Portrait of an unknown w.., p.34
Portrait of an Unknown Woman, page 34
Gabriel returned the report to the portfolio case and closed the lid.
“Bon voyage,” said General Ferrari with a smile.
74
Salamanca
Contrary to the statement that Gabriel made to Special Agent Josh Campbell of the FBI, Magdalena Navarro was not in hiding in a remote village in the Pyrenees. She was holed up in her apartment on the Calle de Castelló in the elegant Salamanca district of Madrid. At half past twelve the following afternoon, Gabriel thumbed the appropriate call button on the building’s intercom panel, then turned his back to the camera. Receiving no answer, he pressed the button a second time. At length the speaker crackled into life.
“If you do that again,” said a sleep-heavy female voice, “I’m going to come down there and kill you.”
“Please don’t, Magdalena.” Gabriel turned to face the camera. “It’s only me.”
“My God!” she said, and unlocked the door.
Inside, Gabriel climbed the stairs to her apartment. She was waiting in the open doorway, wearing a gauzy cotton pullover and little else. Her raven hair was a tangled mess. Her hands were stained with paint.
“I hope I’m not intruding on something,” said Gabriel.
“Only on my sleep. You should have warned me that you were coming.”
“I was afraid you might try to flee the country.” He looked down at the two matching Vuitton suitcases standing on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. “Which one has the cash?”
She indicated the bag nearest the door. “It’s all the money I have left.”
“What happened to the four or five million you had hidden in bank accounts around Europe?”
“I gave it away.”
“To whom?”
“The poor and the immigrants, mainly. I also made a rather large donation to my favorite environmental group and another to my old art school in Barcelona. Anonymously, of course.”
“Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.” Gabriel eyed her attire disapprovingly. “But not dressed like that.”
Smiling, she padded barefoot down a corridor and reappeared a moment later in stretch jeans and a Real Madrid jersey. In the kitchen she prepared café con leche. They drank it at a table overlooking the narrow street. It was lined with luxury apartment buildings, designer clothing boutiques, and trendy bars and restaurants. Magdalena certainly belonged in a place like this, thought Gabriel. It was a pity she hadn’t come by it honestly.
“Your skin is the color of Spanish saddle leather,” she informed him. “Where have you been?”
“Circumnavigating the globe on my sailboat with my wife and children.”
“Did you make any new discoveries?”
“Only the identity of the forger.” He looked down at her paint-smudged hands. “I see you’re working again.”
She nodded. “Late night.”
“Anything good?”
“A soon-to-be rediscovered Madonna and child attributed to the circle of Raphael. You?”
“I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“Not even tempted?”
“To what?”
“Forge a painting or two,” said Magdalena. “I would be honored to serve as your front woman. But only if you agree to a fifty-fifty split of the profits.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” said Gabriel. “Perhaps you’re a hopeless case, after all.”
She smiled and drank her coffee. “I’m not a perfect person, Mr. Allon. But I’ve turned over a new leaf as well. And in case you’re still wondering, I’m not the forger.”
“If I thought you were, I would have arrived here with a contingent of Guardia Civil to take you into custody.”
“I’ve been expecting them.” She took up her phone and opened the web browser. “Have you read the news from Germany lately? Herr Hassler is now cooperating with federal prosecutors. It’s only a matter of time before they request my extradition.”
“I prevented a major terrorist attack on the Cologne Cathedral not long ago. If it becomes necessary, I can call in the chit.”
“What about the Belgians?”
“Brussels and Antwerp are the organized crime capitals of Europe. I doubt the Belgian police will seek your extradition over a few fake paintings.”
“Surely the FBI knows about me.”
“And me as well,” replied Gabriel. “For the moment, at least, they’re inclined to keep our names out of it.” He looked up at the unframed painting leaning against the wall. “Yours?”
Magdalena nodded. “It’s the one I painted after Phillip and Leonard Silk tried to kill you in Paris. Self-portrait of a front woman.”
“It’s not half bad.”
“My new canvases are much better. I’d love to show them to you, but I’m afraid my studio is filled with half-finished forgeries at the moment.”
There were no forgeries, of course—only wildly original works executed by an artist of immense talent and technical skill. Gabriel drifted from canvas to canvas, spellbound.
“What do you think?” asked Magdalena.
“I think Phillip Somerset’s greatest crime was depriving the world of your work.” Gabriel placed a hand thoughtfully to his chin. “The question is, what should we do with them?”
“We?”
“I would be honored to serve as your front man. I insist, however, on receiving no share of the profits.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Allon. But how do you intend to bring the works to market?”
“With a show at a premier gallery, in a major art world hub. The kind of show that will turn you into a billion-dollar global brand. Anyone who’s anyone will be there. And by the end of the night, everyone will know your name.”
“For all the right reasons, I hope,” said Magdalena. “But where will this show take place?”
“Galerie Olivia Watson in London.”
Her face brightened. “Would you really do that for me?”
“On one condition.”
“The forger’s name?”
He nodded.
“It was me, Mr. Allon. I executed all those undetectable Old Master paintings between shifts at El Pote Español and Katz’s Delicatessen.” She threw her arms around his neck. “How can I possibly repay you?”
“By allowing me to buy one of your paintings.”
“Only if you promise never to sell it for a profit.”
“Deal,” said Gabriel.
75
Equus
Exactly forty-eight hours later—after yet another transatlantic flight to JFK and a brief stay at a Courtyard Marriott in downtown Stamford, Connecticut—Gabriel slid behind the wheel of a rented American-made sedan and drove into a blinding sunrise to Westport. It was a few minutes after seven when he arrived at Equus Analytics. Aiden Gallagher’s flashy BMW 7 Series was nowhere in sight.
Gabriel lowered the portfolio case to the asphalt, drew his Solaris mobile phone, and dialed. Yuval Gershon of Unit 8200 answered instantly. “Ready?” he asked.
“Why else would I be calling?”
Yuval remotely unlocked the door. “Enjoy.”
Gabriel slipped the phone into his pocket, picked up the portfolio case, and headed inside.
The laboratory was in darkness, the shades tightly drawn. Gabriel switched on his phone’s flashlight and directed the beam toward the painting mounted on the Bruker M6 Jetstream spatial imaging device. A portrait of a woman, late twenties or early thirties, wearing a gown of gold silk trimmed in white lace. Any fool could see that the dimensions of the canvas were 115 by 92 centimeters. Gabriel snapped a photograph of the woman’s pale cheek. The appearance of the craquelure gave him a funny feeling at the back of his neck.
He placed the portfolio case on an examination table and climbed the stairs to the second floor. There was a single room, identical in size to the lab below. At the end overlooking Riverside Avenue were some twenty wooden shipping crates, each containing a painting awaiting examination by the esteemed Aiden Gallagher. Only one of the crates had been opened, the one that had been used to ship the painting now secured to the Bruker. It had been sent to Equus Analytics by the Old Masters department of Sotheby’s in New York.
At the opposite end of the room was an easel, a trolley, and a portable fume extractor. The drawers of the trolley were empty and spotlessly clean. The easel was empty, as well. Gabriel played the beam of the flashlight over the utility tray. Lead white. Charcoal black. Madder lake. Vermilion. Indigo. Green earth. Lapis lazuli. Red and yellow ocher.
Downstairs, he removed the riverscape from the portfolio case and laid it on the examination table. Next to it he placed two reports. One was from France’s National Center for Research and Restoration; the other, Equus Analytics. Then he switched off the flashlight and waited. Two hours and twelve minutes later, a car drew up in the parking lot. They would settle the matter quietly, thought Gabriel, and never speak of it again.
The museum-grade alarm system emitted eight sharp chirps, and a moment later Aiden Gallagher strode through the door. He wore khaki trousers and a V-neck pullover. He stretched a hand toward the light switch, then hesitated, as though aware of a presence in the laboratory.
Finally the overhead fluorescent panels flickered into life. Aiden Gallagher drew a sharp breath of astonishment and backpedaled. “How did you get in here, Allon?”
“You left the door open. Fortunately, I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
Gallagher started to dial a number on his mobile phone.
“I wouldn’t, Aiden. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”
Gallagher lowered the phone. “Why are you here?”
“You owe my friend Sarah Bancroft seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“For what?”
Gabriel lowered his gaze toward A River Scene with Distant Windmills. “You assured us that there were polar fleece fibers embedded in the surface paint, ironclad proof that it was a forgery. But a second analysis of the painting has determined that you were incorrect.”
“Who conducted this review?”
“The National Center for Research and Restoration.”
Gallagher offered Gabriel a half-smile. “Isn’t that the same laboratory that mistakenly authenticated those four forgeries that ended up hanging in the Louvre?”
“Theirs was an honest mistake. Yours wasn’t. And by the way,” added Gabriel, “I knew that Cranach was a forgery the instant I laid eyes on it.” He pointed toward the painting attached to the Bruker. “And I certainly don’t need a spatial imaging device to tell me that Van Dyck is a forgery as well.”
“Based on what I’ve seen thus far, I’m inclined to accept it as authentic.”
“I’m sure you would. But that would be a miscalculation on your part.”
“How so?”
“The smarter play is to take all of your forgeries out of circulation, one by one. You’ll be the hero of the art world. And you’ll get even richer in the process. By my calculation, the paintings upstairs alone will add a million and a half dollars to Equus’s bottom line.”
“Thanks to the Somerset scandal, my fee is now one hundred thousand for rush jobs. Therefore, those paintings represent two million in new business.”
“I didn’t hear a denial, Aiden.”
“That I’m the forger? I didn’t think one was necessary. Your theory is ludicrous.”
“You’re a trained painter and restorer, and a specialist in provenance research and authentication. Which means you know how to select works that will be accepted by the art world and, more important, how to construct and execute them. But the best part of your scheme is that you were in a unique position to authenticate your own forgeries.” Gabriel looked down at A River Scene with Distant Windmills. “If only you had authenticated that one, you and Phillip might still be in business.” He paused. “And I wouldn’t be here now.”
“I didn’t authenticate that painting, Allon, because it’s an obvious forgery.”
“Obvious to me, certainly. But not to most connoisseurs. That’s why you and Phillip decided that I had to die. You told us that you had found fleece fibers in the painting because it’s the most common mistake made by inexperienced forgers. It’s also something that could be discovered during, say, a hurried preliminary examination conducted over a weekend. When we collected the painting on Monday afternoon, you asked when we were planning to confront Georges Fleury. And Sarah foolishly answered truthfully.”
“Do you realize how insane you sound?”
“I haven’t arrived at the good part yet.” Gabriel took a step closer to Gallagher. “You are a member of a very small club, Aiden. Its membership is limited to those lucky souls who have tried to kill me or one of my friends and are still walking the face of the earth. So if I were you, I’d stop smiling. Otherwise, I’m liable to lose my temper.”
Gallagher regarded Gabriel without expression. “I’m not the man you think I am, Allon.”
“I know you are.”
“Prove it.”
“I can’t. You and Phillip were too careful. And the condition of your atelier upstairs suggests that you have gone to extraordinary lengths to conceal the evidence of your crimes.”
Gallagher indicated the French report. “May I?”
“By all means.”
He picked up the document and began to read. After a moment he said, “They weren’t able to reach an opinion as to the authenticity.” There was a trace of pride in his voice, faint but unmistakable. “Even their foremost expert on Golden Age Dutch painters couldn’t rule out the possibility that it’s real.”
“But you and I both know it isn’t. Which is why I’d like to borrow a laboratory knife, please.”
Gallagher hesitated. Then he opened a drawer and laid an Olfa AK-1 on the tabletop.
“Perhaps you should do it,” suggested Gabriel.
“Be my guest.”
Gabriel grasped the high-quality knife by its yellow handle and cleaved two irreparable horizontal gashes through the painting. He was about to inflict a third when Gallagher seized his wrist. The Dubliner’s hand was trembling.
“That’s quite enough.” He relaxed his grip. “There’s no need to mutilate the bloody thing.”
Gabriel sliced the painting a third time before ripping the swaths of canvas from the stretcher. Then, knife in hand, he approached Portrait of an Unknown Woman.
“Don’t touch it,” said Gallagher evenly.
“Why not?”
“Because that painting is a genuine Van Dyck.”
“That painting,” said Gabriel, “is one of your forgeries.”
“Are you prepared to wager fifteen million dollars?”
“Is that how much Phillip got for it?”
Receiving no answer, Gabriel removed the painting from the Bruker and cut it to ribbons. Looking up, he saw Aiden Gallagher gazing at the ruined painting, his face bloodless with rage.
“Why did you do that?”
“The better question is, why did you paint it? Was it only for the money? Or did you enjoy making fools of people like Julian Isherwood and Sarah Bancroft?” Gabriel laid the laboratory knife on the examination table. “You owe them seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“The contract specifically said that the money is nonrefundable.”
“In that case, perhaps we can reach a compromise.”
“How much did you have in mind?”
Gabriel smiled.
It did not take long to arrive at a figure—hardly surprising, for there was no negotiation involved. Gabriel simply named his price, and Aiden Gallagher, after a moment or two of sputtering remonstration, wrote out the check. The Irishman then requested reimbursement for the Van Dyck. Gabriel laid a five-euro banknote on the examination table and, check in hand, went into the sunlit Connecticut morning.
He took his time driving back to JFK but still managed to arrive four hours before his flight was scheduled to depart. He dined poorly in the food hall, purchased gifts for Chiara and the children in the duty-free shops, and then wandered over to his assigned gate. There he removed the check from the breast pocket of his handmade Italian sport coat—a check for the sum of $10 million, payable to Isherwood Fine Arts.
Included in the final settlement was $75,000 for the fraudulent report from Equus Analytics, $3.4 million for the forged Van Dyck, $1.1 million for the forged Albert Cuyp, $100,000 for the Old Master canvases that Gabriel used for his own forgeries, and $525,000 in assorted expenses such as first-class air travel, five-star hotel rooms, and three-olive Belvedere martinis. And then, of course, there was the $4.8 million that Sarah Bancroft had lost in the collapse of Masterpiece Art Ventures.
All in all, thought Gabriel, it was a rather satisfying end to the story.
He rang Chiara in Venice and gave her the good news.
“Reprobate,” she said, and laughed hysterically.
Author’s Note
Portrait of an Unknown Woman is a work of entertainment and should be read as nothing more. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visitors to the sestiere of San Polo will search in vain for the converted palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal where Gabriel Allon, after a long and tumultuous career with Israeli intelligence, has taken up residence with his wife and two young children. The business office of the Tiepolo Restoration Company is likewise impossible to find, for no such enterprise exists. The Andrea Bocelli song playing in the Allon family’s kitchen in chapter 6 is “Chiara,” from the 2001 album Cieli di Toscana. I listened to the CD frequently while writing the first draft of The Confessor in 2002 and gave the name to the beautiful daughter of the chief rabbi of Venice, Jacob Zolli. Irene Allon is named for her grandmother, who was one of the early State of Israel’s most important artists. Her twin brother is named for the Italian High Renaissance painter Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, better known as Raphael.
