Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (100)
“What were the terms?”
“He promised me that I wouldn’t face charges if I helped him take down Phillip.”
“And you fell for this nonsense?”
“He gave me his word.”
“He used you, Ms. Navarro. And you can be sure that he was planning to hand you over to the FBI the minute he no longer needed you.”
Magdalena tore her wrist from his grasp and retreated to the edge of the seat. They were inching across the intersection of East Fifty-Ninth Street and Third Avenue. On the other side of her blacked-out window was a traffic officer, arm raised. If Magdalena were successful in getting the officer’s attention, she might extricate herself from her current circumstances. But she would also set in motion a chain of events that would lead inevitably to her incarceration. It was better, she reasoned, to take her chances with the solver of Phillip’s problems.
“How much does Allon know?” he asked.
“Everything.”
“And the reporter?”
“More than enough.”
“When will the article appear?”
“Later tonight. Masterpiece will be toast by the morning.”
“Will the story include my name?”
“How could it? I don’t know your name.”
“Phillip never whispered it into your ear while you were—”
“Fuck you, you bastard.”
The blow came without warning, a lightning-fast backhand. Magdalena tasted blood.
“How chivalrous. There’s nothing quite so attractive as a man who strikes a defenseless woman.”
His phone rang before he could pose another question. He raised the device to his ear and listened in silence. Finally he said, “Thanks, Marty. Let me know if Allon makes a move.” Then he returned the phone to his coat pocket and looked at Magdalena. “Evidently, Evelyn Buchanan’s computer is about to have a serious malfunction.”
“It won’t stop the article.”
“Perhaps not. But it will give you and Phillip plenty of time to get out of the country before the FBI issues warrants for your arrest.”
“I’m not going anywhere with him.”
“The alternative is a shallow grave in the Adirondacks.”
Magdalena said nothing.
“Wise choice, Ms. Navarro.”
66
Sag Harbor
Lindsay insisted on stopping in downtown Sag Harbor to pick up the food at Lulu. Phillip thought it an act of madness, like the suicide who slips into her wedding gown before swallowing an overdose of sleeping tablets. Now, as he stood at the end of the restaurant’s handsome bar awaiting their order, he was relieved to have a moment to himself.
The din of the room was pleasant and midsummer in volume. Phillip’s present circumstances notwithstanding, it had been a good day on Wall Street. Money had been made. He shook a few of the better hands, rubbed a couple of important shoulders, and acknowledged the discreet nod of a respected collector who had recently purchased a painting from Masterpiece Art Ventures for $4.5 million. In a few hours’ time, the collector would learn that the painting was doubtless a forgery. In an attempt to conceal his embarrassment over being duped, he would assure his closest friends and business associates that he had always known that Phillip Somerset was a con artist and swindler. The collector would likely receive no restitution, as the available assets of Masterpiece Art Ventures would be limited and the line of claimants long. The talented Mr. Somerset would be unable to offer assistance to the authorities, for his whereabouts would be unknown. Lulu Kitchen & Bar on Main Street in Sag Harbor would be among the last places anyone would recall laying eyes on him.
He felt a hand on his elbow and, turning, found himself gazing into the terrier-like eyes of Edgar Malone. Edgar lived well on the fortune left to him by his grandfather, a substantial portion of which he had unwisely entrusted to Masterpiece Art Ventures.
“I hear you lost several investors today,” he announced.
“All of whom profited handsomely from their association with my fund.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Do I look worried to you, Edgar?”
“You don’t. That said, I’d like to take some of my money off the table.”
“Sleep on it. Call me in the morning with your decision.”
The hostess informed Phillip that his order was delayed and offered him a glass of complimentary wine as recompense, as he was a valued customer and a prominent member of East End society—at least for a few more hours. He declined the glass of wine but accepted an incoming call to his burner phone.
“Send your helicopter back to Manhattan immediately,” said Leonard Silk.
“Why?”
“To pick up the final member of your traveling party.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Call your crew,” said Silk. “Get that bird back to Manhattan.”
Five minutes later, bags in hand, Phillip stepped from the restaurant’s doorway into the warm evening air. He placed the food in the back of the Range Rover and settled into the passenger seat. Lindsay reversed out of the space without so much as a glance in the rearview mirror. Tires screeched, a horn blared. Phillip supposed it would one day be a part of the lore surrounding his disappearance—the near-collision on Main Street in Sag Harbor. Much would be made of the fact that Lindsay had been the one behind the wheel.