Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (109)

“Somewhere in the Pyrenees. Even I don’t know where.”

“Doing what?”

“Painting, I assume.”

“Is she any good?”

“If Phillip hadn’t got his hooks into her, she would have been a major artist.”

“We’d like to question her.”

“I’m sure you would. But as a personal favor to me, I’d like you to let her get on with her life.”

“The Bureau isn’t in the business of granting personal favors, Allon.”

“In that case, you leave me no choice but to call the president directly.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.”

And so Special Agent Josh Campbell returned to Rome empty-handed, but with a fascinating tale to tell. He wrote it up in a lengthy memorandum and fired it simultaneously to Washington and New York. Those who knew of Allon’s past exploits were dubious as to the document’s accuracy—and justifiably so. The report made no mention, for example, of a forged portrait by Anthony van Dyck. Or a recently deceased Frenchwoman named Valerie Bérrangar. Or a Parisian antiques dealer and art thief named Maurice Durand. Or the Swiss violinist Anna Rolfe. Or the notorious Corsican crime figure Don Anton Orsati. Or the lecherous but lovable London art dealer Oliver Dimbleby, whose fictitious rediscovery and record-setting sales of three Venetian School masterworks had recently set the art world ablaze.

By the end of July, all three canvases were hanging in the apartment of the forger who had created them, along with two versions of Modigliani’s Reclining Nude, a Cézanne, a Monet, and a stunning version of Van Gogh’s Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear. On the easel in his studio was a painting with an L-shaped tear, 15 by 23 centimeters, in the lower left corner. After repairing the damage and retouching the losses, the forger shipped the work to a small gallery near the Plaza Virgen de los Reyes in Seville. Then, early the next morning, he disappeared.





72

Adriatico




For the first five days of the trip, the maestral prevailed. It was not the cold and blustery aggressor that had laid siege to the island of Corsica the previous spring, but a temperate and dependable companion that propelled the Bavaria C42 effortlessly down the length of the Adriatic. With the seas calm and the wind blowing across the stern of his spacious vessel, Gabriel was able to provide Irene and Raphael with a smooth and pleasant introduction to maritime life. No one was more relieved than Chiara, who had prepared herself for six sun-drenched weeks of moaning, groaning, and seasickness.

Their days lacked shape, which was their intention. Most mornings Gabriel awakened early and got under way while Chiara and the children slept in the cabins beneath him. Sometime around noon he would drop his sails and lower the swim platform, and they would enjoy a long lunch at the cockpit table. In the evening they dined in portside restaurants—Italy one night, Croatia or Montenegro the next. Gabriel carried his Beretta whenever they went ashore. Chiara never addressed him by his given name.

When they reached the southern Adriatic port of Bari, they spent the night in a comfortable boutique hotel near the marina, did a large load of laundry, and restocked their stores with food and plenty of local white wine. Late the following morning, when they rounded the heel of Italy, a warm and sultry jugo was blowing from the southeast. Gabriel rode it westward across the Ionian and arrived at the Sicilian port of Messina a day earlier than he had anticipated. The Museo Regionale was a short walk along the waterfront from the marina. In Room 10 were two monumental canvases executed by Caravaggio during his nine-month stay in Sicily.

“Is it true he used an actual corpse?” asked Chiara as she pondered The Raising of Lazarus.

“Unlikely,” answered Gabriel. “But certainly not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“It’s not one of his better efforts, is it?”

“Much of what you see was painted by studio assistants. The last restoration was about ten years ago. As you can no doubt tell from the quality of the work, I wasn’t available at the time.”

Chiara gave him a look of reproach. “I think I liked you better before you became a forger.”

“Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t attempt to forge a Caravaggio. You would have thrown me into the street.”

“I have to say, I rather enjoyed my afternoons with Orazio Gentileschi.”

“Not as much as he enjoyed his time with Dana?.”

“She would love to have lunch alone with you before this trip is over.”

“Our cabin is too close to the children’s.”

“In that case, how about a midnight snack instead?” Smiling, Chiara directed her gaze toward the Caravaggio. “Do you think you could paint one?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“And what about your rival? Is he capable of forging a Caravaggio?”

“He produced undetectable Old Master paintings from every school and period. A Caravaggio would be rather easy for him.”

“Who do you suppose he is?”

“The last person in the world anyone would ever suspect.”

Their midnight snack turned out to be a sumptuous feast several hours in length, and it was nearly ten in the morning by the time they set out for Limpari. Their next stop was a little cove along the Calabrian coast. Then, after an overnight sail that included a snack on the Bavaria’s foredeck, they arrived at the Amalfi Coast. From there, they island-hopped their way across the Gulf of Naples—first Capri, then Ischia—before venturing across the Tyrrhenian Sea to Sardinia.