Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (115)

“Based on what I’ve seen thus far, I’m inclined to accept it as authentic.”

“I’m sure you would. But that would be a miscalculation on your part.”

“How so?”

“The smarter play is to take all of your forgeries out of circulation, one by one. You’ll be the hero of the art world. And you’ll get even richer in the process. By my calculation, the paintings upstairs alone will add a million and a half dollars to Equus’s bottom line.”

“Thanks to the Somerset scandal, my fee is now one hundred thousand for rush jobs. Therefore, those paintings represent two million in new business.”

“I didn’t hear a denial, Aiden.”

“That I’m the forger? I didn’t think one was necessary. Your theory is ludicrous.”

“You’re a trained painter and restorer, and a specialist in provenance research and authentication. Which means you know how to select works that will be accepted by the art world and, more important, how to construct and execute them. But the best part of your scheme is that you were in a unique position to authenticate your own forgeries.” Gabriel looked down at A River Scene with Distant Windmills. “If only you had authenticated that one, you and Phillip might still be in business.” He paused. “And I wouldn’t be here now.”

“I didn’t authenticate that painting, Allon, because it’s an obvious forgery.”

“Obvious to me, certainly. But not to most connoisseurs. That’s why you and Phillip decided that I had to die. You told us that you had found fleece fibers in the painting because it’s the most common mistake made by inexperienced forgers. It’s also something that could be discovered during, say, a hurried preliminary examination conducted over a weekend. When we collected the painting on Monday afternoon, you asked when we were planning to confront Georges Fleury. And Sarah foolishly answered truthfully.”

“Do you realize how insane you sound?”

“I haven’t arrived at the good part yet.” Gabriel took a step closer to Gallagher. “You are a member of a very small club, Aiden. Its membership is limited to those lucky souls who have tried to kill me or one of my friends and are still walking the face of the earth. So if I were you, I’d stop smiling. Otherwise, I’m liable to lose my temper.”

Gallagher regarded Gabriel without expression. “I’m not the man you think I am, Allon.”

“I know you are.”

“Prove it.”

“I can’t. You and Phillip were too careful. And the condition of your atelier upstairs suggests that you have gone to extraordinary lengths to conceal the evidence of your crimes.”

Gallagher indicated the French report. “May I?”

“By all means.”

He picked up the document and began to read. After a moment he said, “They weren’t able to reach an opinion as to the authenticity.” There was a trace of pride in his voice, faint but unmistakable. “Even their foremost expert on Golden Age Dutch painters couldn’t rule out the possibility that it’s real.”

“But you and I both know it isn’t. Which is why I’d like to borrow a laboratory knife, please.”

Gallagher hesitated. Then he opened a drawer and laid an Olfa AK-1 on the tabletop.

“Perhaps you should do it,” suggested Gabriel.

“Be my guest.”

Gabriel grasped the high-quality knife by its yellow handle and cleaved two irreparable horizontal gashes through the painting. He was about to inflict a third when Gallagher seized his wrist. The Dubliner’s hand was trembling.

“That’s quite enough.” He relaxed his grip. “There’s no need to mutilate the bloody thing.”

Gabriel sliced the painting a third time before ripping the swaths of canvas from the stretcher. Then, knife in hand, he approached Portrait of an Unknown Woman.

“Don’t touch it,” said Gallagher evenly.

“Why not?”

“Because that painting is a genuine Van Dyck.”

“That painting,” said Gabriel, “is one of your forgeries.”

“Are you prepared to wager fifteen million dollars?”

“Is that how much Phillip got for it?”

Receiving no answer, Gabriel removed the painting from the Bruker and cut it to ribbons. Looking up, he saw Aiden Gallagher gazing at the ruined painting, his face bloodless with rage.

“Why did you do that?”

“The better question is, why did you paint it? Was it only for the money? Or did you enjoy making fools of people like Julian Isherwood and Sarah Bancroft?” Gabriel laid the laboratory knife on the examination table. “You owe them seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“The contract specifically said that the money is nonrefundable.”

“In that case, perhaps we can reach a compromise.”

“How much did you have in mind?”

Gabriel smiled.



It did not take long to arrive at a figure—hardly surprising, for there was no negotiation involved. Gabriel simply named his price, and Aiden Gallagher, after a moment or two of sputtering remonstration, wrote out the check. The Irishman then requested reimbursement for the Van Dyck. Gabriel laid a five-euro banknote on the examination table and, check in hand, went into the sunlit Connecticut morning.