Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (31)

Gallagher’s expression turned quizzical. “Are you a painter, Mr. Allon?”

Gabriel’s answer was the same one he had given to Valerie Bérrangar’s daughter seventy-two hours earlier, in the commune of Saint-André-du-Bois. Aiden Gallagher was similarly intrigued, though for a different reason.

“It turns out we have a great deal in common.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” quipped Gabriel.

“Artistically, I mean. I trained to be a painter at the National College of Art and Design in Dublin before coming to America and enrolling at Columbia.”

Where he had earned a PhD in art history and an MA in art conservation. While working on the restoration staff at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, he specialized in provenance research and, later, scientific detection of forgeries. He resigned from the Met in 2005 and founded Equus Analytics. The Art Newspaper had recently christened him “a rock star” with no equal in the field. Thus the new BMW 7 Series parked outside his office door.

He directed his gaze toward the painting. “Where was it acquired?”

“Gallery Georges Fleury in Paris,” answered Gabriel.

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Gallagher looked up abruptly. “And you already suspect there’s a problem?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “I know there’s a problem. The painting is a forgery.”

“And how did you arrive at this conclusion?” asked Gallagher dubiously.

“Instinct.”

“I’m afraid instinct isn’t good enough, Mr. Allon.” Gallagher contemplated the painting again. “How’s the provenance?”

“A joke.”

“And the condition report?”

“It’s a real work of art.”

Gabriel fished both documents from his briefcase and laid them on the table. Aiden Gallagher began his review with the provenance and ended with the three photos. The painting in its present form. The painting under ultraviolet light. And the painting with the losses exposed.

“If it’s a fake, the forger certainly knew what he was doing.” Gallagher doused the overhead lights and examined the painting with an ultraviolet torch. The archipelago of black blotches corresponded with those in the photograph. “So far, so good.” He switched on the overhead lights again and looked at Gabriel. “I assume you’re familiar with Cuyp’s work?”

“Very.”

“Then you know his oeuvre has been plagued by confusion and misattribution for hundreds of years. He borrowed heavily from Jan van Goyen, and his followers borrowed heavily from him. One was Abraham van Calraet. Like Cuyp, he was from the Dutch town of Dordrecht. Because they shared the same initials, it can be difficult to tell the work of one from the other.”

“Which is why a forger would choose a painter like Cuyp in the first place. Good forgers shrewdly select artists whose work has been subject to misattribution in the past. That way, when a new painting miraculously reemerges from a dusty European collection, the so-called art experts are more inclined to accept it as genuine.”

“And if I conclude that the painting is the work of Aelbert Cuyp?”

“I’m confident you won’t.”

“Are you prepared to wager fifty thousand dollars?”

“Not me.” Gabriel pointed at Sarah. “But she will.”

“I require twenty-five thousand to begin an investigation. The rest is due upon delivery of my findings.”

“How long will it take?” asked Sarah.

“Anywhere from a few weeks to a few months.”

“Time is of the essence, Dr. Gallagher.”

“When are you planning to return to London?”

“You tell me.”

“I can have a preliminary report Monday afternoon. But there’s a surcharge for rush jobs.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand up front,” said Gallagher. “Twenty-five thousand on delivery.”



After signing the release forms and handing over the check, Gabriel and Sarah hurried along Riverside Avenue to the Metro North station and purchased two tickets to Grand Central.

“The next train is at four twenty-six,” said Sarah. “With any luck, we’ll be sipping martinis at the Mandarin Oriental by six o’clock.”

“I thought you preferred the Four Seasons.”

“There was no room at the inn.”

“Not even for you?”

“Trust me, I gave the head of reservations a piece of my mind.”

“Where do you suppose Phillip Somerset is spending his weekend?”

“Knowing Phillip, he could be anywhere. Besides his town house on East Seventy-Fourth Street, he owns a ski lodge in Aspen, an estate on the East End of Long Island, and a large portion of Lake Placid in the Adirondacks. He flits between them on his Gulfstream.”

“Not bad for a former bond trader from Lehman Brothers.”

“You’ve obviously been reading up on him.”

“You know me, Sarah. I’ve never been able to sleep on airplanes.” Gabriel gave her a sideways glance. “What’s the weather like in Lake Placid this time of year?”

“Miserable.”