Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (104)

“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.