Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (15)

“Who could possibly resist the opportunity to meet with the great Gabriel Allon?”

“A woman who is mourning the death of her mother.”

“What about the dealer in Paris?”

“Julian swears he’s reputable.”

“If you like, I can run his name through our database and see if anything turns up.”

“I have contacts of my own in the Paris art trade.”

“The dirty side of the trade, as I recall.” General Ferrari expelled a lungful of air. “Which returns us to the topic of young Capitano Rossetti.”

“Perhaps I should speak to him.”

“I can assure you, Rossetti has no wish to see you. If the truth be told, he’s rather embarrassed by the way things turned out last night. After all, you are half his size.”

“And twice his age.”

“That, too.”

Gabriel checked the time.

“Going somewhere?” inquired the general.

“The airport, I hope.”

“A Carabinieri patrol boat will collect you at San Tomà at ten o’clock.”

“Ten is cutting it rather close, don’t you think?”

“A representative from Alitalia will escort you through security and directly onto the plane. And don’t worry about Chiara and the children,” the general added as he ordered two more cappuccini. “We’ll keep an eye on them while you’re away.”





10

Villa Bérrangar




In the Middle Ages, when English kings laid claim to all of France, the picturesque village of Saint-Macaire was designated a ville royale d’Angleterre. It seemed that little had changed in the intervening centuries. A medieval tower stood guard over the entrance to the old city, its clockface showing half past five. Next to it was a café called La Belle Lurette. Gabriel handed the waiter twenty euros and asked whether he knew the address of Madame Valerie Bérrangar.

“She was killed in an auto accident on Monday afternoon.”

Gabriel wordlessly handed over another banknote.

“Her villa is near Chateau Malromé. About two kilometers to the east.” The waiter slipped the money into the pocket of his apron. “The entrance will be on your left. You can’t miss it.”

The chateau stood on a broad hillside north of Saint-Macaire, in the commune of Saint-André-du-Bois. Renowned for the quality of its gravelly clay soil, the forty-hectare property was acquired in the late nineteenth century by Countess Adèle de Toulouse-Lautrec. Her son, a painter and illustrator who often found inspiration in the brothels and cabarets of Paris, had passed his summers there.

East of the chateau the road was dangerously narrow and lined on both sides with vineyards. With one eye on the instrument panel of his rented sedan, Gabriel drove two kilometers exactly and, as promised, glimpsed a dwelling on the left side of the road. Parked in the forecourt was a Peugeot estate car, metallic blue, Paris registration. Gabriel drew up next to it and switched off the engine. The instant he opened his door, a dog barked ferociously. But of course, he thought, and climbed out.

Warily he approached the entrance of the villa. As he stretched out a hand toward the bell push, the door opened to reveal a woman, dark in dress and demeanor, with the pale skin of someone who assiduously avoided the sun. She looked to be in her early forties, but Gabriel couldn’t be sure. An Old Master painting he could reliably date to within a few years. But modern women, with their age-concealing balms and injections, were a mystery to him.

“Madame Lagarde?”

“Oui,” she answered. “May I help you, monsieur?”

Gabriel introduced himself. Not with a work name, or one he plucked from thin air, but his real name.

“Have we met somewhere before?” asked Juliette Lagarde.

“I rather doubt it.”

“But your name is very familiar.” Her eyes narrowed. “Your face, too.”

“You might have read about me in the newspapers.”

“Why?”

“I used to be the chief of the Israeli intelligence service. I worked closely with the French government in the fight against the Islamic State.”

“Not that Gabriel Allon.”

He offered her an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid so.”

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your mother.”

“My mother—”

“Was killed in an accident on Monday afternoon.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder toward the large Belgian shepherd berating him from the forecourt. “Would it be possible for us to talk inside?”

“You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?”

“Non,” said Gabriel. “Only dogs like that.”



As it turned out, Juliette Lagarde didn’t much care for the dog, either. It belonged to Jean-Luc, the caretaker. He had worked for the Bérrangar family for more than thirty years, looking after the house when they were in Paris, tending to the small vineyard. Juliette’s father, a prosperous commercial lawyer, had planted it with his own hands. He had died of a massive heart attack while Juliette was still a student at the Paris-Sorbonne University. Having earned a useless degree in literature, she now worked in the marketing department of one of France’s largest fashion houses. Her mother, unnerved by the jihadist terrorist attacks in Paris, had lately been spending most of her time in Saint-André-du-Bois.