Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (36)

“I’m quite confident Monsieur Fleury will see things our way. Especially when he reads your report.”

“When are you planning to confront him?”

“We’re leaving for Paris tonight. In fact,” said Sarah, glancing at her watch, “we need to be on our way.”

She made out a check for the final $25,000 of Gallagher’s fee while Gabriel removed A River Scene with Distant Windmills from its stretcher and folded it into his carry-on bag. Their Air France flight commenced boarding at 6:45 p.m. At half past eight, they were over the East End of Long Island.

“There’s North Haven,” said Sarah, pointing out her window. “I actually think I can see Phillip’s house.”

“One wonders how he and Lindsay make do with only thirty thousand square feet.”

“You should see the place in the Adirondacks.” She lowered her voice. “I spent a long weekend there once.”

“Kayaking and hiking?”

“Among other things. Phillip has lots of toys.”

“He certainly didn’t keep the Van Dyck for long.”

“Some people flip houses. Phillip flips paintings.”

Sarah accepted a glass of champagne from the flight attendant and insisted that Gabriel take one as well.

“What shall we drink to?” he asked.

“A disaster averted.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Gabriel, and left his glass untouched.



It was a few minutes after nine the following morning when the plane dropped from a cloudless sky and settled onto the runway of Charles de Gaulle Airport. After clearing passport control and customs, Gabriel and Sarah climbed into a taxi and headed for the center of Paris. Their first stop was Brasserie L’Alsace on the Avenue des Champs-élysées, where, at 10:45 a.m., Gabriel placed his first call to Galerie Georges Fleury. It went unanswered, as did his second. But the third time he tried the number, Bruno the receptionist came on the line. Posing once again as Ludwig Ziegler, art adviser to the renowned Swiss violinist Anna Rolfe, Gabriel demanded to speak to Monsieur Fleury at once.

“I’m sorry, but Monsieur Fleury is with another client.”

“It is imperative that I see him immediately.”

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“A River Scene with Distant Windmills.”

“Perhaps I can be of help.”

“I’m quite certain you can’t.”

The receptionist placed the call on hold. Two minutes passed before he came back on the line. “Monsieur Fleury will see you at two o’clock,” he said, and the connection went dead.

Which left Gabriel and Sarah with three long hours to kill. They drank coffee at Brasserie L’Alsace until noon, then walked up the Champs-élysées to Fouquet’s for an unhurried lunch. Afterward, they crossed to the opposite side of the avenue and, with their luggage in tow, window-shopped their way to the rue la Boétie. It was two o’clock exactly when they arrived at Galerie Georges Fleury. Gabriel stretched his injured right hand toward the intercom, but the automatic lock snapped open before he could place his forefinger atop the call button. He heaved open the glass door and followed Sarah inside.



The vestibule was unoccupied save the bronze life-size bust of a young Greek or Roman man perched atop its plinth of black marble. Gabriel called out Fleury’s name and, receiving no answer, led Sarah into the ground-floor exhibition room. It was likewise uninhabited. The large Rococo painting depicting a nude Venus and three young maidens was gone, as was the Venetian scene attributed to a follower of Canaletto. No new paintings hung in their place.

“Looks as though Monsieur Fleury is doing a brisk business,” said Sarah.

“The missing paintings were both forgeries,” answered Gabriel, and headed for Fleury’s office. There he found the art dealer seated at his desk, his face tipped toward the ceiling, his mouth open. The wall behind him was spattered with still-damp blood and brain tissue, the result of two recent point-blank gunshot wounds to the center of his forehead. The younger man lying on the floor had also been shot at close range—twice in the chest and at least once in the head. Like Georges Fleury, he was quite obviously dead.

“Dear God,” whispered Sarah from the open doorway.

Gabriel made no reply; his phone was ringing. It was Yuval Gershon, calling from his office at Unit 8200 headquarters outside Tel Aviv. He didn’t bother with a greeting.

“Someone turned on the dead woman’s phone about one thirty local time. We got inside a couple of minutes ago.”

“Where is it?”

“The Eighth Arrondissement of Paris. The rue la Boétie.”

“I’m in the same location.”

“I know,” said Yuval. “In fact, it looks to us as though you might be in the same room.”

Gabriel rang off and located the number for Valerie Bérrangar’s phone in his directory of recent calls. He started to dial, but stopped when his connoisseur’s eye fell upon the aluminum-sided Tumi suitcase, 52 by 77 by 28 centimeters, standing in the corner of the cluttered office. It was possible that Monsieur Fleury had been planning to embark on a journey at the time of his death. But the more likely explanation was that the suitcase contained a bomb.

A bomb, thought Gabriel, that would be detonated with a call to Madame Bérrangar’s phone.