Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (16)

“She wasn’t an Islamophobe or a follower of the far right, mind you. She just preferred the countryside to the city. I worried about her being alone, but she had friends here. A life of her own.”

They were standing in the villa’s spacious kitchen, waiting for the water to boil in the electric kettle. The house around them was silent.

“How often did you speak to her?” asked Gabriel.

“Once or twice a week.” Juliette Lagarde sighed. “Our relationship had been strained of late.”

“May I ask why?”

“We were quarreling over the question of remarriage.”

“She was involved with someone?”

“My mother? God, no.” Juliette Lagarde held up her left hand. It was absent a wedding ring. “She wanted me to find another husband before it was too late.”

“What happened to the first one?”

“I was so busy at work that I failed to notice he was involved in a passionate cinq à sept with a young woman from his office.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. These things happen. Especially in France.” She poured boiling water from the electric kettle into a flowered teapot. “What about you, Monsieur Allon? Are you married?”

“Happily.”

“Children?”

“Twins.”

“Are they spies, too?”

“They’re in elementary school.”

Juliette Lagarde took up the tray and led Gabriel along a central corridor, into a sitting room. It was formal, more Paris than Bordeaux. The walls were hung with oil paintings in ornate French antique frames. They were works of high quality but moderate value. Someone had chosen them with care.

Juliette Lagarde placed the tray on a low wooden table and opened the French doors to the chill afternoon air. “Do you know who lived there?” she asked, pointing toward the distant silhouette of Chateau Malromé.

“A painter whose work I’ve always admired.”

“You’re interested in art?”

“You might say that.”

She sat down and poured two cups of tea. “Are you always so evasive?”

“Forgive me, Madame Lagarde. But I’ve only recently traded the secret world for the overt one. I’m not used to talking about myself.”

“Try it once.”

“I was an art student when I was recruited by Israeli intelligence. I wanted to be a painter, but I became a restorer instead. For many years, I worked in Europe under an assumed identity.”

“Your French is excellent.”

“My Italian is better.” Gabriel accepted a cup of tea and carried it to the fireplace. Photographs in handsome silver frames lined the mantel. One depicted the Bérrangar family in happier times. “You bear a striking resemblance to your mother. But then I’m sure you realize that.”

“We were very much alike. Too much, perhaps.” A silence fell between them. At length Juliette Lagarde said, “Now that we’re properly acquainted, Monsieur Allon, perhaps you can tell me why her death is of any possible interest to a man like you.”

“She was on her way to Bordeaux to meet a friend of mine when she had the accident. An art dealer named Julian Isherwood.” He handed Juliette Lagarde the letter. “It arrived at his gallery in London last Friday.”

She looked down and read.

“Is that your mother’s handwriting?”

“Yes, of course. I have boxes and boxes of her letters. She was very old-fashioned. She loathed email and was forever misplacing her mobile phone.”

“Do you have any idea what she might have been referring to?”

“The legal and ethical problems concerning your friend’s painting?” Juliette Lagarde rose abruptly to her feet. “Yes, Monsieur Allon. I think I might.”



She led him through a pair of double doors and into an adjoining sitting room. It was smaller than its neighbor, more intimate. It was a room where books were read, thought Gabriel, and letters to London art dealers written. Six Old Master paintings, beautifully framed and illuminated, adorned its walls—including a portrait of a woman, oil on canvas, approximately 115 by 92 centimeters, quite obviously Dutch or Flemish in origin.

“Does it look familiar?” asked Juliette Lagarde.

“Very,” said Gabriel, and placed a hand thoughtfully to his chin. “Do you happen to remember where your father purchased it?”

“A small gallery on the rue la Boétie in Paris.”

“Galerie Georges Fleury?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“When?”

“It was thirty-four years ago.”

“You have a good memory.”

“My father gave it to my mother on her fortieth birthday. She always adored this painting.”

With his hand still pressed to his chin, Gabriel tilted his head to one side.

“Does she have a name?”

“It’s called Portrait of an Unknown Woman.” Juliette Lagarde paused, then added, “Just like your friend’s painting.”

“And the attribution?”

“I’d have to check the paperwork in my father’s files, but I believe it was a follower of Anthony van Dyck. To be honest, I find the various categories of attribution rather arbitrary.”