Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (112)

Fittingly enough, it arrived in Italy the same morning that Gabriel, after a moonlit final run up the northern Adriatic, eased the Bavaria into its slip at the Venezia Certosa Marina. Four days later, after watching Chiara board a Number 2 at the San Tomà vaporetto stop, he escorted Irene and Raphael to the Bernardo Canal scuola elementare for the start of the fall term. Alone for the first time in many weeks—and having nothing else on his schedule other than a visit to the Rialto Market—he made his way through empty streets to Bar Dogale. Which was where, at a chrome table covered in blue, he found General Cesare Ferrari.



The waiter delivered two cappuccini and a basket of sugar-dusted, cream-filled cornetti. Gabriel drank the coffee but ignored the pastry. “I’ve been eating nonstop for a month and a half.”

“And yet you look as though you haven’t gained a kilo.”

“I hide it well.”

“Like most things.” The general was attired in his blue-and-gold Carabinieri finery. Standing upright next to his chair was a shallow portfolio case typically used by art professionals to transport drawings or small paintings. “Somehow you even managed to conceal your involvement in the Somerset affair.”

“Not exactly. That FBI agent gave me an earful.”

“It is my understanding that the interview was conducted over Bellinis in Harry’s Bar.”

“You were watching?”

“You don’t think we let FBI agents wander around without an escort?”

“I certainly hope not.”

“Special Agent Campbell gave me a good going-over as well,” said Ferrari. “He was convinced the Art Squad was somehow involved in your shenanigans. I assured him that we were not.”

“The swift return of Dana? and the Shower of Gold suggests he believed you.”

The general sipped his cappuccino. “A rather remarkable development, even by your standards.”

“Where is it now?”

“Still at the palazzo,” said Ferrari, referring to the Art Squad’s Roman headquarters. “But later today it will be taken to the Galleria Borghese for analysis.”

“Oh, dear.”

“How long will it take them to conclude it’s a forgery?”

“According to the Times, it passed muster in New York.”

“With all due respect, we know a bit more about Gentileschi’s work than do the Americans.”

“The brushwork and palette are his,” said Gabriel. “But the minute they subject the canvas to examination by X-radiography and infrared reflectography, I’m cooked.”

“As well you should be. That painting needs to be exposed as a forgery and destroyed.” The general exhaled heavily. “You realize, I hope, that your fictitious sales through Dimbleby Fine Arts of London have added new works to the oeuvres of three of the greatest painters in history.”

“As of yet, none of the pictures that Oliver purportedly sold have found their way into the artists’ catalogues raisonnés.”

“And if they do?”

“I will immediately step forward. Until then, I intend to remain out of the public eye.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m going to spend the next month cleaning crumbs and other assorted debris from my boat.”

“And then?”

“My wife is considering allowing me to restore a painting.”

“For the Tiepolo Restoration Company?”

“Given the perilous state of my bank account, I’m inclined to accept a lucrative private commission first.”

The general frowned. “Perhaps you should just forge something instead.”

“My brief career as an art forger is now officially over.”

“And to think that it was all for naught.”

“I brought down the largest forgery network in the history of the art world.”

“Without finding the forger himself,” the general pointed out.

“I would have if Lindsay Somerset hadn’t ruined a perfectly good Range Rover killing her husband.”

“Be that as it may, it’s a rather unsatisfying conclusion to the story. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“The guilty were punished,” said Gabriel.

“But the forger remains free.”

“Surely the FBI must have some idea who he is by now.”

“Young Campbell says not. Clearly, your forger covered his tracks well.” General Ferrari reached for the portfolio case and handed it to Gabriel. “But perhaps this might help solve the mystery.”

“What is it?”

“A gift from your friend Jacques Ménard in Paris.”

Gabriel balanced the case on his knees and popped the latches. Inside was A River Scene with Distant Windmills, oil on canvas, 36 by 58 centimeters, purportedly by the Dutch Golden Age painter Aelbert Cuyp. There was also a copy of a report prepared by the Louvre’s National Center for Research and Restoration. It stated that the center, after weeks of painstaking scientific analysis, had been unable to render a definitive judgment as to the work’s authenticity. On one point, however, it was certain in its findings.

A River Scene with Distant Windmills contained not a single fiber of navy-blue polar fleece fabric.

Gabriel returned the report to the portfolio case and closed the lid.