired spy. Consequently, Silk took no action to protect his device from attack. It came as he was headed uptown on First Avenue—a stealth zero-click invasion carried out by the Israeli-made malware known as Proteus. Like countless other victims before him, including numerous heads of state, Silk was unaware his device had been compromised.
Within minutes the phone was spewing a geyser of valuable information. Of immediate interest to Yuval Gershon were the GPS location data and the call history. On his own initiative, Gershon attacked a second device before calling Gabriel. It was eight fifteen in New York. Gabriel was barreling along Broadway through Lower Manhattan. The two men spoke in Hebrew to ensure that nothing was lost in translation.
“He left the Pierre at six forty-four. By the way, that was the exact time Ray Bennett led your girl out the service door. Something tells me it wasn’t a coincidence.”
“Where did he go?”
“East Thirty-Fourth Street Heliport. He was there until seven fifty-two.”
“Where is he now?”
“Back in his apartment on Sutton Place. Number fourteen, in case you’re wondering. Sixteenth floor, if I had to guess.”
“Any interesting calls?”
“Executive Jet Services. It’s a charter company based at MacArthur Airport on Long Island.”
“I know where MacArthur is, Yuval.”
“Do you know when Silk made the calls?”
“Maybe you should tell me.”
“The first call was at four twenty-three this afternoon. He called again about twenty minutes ago.”
“Sounds to me as if someone is planning to take a trip.”
“Someone is. Silk called him twice. The last call was around seven o’clock. I lit him up a few minutes ago. There’s no data on the phone, which means it’s probably a burner. But I was able to get a fix on his location.”
“Where is he?”
“The eastern shore of the North Haven Peninsula.”
“Twelve feet above sea level?”
“How did you guess?”
“Message me if he so much as twitches.”
Gabriel rang off and looked at Sarah.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He said that we should probably charter a helicopter.”
Sarah dialed.
The offices of Vanity Fair magazine were located on the twenty-fifth floor of One World Trade Center. Gabriel dropped Evelyn Buchanan on West Street near the 9/11 memorial, then followed the Battery Park Underpass to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport. He squeezed the Nissan into an empty space in the small staff parking lot, gave the attendant $500 in cash to keep the vehicle for the night, and led Sarah into the terminal. Their chartered Bell 407 waited at the end of the L-shaped pier. It departed at 9:10 p.m. and raced eastward, into the cooling twilight.
69
North Haven
The Somersets of North Haven were owners of his-and-hers Range Rovers. Phillip’s was a fully loaded 2022, black, tan interior. With the help of a security guard, he placed five aluminum-sided suitcases by Rimowa of Madison Avenue into the spacious rear storage compartment. Two of the suitcases contained cash; two, gold ingots. The largest was filled with clothing, toiletries, and a few personal mementos—including a collection of luxury wristwatches valued at $12 million.
Inside the house, Phillip found Lindsay where he had left her, seated at the island in the kitchen, the food properly plated and arrayed before her. She had lit candles, poured wine, touched nothing. The air smelled of lilies and grilled octopus. It turned Phillip’s stomach. He checked the display screen of the hardline phone. Lindsay had made no calls during his brief absence.
“Shall I pack a bag for you?” he asked.
She stared silently into an emptiness of Phillip’s making. She had not spoken a word since his ill-advised threat of violence. It was Lindsay who had drawn her sword first, but it had been reckless of Phillip to respond in kind. Almost as reckless, he thought, as divulging the name of the country where he planned to take refuge.
“You won’t tell them where I am, will you?”
“The first chance I get.” She gave him a counterfeit smile. “But not tonight, Phillip. I’ve decided it would be best if you simply disappeared. That way, I’ll never have to look at your face again or, heaven forbid, visit you in prison.”
Phillip returned to his office and executed a series of wire transfers, all designed to leave little if no trace of the money’s final destination. Taken together, they had the effect of draining every cent from the accounts of Masterpiece Art Ventures. There was nothing left. Nothing but the real estate, the toys, the debt, and the paintings. The genuine works in the company’s inventory were worth at least $700 million, but all were leveraged to the hilt. Perhaps Christie’s would hold a special evening sale to auction the works off. The Somerset Collection . . . It had a certain ring to it, he had to admit.
Rising, he went to his window and for the last time surveyed his realm. The bay. His boat. His manicured garden. His blue swimming pool. He realized suddenly he hadn’t used it once all summer.
A green light flared on the multiline desk phone. Phillip snatched up the receiver and heard Lindsay abruptly hang up downstairs. Evidently, she was still entertaining thoughts of turning him in. He switched lines and dialed East Hampton Airport. Mike Knox, the regular evening head of flight operations, answered.
“Your helicopter arrived about twenty minutes ago, Mr. Somerset. The passengers decided to stay on board.”
“Any other inbound birds?”
“A Blade, a couple of privates, and a Zip Aviation charter from downtown.”
“What’s the ETA on the charter?”
“Twenty-five minutes or so.”
“Is my helicopter fueled?”
“Finishing now.”
“Thanks, Mike. I’m on my way.”
Phillip hung up the phone and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. It was where he kept his unregistered firearm.
Not if I kill you first, Lindsay . . .
It would certainly guarantee a clean departure, he thought. But it would also saddle him with eternal infamy. If the truth be told, a part of him was actually looking forward to exile. Keeping the Ponzi scheme up and running all these years had been exhausting; he was sorely in need of a vacation. And now it seemed he would have beautiful Magdalena to keep his bed warm, at least until the storm blew over and it was safe for her to return to Spain.
Or perhaps not, Phillip thought suddenly. Perhaps they would live out their lives together in hiding. He imagined a Ripley-like existence, with Magdalena playing the role of Héloïse Plisson. With the passage of time, he might come to be viewed in a more favorable light—as an alluring figure of mystery, a villain protagonist. Putting a bullet into Lindsay would spoil that. The whole of the Upper East Side would be rooting for his death.
He closed the drawer, deleted his documents and emails, and emptied his digital trash. Downstairs, he returned Lindsay’s phone. She stared through him as though he were made of glass. “Leave” was all she said.
The Blade commuter helicopter arrived at East Hampton Airport at ten minutes past nine o’clock. Six passengers, Manhattanites all, spilled onto the tarmac and, after collecting their luggage, traipsed off toward the terminal. Magdalena watched them from the window of the Sikorsky. Tyler Briggs sat in the opposing seat, legs spread, crotch on full display. Magdalena calculated the odds of delivering a debilitating strike and then snatching the phone from his hand. They were reasonable, she reckoned, but retribution would likely be swift and severe. Tyler was ex-military, and Magdalena was already damaged from her skirmishes with the gray eminence. She’d had quite enough excitement for one evening. Better to ask nicely.
“May I borrow your phone for a moment, Tyler?”
“No.”
“I just want to check a website.”
“The answer is still no.”
“Will you please check it for me, please? It’s Vanity Fair.”
“The magazine?”
“Haven’t you heard? They’re about to publish a story about your boss. By tomorrow morning, the town house will be surrounded by camera crews and reporters. Who knows? If you play your cards right, you might be able to earn a little extra money. But I beg of you, don’t sell those naughty videos you’ve saved on your computer. My poor mother will never get over it.”
“Mr. Somerset ordered us to wipe the system this afternoon.”
“That was wise of him. Now be a love, Tyler, and check the website for me. It’s Vanity Fair. I can spell it for you, if that helps.”
The phone rang before he could reply. “Yes, Mr. Somerset,” he said after a moment. “No, Mr. Somerset. She was no trouble at all . . . Yes, I’ll tell her, sir.”
He hung up and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.
“Tell her what?” asked Magdalena.
The security guard pointed toward the black Range Rover speeding across the tarmac. “Mr. Somerset would like a word with you in private before we leave.”
He braked to a halt a few yards from the Sikorsky’s tail and popped the Range Rover’s rear door. Magdalena took inventory of the cargo before climbing into the passenger seat. Phillip stared straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel. An unlocked cell phone lay on the center console. It was not his usual device.
At last he turned and looked at her. “What happened to your face?”
“Apparently, I said something that offended the sensibilities of your friend.” Magdalena paused. “We were never properly introduced.”
“Silk,” said Phillip. “Leonard Silk.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Smith and Wollensky.”
“Chance encounter?”
“There’s no such thing where Leonard is concerned.”
“What was the occasion?”
“Hamilton Fairchild.”
“Buyer?”
Phillip nodded.
“Which painting?”
“Saint Jerome.”
“Follower of Caravaggio?”
“Circle of Parmigianino. I dumped it on Hamilton in a private treaty sale arranged by Bonhams.”
“I was always fond of that picture,” said Magdalena.
“So was Hamilton until he showed it to an art dealer named Patrick Matthiesen. Matthiesen told Hamilton that, in his learned opinion, the painting was the work of, how shall we say, a later imitator.”
“I assume Hamilton wanted his money back.”
“Naturally.”
“And you refused?”
“Of course.”
“How did the situation resolve itself?”
“Regrettably, Hamilton and his wife died in a single-engine plane crash off the coast of Maine.”
“How many others were there?”
“Fewer than you might imagine. Leonard handled most of them with an envelope filled with naughty photographs or incriminating financial information. And not just buyers. Investors, too. Why do you think Max van Egan still has a quarter-billion in the fund?” Phillip took up the phone and refreshed the web browser. “How long before the story appears?”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t already. When it does, Masterpiece will go up in flames.”
“You’re as guilty as I am, you know.”
“Somehow I don’t think your lenders and investors are going to see it that way.”
Phillip tossed aside the phone in anger. “Why did you do it?” he asked.
“I was arrested an hour after I purchased the Gentileschi. It was an elaborate sting operation by Gabriel Allon and the Italians. They gave me a choice. I could spend the next several years in an Italian prison, or I could give them your head on a platter.”
“You should have asked for a lawyer and kept your mouth shut.”
Pierre Hotel
Ray Bennett, the Pierre Hotel’s head of security, was roughly the same size as Capitano Luca Rossetti. Well over six feet tall, at least 225 pounds. Most of that weight remained in reasonably good shape for a man of his age, which was mid-fifties. His hair was metallic gray and well groomed, his face was wide and square. It was a face, thought Gabriel, that had been made to take a punch. He asked its owner whether it would be possible for them to have a word in private. Ray Bennett said he preferred to speak in the lobby.
“That would be a mistake on your part, Mr. Bennett.”
“And why is that, sir?”
“Because your colleagues will hear what I have to say to you.”
Bennett contemplated Gabriel with a pair of all-seeing cop’s eyes. “What’s this about?”
“A missing guest.”
“Name?”
“Not here.”
Bennett led Gabriel through a doorway behind Reception and down a corridor to his office. He left the door open. Gabriel closed it soundlessly and turned to face the larger man.
“Where is she?”
“Who?”
Gabriel delivered a lightning-strike blow to Bennett’s larynx, then raised a knee to his exposed groin, just to keep things sporting. After all, Gabriel was the smaller and older of the two combatants. A generous point spread was in order.
“You were standing at the elevator when she came downstairs. You told her something that put her mind at ease and escorted her to the delivery entrance. A black Escalade was waiting outside. You forced her into the backseat.”
Bennett made no reply. He wasn’t capable of one.
“I have a feeling I know who put you up to it, Ray. Nevertheless, I’d like to hear you say his name.”
“S-s-s-s-s-s . . .”
“Sorry, but I didn’t catch that.”
“S-s-s-s-s-s . . .”
“Leonard Silk? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
Bennett nodded vigorously.
“How much did he pay you?”
“H-h-h-h-h . . .”
“I beg your pardon?”
“H-h-h-h-h . . .”
Gabriel patted the front of Bennett’s suit jacket and found his phone. It was an iPhone 13 Pro. He waved it before Bennett’s face, and he was in. The same New York–based cellular number appeared three times in his recents. One incoming, two outgoing. The last call was approximately an hour earlier, at 6:41 p.m. It was outgoing.
Gabriel showed the number to Ray Bennett. “Is this Silk?”
Bennett nodded.
Gabriel snapped a photograph of the screen with his Solaris. Then he handed Bennett the receiver of his desk phone. “Tell the valet to bring Ms. Bancroft’s car to the Fifth Avenue entrance. Not the East Sixty-First Street doorway. Fifth Avenue.”
Bennett pressed the speed-dial button and emitted an incomprehensible croak into the mouthpiece.
“Bancroft,” said Gabriel slowly. “I know you can do it, Ray.”
Upstairs on the twentieth floor, Gabriel forwarded Leonard Silk’s phone number to Yuval Gershon before cramming his belongings into his overnight bag. In the room next door, Sarah packed with equal haste. Then she hurried across the hall and stuffed Magdalena’s clothing and toiletries into her costly Louis Vuitton carry-on. At the writing desk, Evelyn Buchanan hammered away at her laptop without pause, oblivious, or so it seemed, to the commotion around her.
At 7:40 p.m. the phone in Sarah’s room rang. It was the valet calling to say that Ms. Bancroft’s car was waiting, as requested, outside the hotel’s Fifth Avenue entrance. Evelyn Buchanan shoved her laptop into her bag and followed Gabriel and Sarah into the elevator. Downstairs in the lobby, there was no sign of Ray Bennett. Sarah informed the young woman at Reception that she and Mr. Allon were checking out earlier than expected.
“Is there a problem?” the woman inquired.
“Change in plans,” lied Sarah effortlessly, and declined the woman’s offer of a printed receipt.
A bellman relieved them of their luggage and loaded it into the Nissan Pathfinder. Evelyn Buchanan crawled into the backseat and immediately removed her laptop. Sarah settled into the passenger seat; Gabriel, behind the wheel. As he sped through the intersection of Fifth Avenue and East Sixtieth Street, he turned his head to the right, hiding his face from the two men sitting in the Suburban outside the Metropolitan Club. They made no attempt to follow them.
“Is kidnapping complimentary at the Pierre?” asked Sarah. “Or is there an extra charge?”
Gabriel laughed quietly.
“Where do you suppose she is?”
“I have a terrible feeling she’s about to leave the country, whether she wants to or not.”
“With Phillip?”
“Who else?”
“She doesn’t have a passport.”
“Maybe she won’t need one where they’re going.”
“Phillip keeps his Gulfstream at Teterboro,” said Sarah.
“He’s too smart to use his own plane. He’ll leave on a charter that someone has booked on his behalf.” Gabriel paused. “Someone like Leonard Silk.”
“Perhaps we should telephone Mr. Silk and ask him where his client is headed.”
“I rather doubt that Mr. Silk would prove receptive to our advances.”
“In that case,” said Sarah, “we should probably contact the FBI.”
“Could get ugly.”
“For Magdalena?”
“And me.”
“Better than the alternative, though.”
“The FBI can’t arrest Phillip without a warrant. And they can’t obtain a warrant based on my say-so alone. They need credible evidence of criminal wrongdoing.”
“They’ll have it soon enough.” Sarah glanced over her shoulder at Evelyn Buchanan, who was typing furiously on her laptop. Then she turned and gazed down the length of Fifth Avenue. “I hope you realize that none of this would have happened if we’d stayed at the Four Seasons.”
“Lesson learned.”
“And I never got my martini.”
“We’ll get you a martini after we stop Phillip from fleeing the country.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Sarah.
Not surprisingly, Ray Bennett chose not to inform Leonard Silk that the number for his personal mobile phone had fallen into the hands of the world’s most famous retired spy. Consequently, Silk took no action to protect his device from attack. It came as he was headed uptown on First Avenue—a stealth zero-click invasion carried out by the Israeli-made malware known as Proteus. Like countless other victims before him, including numerous heads of state, Silk was unaware his device had been compromised.
Within minutes the phone was spewing a geyser of valuable information. Of immediate interest to Yuval Gershon were the GPS location data and the call history. On his own initiative, Gershon attacked a second device before calling Gabriel. It was eight fifteen in New York. Gabriel was barreling along Broadway through Lower Manhattan. The two men spoke in Hebrew to ensure that nothing was lost in translation.
“He left the Pierre at six forty-four. By the way, that was the exact time Ray Bennett led your girl out the service door. Something tells me it wasn’t a coincidence.”
“Where did he go?”
“East Thirty-Fourth Street Heliport. He was there until seven fifty-two.”
“Where is he now?”
“Back in his apartment on Sutton Place. Number fourteen, in case you’re wondering. Sixteenth floor, if I had to guess.”
“Any interesting calls?”
“Executive Jet Services. It’s a charter company based at MacArthur Airport on Long Island.”
“I know where MacArthur is, Yuval.”
“Do you know when Silk made the calls?”
“Maybe you should tell me.”
“The first call was at four twenty-three this afternoon. He called again about twenty minutes ago.”
“Sounds to me as if someone is planning to take a trip.”
“Someone is. Silk called him twice. The last call was around seven o’clock. I lit him up a few minutes ago. There’s no data on the phone, which means it’s probably a burner. But I was able to get a fix on his location.”
“Where is he?”
“The eastern shore of the North Haven Peninsula.”
“Twelve feet above sea level?”
“How did you guess?”
“Message me if he so much as twitches.”
Gabriel rang off and looked at Sarah.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He said that we should probably charter a helicopter.”
Sarah dialed.
The offices of Vanity Fair magazine were located on the twenty-fifth floor of One World Trade Center. Gabriel dropped Evelyn Buchanan on West Street near the 9/11 memorial, then followed the Battery Park Underpass to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport. He squeezed the Nissan into an empty space in the small staff parking lot, gave the attendant $500 in cash to keep the vehicle for the night, and led Sarah into the terminal. Their chartered Bell 407 waited at the end of the L-shaped pier. It departed at 9:10 p.m. and raced eastward, into the cooling twilight.
69
North Haven
The Somersets of North Haven were owners of his-and-hers Range Rovers. Phillip’s was a fully loaded 2022, black, tan interior. With the help of a security guard, he placed five aluminum-sided suitcases by Rimowa of Madison Avenue into the spacious rear storage compartment. Two of the suitcases contained cash; two, gold ingots. The largest was filled with clothing, toiletries, and a few personal mementos—including a collection of luxury wristwatches valued at $12 million.
Inside the house, Phillip found Lindsay where he had left her, seated at the island in the kitchen, the food properly plated and arrayed before her. She had lit candles, poured wine, touched nothing. The air smelled of lilies and grilled octopus. It turned Phillip’s stomach. He checked the display screen of the hardline phone. Lindsay had made no calls during his brief absence.
“Shall I pack a bag for you?” he asked.
She stared silently into an emptiness of Phillip’s making. She had not spoken a word since his ill-advised threat of violence. It was Lindsay who had drawn her sword first, but it had been reckless of Phillip to respond in kind. Almost as reckless, he thought, as divulging the name of the country where he planned to take refuge.
“You won’t tell them where I am, will you?”
“The first chance I get.” She gave him a counterfeit smile. “But not tonight, Phillip. I’ve decided it would be best if you simply disappeared. That way, I’ll never have to look at your face again or, heaven forbid, visit you in prison.”
Phillip returned to his office and executed a series of wire transfers, all designed to leave little if no trace of the money’s final destination. Taken together, they had the effect of draining every cent from the accounts of Masterpiece Art Ventures. There was nothing left. Nothing but the real estate, the toys, the debt, and the paintings. The genuine works in the company’s inventory were worth at least $700 million, but all were leveraged to the hilt. Perhaps Christie’s would hold a special evening sale to auction the works off. The Somerset Collection . . . It had a certain ring to it, he had to admit.
Rising, he went to his window and for the last time surveyed his realm. The bay. His boat. His manicured garden. His blue swimming pool. He realized suddenly he hadn’t used it once all summer.
A green light flared on the multiline desk phone. Phillip snatched up the receiver and heard Lindsay abruptly hang up downstairs. Evidently, she was still entertaining thoughts of turning him in. He switched lines and dialed East Hampton Airport. Mike Knox, the regular evening head of flight operations, answered.
“Your helicopter arrived about twenty minutes ago, Mr. Somerset. The passengers decided to stay on board.”
“Any other inbound birds?”
“A Blade, a couple of privates, and a Zip Aviation charter from downtown.”
“What’s the ETA on the charter?”
“Twenty-five minutes or so.”
“Is my helicopter fueled?”
“Finishing now.”
“Thanks, Mike. I’m on my way.”
Phillip hung up the phone and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. It was where he kept his unregistered firearm.
Not if I kill you first, Lindsay . . .
It would certainly guarantee a clean departure, he thought. But it would also saddle him with eternal infamy. If the truth be told, a part of him was actually looking forward to exile. Keeping the Ponzi scheme up and running all these years had been exhausting; he was sorely in need of a vacation. And now it seemed he would have beautiful Magdalena to keep his bed warm, at least until the storm blew over and it was safe for her to return to Spain.
Or perhaps not, Phillip thought suddenly. Perhaps they would live out their lives together in hiding. He imagined a Ripley-like existence, with Magdalena playing the role of Héloïse Plisson. With the passage of time, he might come to be viewed in a more favorable light—as an alluring figure of mystery, a villain protagonist. Putting a bullet into Lindsay would spoil that. The whole of the Upper East Side would be rooting for his death.
He closed the drawer, deleted his documents and emails, and emptied his digital trash. Downstairs, he returned Lindsay’s phone. She stared through him as though he were made of glass. “Leave” was all she said.
The Blade commuter helicopter arrived at East Hampton Airport at ten minutes past nine o’clock. Six passengers, Manhattanites all, spilled onto the tarmac and, after collecting their luggage, traipsed off toward the terminal. Magdalena watched them from the window of the Sikorsky. Tyler Briggs sat in the opposing seat, legs spread, crotch on full display. Magdalena calculated the odds of delivering a debilitating strike and then snatching the phone from his hand. They were reasonable, she reckoned, but retribution would likely be swift and severe. Tyler was ex-military, and Magdalena was already damaged from her skirmishes with the gray eminence. She’d had quite enough excitement for one evening. Better to ask nicely.
“May I borrow your phone for a moment, Tyler?”
“No.”
“I just want to check a website.”
“The answer is still no.”
“Will you please check it for me, please? It’s Vanity Fair.”
“The magazine?”
“Haven’t you heard? They’re about to publish a story about your boss. By tomorrow morning, the town house will be surrounded by camera crews and reporters. Who knows? If you play your cards right, you might be able to earn a little extra money. But I beg of you, don’t sell those naughty videos you’ve saved on your computer. My poor mother will never get over it.”
“Mr. Somerset ordered us to wipe the system this afternoon.”
“That was wise of him. Now be a love, Tyler, and check the website for me. It’s Vanity Fair. I can spell it for you, if that helps.”
The phone rang before he could reply. “Yes, Mr. Somerset,” he said after a moment. “No, Mr. Somerset. She was no trouble at all . . . Yes, I’ll tell her, sir.”
He hung up and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.
“Tell her what?” asked Magdalena.
The security guard pointed toward the black Range Rover speeding across the tarmac. “Mr. Somerset would like a word with you in private before we leave.”
He braked to a halt a few yards from the Sikorsky’s tail and popped the Range Rover’s rear door. Magdalena took inventory of the cargo before climbing into the passenger seat. Phillip stared straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel. An unlocked cell phone lay on the center console. It was not his usual device.
At last he turned and looked at her. “What happened to your face?”
“Apparently, I said something that offended the sensibilities of your friend.” Magdalena paused. “We were never properly introduced.”
“Silk,” said Phillip. “Leonard Silk.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Smith and Wollensky.”
“Chance encounter?”
“There’s no such thing where Leonard is concerned.”
“What was the occasion?”
“Hamilton Fairchild.”
“Buyer?”
Phillip nodded.
“Which painting?”
“Saint Jerome.”
“Follower of Caravaggio?”
“Circle of Parmigianino. I dumped it on Hamilton in a private treaty sale arranged by Bonhams.”
“I was always fond of that picture,” said Magdalena.
“So was Hamilton until he showed it to an art dealer named Patrick Matthiesen. Matthiesen told Hamilton that, in his learned opinion, the painting was the work of, how shall we say, a later imitator.”
“I assume Hamilton wanted his money back.”
“Naturally.”
“And you refused?”
“Of course.”
“How did the situation resolve itself?”
“Regrettably, Hamilton and his wife died in a single-engine plane crash off the coast of Maine.”
“How many others were there?”
“Fewer than you might imagine. Leonard handled most of them with an envelope filled with naughty photographs or incriminating financial information. And not just buyers. Investors, too. Why do you think Max van Egan still has a quarter-billion in the fund?” Phillip took up the phone and refreshed the web browser. “How long before the story appears?”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t already. When it does, Masterpiece will go up in flames.”
“You’re as guilty as I am, you know.”
“Somehow I don’t think your lenders and investors are going to see it that way.”
Phillip tossed aside the phone in anger. “Why did you do it?” he asked.
“I was arrested an hour after I purchased the Gentileschi. It was an elaborate sting operation by Gabriel Allon and the Italians. They gave me a choice. I could spend the next several years in an Italian prison, or I could give them your head on a platter.”
“You should have asked for a lawyer and kept your mouth shut.”
