Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (33)

“I suppose the firm is domiciled in the Cayman Islands.”

“Aren’t they all?” Sarah rolled her eyes. “I must admit, I do enjoy watching my account balance go up and up each year. But a part of me doesn’t like to think of paintings as a commodity to be bought and sold like soybeans and oil futures.”

“You’ll have to get over that if you’re going to make it as an art dealer. Most of the paintings purchased at auction will never be seen by the public again. They’re locked away in bank vaults or in the Geneva Free Port.”

“Or in a climate-controlled warehouse operated by Chelsea Fine Arts Storage. That’s where Phillip told me to ship the Van Dyck.” Sarah pointed toward the sign for exit 66. “Yaphank.”



The egg-shaped peninsula known as North Haven protrudes into Peconic Bay between Sag Harbor and Shelter Island. Phillip Somerset’s weekend retreat, a thirty-thousand-square-foot acropolis of cedar and glass, stood on the eastern shore. His golden young wife greeted Gabriel and Sarah in the soaring entrance hall, dressed in a sleeveless linen pantsuit belted at her slender waist, her skin so smooth and flawless she looked like a filtered photograph on social media. When Gabriel introduced himself, he received a blank who-are-you stare in return, but Sarah’s name Lindsay Somerset recognized instantly.

“You’re the art dealer from London who sold my husband the Van Gogh.”

“Van Dyck.”

“I get them confused.”

“It’s a common mistake,” Sarah assured her.

Lindsay Somerset turned to greet a new arrival, a prime-time television news anchor and his husband. Several more print and broadcast journalists were gathered in the luminous great room along with an assortment of hedge fund managers, painters, art dealers, fashion designers, models, actors, screenwriters, a renowned director of blockbuster motion pictures, an iconic musician who sang about the plight of Long Island’s working classes, a progressive congresswoman from the Bronx, and a flock of young assistants from a New York publishing house. Evidently, it was a book party to which they had been invited.

“Carl Bernstein,” whispered Sarah. “He was Bob Woodward’s partner at the Washington Post during the Watergate scandal.”

“Unlike you, Sarah, I was alive when Richard Nixon was president. I know who Carl Bernstein is.”

“Would you like to meet him? He’s right over there.” Sarah snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “And there’s Ina Garten. And that actor whose name I can never remember. The one who just got out of rehab.”

“And there’s a Rothko,” said Gabriel quietly. “And a Basquiat. And a Pollock. And a Lichtenstein, a Diebenkorn, a Hirst, an Adler, a Prince, and a Warhol.”

“You should see his town house on East Seventy-Fourth Street. It’s like the Whitney in there.”

“Not quite,” said a baritone voice from behind them. “But you’re welcome to visit anytime you like.”

The voice belonged to Phillip Somerset. He greeted Sarah first—with a kiss on her cheek and a favorable remark about her appearance—before extending a sun-varnished hand toward Gabriel. He was a tall, physically fit specimen in his mid-fifties, with a boyish head of gray-blond hair and the confident, easy smile that comes naturally to the very rich. Strapped to his wrist was a colossal Richard Mille chronometer, a sporting model worn by wealthy men with pretensions of seamanship. His zippered cashmere sweater was vaguely maritime as well, as were his pale cotton trousers and electric-blue loafers. Indeed, everything about Phillip Somerset suggested that he had just stepped from the deck of a yacht.

Gabriel accepted the proffered hand and introduced himself, first name and last.

Phillip Somerset looked to Sarah for an explanation.

“He’s an old friend,” she said.

“And I thought I was going to spend the afternoon fending off questions about my trading strategy.” Phillip Somerset released Gabriel’s hand. “What an unexpected surprise, Mr. Allon. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I was hoping to have a look at a painting.”

“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”

“Portrait of an Unknown Woman.”

“By Anthony van Dyck?”

Gabriel smiled. “I certainly hope so.”



Phillip Somerset escorted Gabriel and Sarah up a flight of stairs and into a large, light-filled office with outsize computer monitors and a sweeping view of the whitecapped bay. A lengthy silence ensued as he regarded them speculatively from behind the no-man’s-land of his half-acre desk. Then he looked directly at Sarah and said, “Perhaps you should tell me what this is all about.”

Her answer was precise and lawyerly. “Isherwood Fine Arts has retained Mr. Allon to conduct a discreet inquiry into the circumstances surrounding the rediscovery of Portrait of an Unknown Woman and its sale to Masterpiece Art Ventures.”

“Why was such an inquiry deemed necessary?”

“Late last week, the gallery received a letter expressing concerns over the transaction. The woman who sent it was killed in an auto accident near Bordeaux a few days later.”

“Do the police suspect foul play?”

“No,” answered Gabriel. “But I do.”