Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (20)

Durand ruled his global empire of art theft from Antiquités Scientifiques, which had been in his family for three generations. Its tastefully lit shelves were lined with antique microscopes, cameras, spectacles, barometers, surveyors, and globes, all meticulously arranged. So, too, was Maurice Durand. He wore a tailored suit, dark blue, and a striped dress shirt. His necktie was the color of gold leaf. His bald head was polished to a high gloss.

“I suppose it’s true, after all,” he said by way of greeting.

“What’s that?” asked Gabriel.

“That men in your line of work never truly retire.”

“Or yours, apparently.”

Smiling, Durand lifted the lid of a varnished rectangular case. “Perhaps this might be of interest to you. An optician’s trial lens kit. Turn of the century. Quite rare.”

“Almost as rare as that watercolor you stole from the Musée Matisse a few months back. Or the lovely genre piece by Jan Steen you pinched from the Musée Fabre.”

“I had nothing to do with the disappearance of either of those works.”

“What about the sale?”

Durand closed the lid, soundlessly. “My associates and I acquired a number of valuable objects for you and your service over the years, including a remarkable terra-cotta hydria by the Amykos Painter. And then, of course, there was the job in Amsterdam. We caused quite a stir with that one, didn’t we?”

“Which is why I have refrained from giving your name to the French authorities.”

“What about General Cyclops, your friend from the Carabinieri?”

“He remains unaware of your identity. Or the identities of your associates in Marseilles.”

“And what must I do to preserve this state of affairs?”

“You must provide me with information.”

“About what?”

“Galerie Georges Fleury. It’s on the rue—”

“I know where it is, Monsieur Allon.”

“Are you in business with him?”

“Georges Fleury? Never. But I did foolishly agree to steal a painting from him once.”

“What was it?”

“It was,” said Durand, his expression darkening, “a disaster.”





13

Rue de Miromesnil




“Are you familiar with Pierre-Henri de Valenciennes?”

Gabriel sighed before answering. “Valenciennes was one of the most important landscape artists of the neoclassical period. He was among the earliest proponents of working en plein air rather than in a studio.” He paused. “Shall I go on?”

“I meant no offense.”

“None taken, Maurice.”

They had retreated to Durand’s cramped rear office. Gabriel was seated in the uncomfortable wooden armchair reserved for visitors; Durand, behind his spotless desk. The light of his antique lamp was reflected in his rimless spectacles, obscuring his watchful brown eyes.

“A number of years ago,” he continued, “Galerie Georges Fleury exhibited a stunning landscape said to have been painted by Valenciennes in 1804. It depicted villagers dancing around classical ruins at dusk. Oil on canvas, sixty-six by ninety-eight centimeters. Immaculate condition, as Monsieur Fleury’s paintings always are. A collector of considerable expertise and means whom we shall refer to as Monsieur Didier entered into negotiations to purchase the painting. But the talks broke down almost immediately because Monsieur Fleury refused to budge on the price.”

“Which was?”

“Let’s call it four hundred thousand.”

“And how much was Monsieur Didier willing to pay you to steal it for him?”

“The rule of thumb is that a painting retains only ten percent of its value on the black market.”

“Forty thousand is rather small beer for you.”

“I told him so.”

“How much did he offer?”

“Two hundred.”

“And you accepted?”

“Unfortunately.”

From the cabinet behind his desk Durand removed a bottle of calvados and two antique cut-glass tumblers. Nearly everything in the room was from another age, including the little black-and-white video monitor he used to keep watch on his front door.

He poured two glasses of the brandy and offered one to Gabriel.

“It’s a bit early in the day for me.”

“Nonsense,” said Durand after consulting his wristwatch. “Besides, a little alcohol at midday is good for the blood.”

“My blood is just fine, thank you.”

“No lingering effects from that unpleasantness in Washington?”

“Only an abiding concern for the future of American democracy.” Gabriel reluctantly accepted the brandy. “Who handled the job for you?”

“Your old friend René Monjean.”

“Any complications?”

“Not with the robbery itself. The gallery’s security system was rather outmoded.”

“Surely you didn’t take just the one painting.”

“Of course not. René grabbed four others to cover our tracks.”

“Anything good?”

“Pierre Révoil. Nicolas-André Monsiau.” Durand shrugged. “A couple of portraits by Ingres.”