Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (105)

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 Hélo?se 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.”