Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (26)

“The painting,” said Gabriel. “I’d like to touch it.”

“Carefully,” cautioned Fleury.

Gabriel placed the tip of his forefinger gently against the canvas and dragged it over the brushwork. “Did your man handle the cleaning?”

“It came to me in this condition.”

“Are there paint losses?”

“Not extensive. But, yes, there is some abrading. Particularly in the sky.”

“I assume the condition report contains photographs?”

“Several, monsieur.”

Gabriel looked at Anna. “Does Madame Rolfe like it?”

“That depends on the price.” She turned to Fleury. “What did you have in mind?”

“A million and a half.”

“Come, come,” said Gabriel. “Let’s be realistic.”

“How much would Madame Rolfe be willing to pay for it?”

“Are you asking me to negotiate with myself?”

“Not at all. I am merely offering you the opportunity to name your price.”

Gabriel contemplated the worthless painting in silence.

“Well?” asked Fleury.

“Madame Rolfe will give you one million euros and not a euro more.”

The art dealer smiled. “Sold.”



Downstairs in Fleury’s office, Gabriel reviewed the condition report and provenance while Anna, a mobile phone pressed to her ear, transferred the sum of one million euros from her account at Credit Suisse to the gallery’s account at Société Générale. The final sale price included the cost of the frame and shipping. Gabriel, however, declined both. Madame Rolfe, he said, did not care for the frame. As for the shipping, he intended to see to it personally.

“I should have the export license in hand by next Wednesday at the latest,” said Fleury. “You can pick up the painting then.”

“I’m afraid Wednesday won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“Because Madame Rolfe and I are taking the painting with us.”

“C’est impossible. There is paperwork to submit and signatures to obtain.”

“The paperwork and signatures are your problem. Besides, something tells me you know how to acquire an export license for a painting that has already left the country.”

The dealer did not deny the accusation. “What about proper packaging?” he asked.

“Trust me, Monsieur Fleury. I know how to handle a painting.”

“The gallery accepts absolutely no liability for any damage once the painting leaves these premises.”

“But you do guarantee the attribution, along with the accuracy of the condition report and provenance.”

“Yes, of course.” Fleury handed Gabriel a copy of the certificate of authenticity, which declared the work to be firmly attributed to Aelbert Cuyp. “It says so right here.”

The dealer placed the sales agreement before Anna and indicated the line where she should sign her name. After adding his own signature, he photocopied the document and inserted it into an envelope, along with copies of the provenance and condition report. The painting he covered in glassine paper and bubble wrap, which was more protection than it deserved. At three fifteen it was resting on the backseat of the Maybach as it drew to a stop outside the Bristol Hotel.

“I thought I was only supposed to be eye candy,” said Anna.

“What’s a million euros between friends?”

“A great deal of money.”

“It will be back in your account by Monday afternoon at the latest.”

“What a pity,” she said. “I was hoping you might remain in my debt a little longer.”

“And if I were?”

“I would ask you to come to my performance tonight. There’s a gala reception afterward. All the beautiful people will be there.”

“I thought you hated those things.”

“With a passion. But if you were standing at my side, it might be tolerable.”

“And how would you explain me, Anna? Who would I be?”

“How about Herr Ludwig Ziegler?” She frowned at the object lying on the seat between them. “The esteemed art adviser who just spent one million euros of my money for a worthless forgery.”

Gabriel carried it upstairs to his room and removed the canvas from its stretcher. One hour later it was wedged into the overnight bag he wheeled across the cavernous ticket hall of the Gare du Nord. His journey through passport control proceeded without incident, and at five o’clock he boarded a Eurostar train bound for London. As the banlieues of northern Paris slid past his window, he reflected on the shifting fortunes of his career. Just four months earlier he had been the director-general of one of the world’s most formidable intelligence services. Now, he thought, smiling, he had found a new line of work.

Art smuggler.





18

Jermyn Street




Not since the outbreak of the pandemic, when the art world had slipped into something approaching cardiac arrest, had Sarah Bancroft endured such a dreadful week. It began with Julian’s calamitous visit to Bordeaux and concluded, late that afternoon, with the collapse of a potential sale—a case of cold feet on the buyer’s part and hard-nosed determination on Sarah’s not to sell the painting in question, Adoration of the Magi by Luca Cambiaso, at a loss. To make matters worse, her new husband had left London on a business trip. Because his trade was espionage, he could not say where he was going or when he might return. For all Sarah knew, it would be Midsummer Day before she laid eyes on him again.