Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (30)

On board the plane, Sarah informed the flight attendant that she would require no food or drink during the eight-hour flight across the North Atlantic. Then she closed her eyes and did not open them again until the aircraft thudded onto the runway at John F. Kennedy International Airport. Armed with her American passport and Global Entry card, she glided through the rituals of the arrival process while Gabriel, his status reduced, spent an hour working his way through the maze of stanchions and retractable nylon restraints reserved for unwanted foreigners. His journey ended in a windowless room, where he was briefly questioned by a well-fed Customs and Border Protection officer.

“What brings you back to the United States, Director Allon?”

“Private research.”

“Does the Agency know you’re in the country?”

“They do now.”

“How’s your chest feeling?”

“Better than my hand.”

“Anything in the bag?”

“A couple of firearms and a dead body.”

The officer smiled. “Enjoy your stay.”

A blue line directed Gabriel to baggage claim, where Sarah was pondering her mobile phone. “Aiden Gallagher,” she said without looking up. “He’s wondering whether it could wait until Monday. I told him it couldn’t.”

Just then her phone pinged with an incoming email.

“Well?”

“He wants a description of the painting.”

Gabriel recited the particulars. “A River Scene with Distant Windmills. Oil on canvas. Thirty-six by fifty-eight centimeters. Currently attributed to Aelbert Cuyp.”

Sarah sent the email. Gallagher’s reply arrived two minutes later.

“He’ll meet us in Westport at three.”



Equus Analytics was located in an old redbrick building on Riverside Avenue near the overpass of the Connecticut Turnpike. Gabriel and Sarah arrived a few minutes after two o’clock in the back of an Uber SUV. They picked up coffee from a Dunkin’ Donuts up the street and settled onto a bench along the sunlit bank of the Saugatuck. Fat white clouds flew across an otherwise spotless blue sky. Pleasure craft dozed like discarded playthings in their slips at a small marina.

“It almost looks like something Aelbert Cuyp might have painted,” remarked Gabriel.

“Westport definitely has its charms. Especially on a day like this.”

“Any regrets?”

“About leaving New York?” Sarah shook her head. “I think my story ended rather well, don’t you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re truly happy being married to Christopher.”

“Deliriously so. Though I have to admit, my work at the gallery isn’t quite as interesting as the jobs I used to do for you.” She lifted her face toward the warmth of the sun. “Do you remember our trip to Saint-Barthélemy with Zizi al-Bakari?”

“How could I forget?”

“What about the summer we spent with Ivan and Elena Kharkov in Saint-Tropez? Or the day I shot that Russian assassin in Zurich?” Sarah checked the time on her phone. “It’s nearly three. Let’s go, shall we? I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

They set out along Riverside Avenue and arrived at Equus Analytics as a black BMW 7 Series sedan was pulling into the parking lot. The man who emerged from the driver’s seat had coal-black hair and blue eyes, and appeared much younger than his fifty-four years.

He extended a hand toward Sarah. “Miss Bancroft, I presume?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Gallagher. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. And on a Saturday, at that.”

“Not at all. Truth be told, I was planning to do a few hours’ work before dinner.” His accent, though faded, betrayed a Dublin childhood. He looked at Gabriel. “And you are?”

“Johannes Klemp,” answered Gabriel, dredging up a name from his tangled past. “I work with Sarah at Isherwood Fine Arts.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you look a great deal like that Israeli who was shot on Inauguration Day? If I’m not mistaken, his name is Gabriel Allon.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Gallagher gave him a knowing smile before turning to Sarah. “That leaves the painting.”

She nodded toward Gabriel’s overnight bag.

“Ah,” said Gallagher. “The plot thickens.”





21

Equus




The locks on the outer door were museum grade, as were the security system and the equipment in Gallagher’s laboratory. His inventory of high-tech gadgetry included an electron microscope, a shortwave infrared reflectography camera, and a Bruker M6 Jetstream, a sophisticated spatial imaging device. Nevertheless, he began his analysis the old-fashioned way, by examining the painting with the naked eye under visible light.

“It seems to have survived the flight intact, but I’d like to put it on a stretcher as quickly as possible.” He cast a reproachful glance in Gabriel’s direction. “As long as Herr Klemp has no objections, of course.”

“Perhaps you should refer to me by my real name,” said Gabriel. “As for the stretcher, a standard fourteen-by-twenty-two should work well. I’d use a five-eighths setback for the canvas.”