Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (103)

“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.”