Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (24)
“Which is why I’d like to borrow you for an hour or two tomorrow.”
“What did you have in mind?”
He told her.
“Is it really safe to visit an art gallery in Paris with you?”
“It was a long time ago, Anna.”
“Another lifetime,” she said. “But why me?”
“I need you to distract the owner while I take a careful look at his inventory.”
“Shall I bring along my fiddle and perform a partita or two?”
“That won’t be necessary. Just be your usual enchanting self.”
“Eye candy?”
“Exactly.”
She probed at the skin along her jawline. “I’m a bit old for that, don’t you think?”
“You haven’t changed a bit since—”
“The morning you walked out on me?” The waiter served their first course and withdrew. Anna lowered her eyes and said, “Bon appétit.”
16
Rue la Boétie
Gabriel rang the gallery at ten o’clock the following morning and, after a testy exchange with a male receptionist called Bruno, was connected to Monsieur Georges Fleury himself. Not surprisingly, the crooked French art dealer had never heard of anyone named Ludwig Ziegler.
“I advise a single client with a passion for Neoclassical paintings,” Gabriel explained in German-accented French. “She happens to be in Paris for the weekend and would like to visit your gallery.”
“Galerie Georges Fleury is not a tourist destination, Monsieur Ziegler. If your client wishes to see French paintings, I would suggest a visit to the Louvre instead.”
“My client isn’t here on holiday. She’s performing this weekend at the Philharmonie de Paris.”
“Is your client—”
“Yes.”
Fleury’s tone was suddenly more accommodating. “What time would Madame Rolfe like to stop by?”
“One o’clock this afternoon.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already arranged to see another client at that time.”
“Reschedule him. And tell Bruno to take a long lunch. I find him annoying, and so will Madame Rolfe. In case you were wondering, she drinks room-temperature mineral water. Sans gaz, with a slice of lemon. Not a wedge, Monsieur Fleury. A slice.”
“Any particular brand of water?”
“Anything but Vittel. And no photographs or handshakes. For understandable reasons, Madame Rolfe never shakes hands before a performance.”
Gabriel rang off, then dialed Anna’s number. Her voice, when at last she answered, was heavy with sleep.
“What time is it?” she groaned.
“A few minutes after ten.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes, Anna.”
Swearing softly, she killed the connection. Madame Rolfe, Gabriel remembered, never rose before noon.
Gabriel left the Bristol at half past twelve and walked beneath a leaden Parisian sky to the Crillon. It was one fifteen when Anna, in jeans and a zippered sweater, finally descended from her suite. Outside, they slid into the back of the Maybach for the short drive to Galerie Georges Fleury.
“Any last instructions?” she asked while appraising her face in the vanity mirror.
“Be charming, but difficult.”
“Act naturally? Is that what you’re saying?”
Anna glossed her heart-shaped lips as the car turned onto the rue la Boétie. A moment later it stopped outside the gallery. Its owner and namesake was waiting on the pavement like a doorman. His hands remained rigidly at his side as Anna emerged from the back of the limousine.
“Welcome to Galerie Georges Fleury, Madame Rolfe. It is truly an honor to meet you.”
Anna acknowledged the art dealer’s greeting with a regal nod. Unnerved, he thrust a hand toward Gabriel.
“And you must be Herr Ziegler.”
“I must be,” said Gabriel evenly.
Fleury regarded him for a moment through a pair of rimless spectacles. “Is it possible we’ve met somewhere before? At an auction, perhaps?”
“Madame Rolfe and I avoid them.” Gabriel glanced at the gallery’s heavy glass door. “Shall we go inside? It doesn’t take long for her to attract a crowd.”
Fleury used a handheld remote to unlock the door. In the vestibule, a bronze life-size bust of a young Greek or Roman man stood atop a plinth of black marble. Next to it was an unoccupied receptionist’s desk.
“As you requested, Herr Ziegler, it’s just the three of us.”
“No hard feelings, I hope.”
“None at all.” Fleury placed the remote on the desk and escorted them into a high-ceilinged room with a dark wooden floor and walls of garnet red. “My main exhibition room. The better pictures are upstairs. If you wish, we can begin there.”
“Madame Rolfe is in no hurry.”
“Neither am I.”
Dazzled, Fleury led his internationally renowned visitor on a laborious tour of the room’s collection while Gabriel conducted an unchaperoned survey of his own. The first work to catch his connoisseur’s eye was a large Rococo painting depicting a nude Venus and three young maidens. The inscription at the bottom of the canvas suggested the work had been executed by Nicolas Colombel in 1697. Gabriel doubted that was the case.