Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (32)

“What about Aspen?”

“No snow.”

“That leaves Manhattan or Long Island.”

“I’ll call him first thing Monday.”

“Get it over with. You’ll feel better.”

“Unless the Van Dyck turns out to be a forgery.” Sarah opened a blank email and added Phillip Somerset’s address. “What’s the subject?”

“Catching up.”

“Nice touch. Keep going.”

“Tell him you’re in New York unexpectedly. Ask him if he has a few minutes to spare.”

“Should I mention the painting?”

“Under no circumstances.”

“How should I describe you?”

“You’re an art dealer who used to work for the CIA. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

She completed the email as the train was drawing into the station. And at half past five, as they were climbing into a taxi outside Grand Central, Phillip Somerset rang her with his answer.

“Lindsay and I are having a few friends to lunch tomorrow at our place on Long Island. You’re more than welcome to join us. And bring your friend,” he suggested. “I’d love to meet him.”





22

North Haven




Sarah declined Phillip’s Somerset’s offer of a car service and rented a premium European-made sedan instead. They collected it from a garage in Turtle Bay at half past ten the following morning and by noon were speeding through Suffolk County on the Long Island Expressway. To help pass the time, Sarah read aloud the quaint-sounding names of the towns and hamlets as they appeared on the faded green exit signs—first Commack, then Hauppauge, Ronkonkoma, and Patchogue. It was a silly game, she explained to Gabriel, that she had played as a child, when the Bancrofts had passed their summers in East Hampton with other rich Manhattan families like theirs.

“The new crowd is much richer than we were, and they’re not ashamed to show it. Grotesque displays of wealth are now de rigueur.” She tugged at the sleeve of the dark pantsuit that she had brought from London. “I only wish I’d had time to shop for something more appropriate.”

“You look beautiful,” said Gabriel, a hand balanced atop the steering wheel.

“But I’m not suitably attired for a weekend gathering at the North Haven estate of Phillip Somerset.”

“How should one be dressed?”

“As expensively as possible.” Sarah’s phone chimed with an incoming text. “Speak of the devil.”

“Have we been disinvited?”

“He’s checking on our progress.”

“Do you suppose he’s contacting all his guests, or only you?”

“And just what are you implying?”

“That Phillip Somerset sounded inordinately pleased to hear from you yesterday.”

“Our relationship is both personal and professional,” admitted Sarah.

“How personal?”

“We were introduced by a mutual friend at MoMA’s annual Party in the Garden fundraiser. Phillip was going through a messy divorce at the time. We dated for several months.”

“Who ended it?”

“He did, if you must know.”

“What on earth was he thinking?”

“I was in my late thirties at the time, and Phillip was looking for someone a bit younger. When he met lovely Lindsay Morgan, a yoga enthusiast and model twelve years my junior, he dropped me like an underperforming stock.”

“And yet you remained invested in Masterpiece Art.”

“How do you know that?”

“Lucky guess.”

“I had already entrusted a small portion of my assets to Phillip before we began dating,” said Sarah. “I saw no reason to demand a redemption simply because our relationship went awry.”

“How small a portion?”

“Two million dollars.”

“I see.”

“I thought I made it clear the last time we were in New York that my father left me rather well off.”

“You did,” said Gabriel. “I only hope that Phillip has looked after your interests.”

“My current balance is four point eight million dollars.”

“Mazel tov.”

“Compared to Phillip’s other clients, I’m something of a pauper. He definitely has the Midas touch. That’s why so many people in the art world are invested with him. The fund consistently delivers twenty-five-percent annual returns.”

“How is that possible?”

“A magical proprietary trading strategy that Phillip guards jealously. Unlike other art funds, Masterpiece doesn’t reveal the paintings in its inventory. Its book is entirely opaque. And quite large, apparently. Phillip currently controls one point two billion dollars’ worth of art. He buys and sells paintings constantly and earns enormous profits on the churn.”

“By churn, you mean volume and speed.”

“And arbitrage, of course,” replied Sarah. “Masterpiece operates exactly like a hedge fund. It has a million-dollar minimum for new investors, with a five-year lockup. The fee structure is the industry-standard two-and-twenty. A two percent management fee and a twenty percent cut of the profits.”