Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (113)

“Bon voyage,” said General Ferrari with a smile.





74

Salamanca




Contrary to the statement that Gabriel made to Special Agent Josh Campbell of the FBI, Magdalena Navarro was not in hiding in a remote village in the Pyrenees. She was holed up in her apartment on the Calle de Castelló in the elegant Salamanca district of Madrid. At half past twelve the following afternoon, Gabriel thumbed the appropriate call button on the building’s intercom panel, then turned his back to the camera. Receiving no answer, he pressed the button a second time. At length the speaker crackled into life.

“If you do that again,” said a sleep-heavy female voice, “I’m going to come down there and kill you.”

“Please don’t, Magdalena.” Gabriel turned to face the camera. “It’s only me.”

“My God!” she said, and unlocked the door.

Inside, Gabriel climbed the stairs to her apartment. She was waiting in the open doorway, wearing a gauzy cotton pullover and little else. Her raven hair was a tangled mess. Her hands were stained with paint.

“I hope I’m not intruding on something,” said Gabriel.

“Only on my sleep. You should have warned me that you were coming.”

“I was afraid you might try to flee the country.” He looked down at the two matching Vuitton suitcases standing on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. “Which one has the cash?”

She indicated the bag nearest the door. “It’s all the money I have left.”

“What happened to the four or five million you had hidden in bank accounts around Europe?”

“I gave it away.”

“To whom?”

“The poor and the immigrants, mainly. I also made a rather large donation to my favorite environmental group and another to my old art school in Barcelona. Anonymously, of course.”

“Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.” Gabriel eyed her attire disapprovingly. “But not dressed like that.”

Smiling, she padded barefoot down a corridor and reappeared a moment later in stretch jeans and a Real Madrid jersey. In the kitchen she prepared café con leche. They drank it at a table overlooking the narrow street. It was lined with luxury apartment buildings, designer clothing boutiques, and trendy bars and restaurants. Magdalena certainly belonged in a place like this, thought Gabriel. It was a pity she hadn’t come by it honestly.

“Your skin is the color of Spanish saddle leather,” she informed him. “Where have you been?”

“Circumnavigating the globe on my sailboat with my wife and children.”

“Did you make any new discoveries?”

“Only the identity of the forger.” He looked down at her paint-smudged hands. “I see you’re working again.”

She nodded. “Late night.”

“Anything good?”

“A soon-to-be rediscovered Madonna and child attributed to the circle of Raphael. You?”

“I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“Not even tempted?”

“To what?”

“Forge a painting or two,” said Magdalena. “I would be honored to serve as your front woman. But only if you agree to a fifty-fifty split of the profits.”

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” said Gabriel. “Perhaps you’re a hopeless case, after all.”

She smiled and drank her coffee. “I’m not a perfect person, Mr. Allon. But I’ve turned over a new leaf as well. And in case you’re still wondering, I’m not the forger.”

“If I thought you were, I would have arrived here with a contingent of Guardia Civil to take you into custody.”

“I’ve been expecting them.” She took up her phone and opened the web browser. “Have you read the news from Germany lately? Herr Hassler is now cooperating with federal prosecutors. It’s only a matter of time before they request my extradition.”

“I prevented a major terrorist attack on the Cologne Cathedral not long ago. If it becomes necessary, I can call in the chit.”

“What about the Belgians?”

“Brussels and Antwerp are the organized crime capitals of Europe. I doubt the Belgian police will seek your extradition over a few fake paintings.”

“Surely the FBI knows about me.”

“And me as well,” replied Gabriel. “For the moment, at least, they’re inclined to keep our names out of it.” He looked up at the unframed painting leaning against the wall. “Yours?”

Magdalena nodded. “It’s the one I painted after Phillip and Leonard Silk tried to kill you in Paris. Self-portrait of a front woman.”

“It’s not half bad.”

“My new canvases are much better. I’d love to show them to you, but I’m afraid my studio is filled with half-finished forgeries at the moment.”

There were no forgeries, of course—only wildly original works executed by an artist of immense talent and technical skill. Gabriel drifted from canvas to canvas, spellbound.

“What do you think?” asked Magdalena.

“I think Phillip Somerset’s greatest crime was depriving the world of your work.” Gabriel placed a hand thoughtfully to his chin. “The question is, what should we do with them?”