Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (38)

“Is it a Van Dyck or not?” asked Ménard.

“The auction house that brokered the sale says it is.”

“So your investigation was a waste of time? Is that what you’re saying?”

“The death of Valerie Bérrangar and the events of this afternoon would suggest otherwise.” Gabriel looked down at the forgery. “As would this painting.”

“Did you really expect Georges Fleury to return the money based on the findings of a single expert?”

“The expert in question is regarded as the best in the world. I was confident that I could convince Fleury to accept the findings and refund the money.”

“You were planning to threaten him?”

“Me? Never.”

Ménard smiled in spite of himself. “And you’re sure Fleury was dead when you and Madame Bancroft arrived at the gallery?”

“Quite sure,” answered Gabriel. “Bruno Gilbert, too.”

“In that case, who let you in?”

“The assassin, of course. He unlocked the door using the keyless remote that usually rests on the receptionist’s desk. Fortunately, he waited fifteen seconds too long before calling Valerie Bérrangar’s phone.”

“How do you—”

“It’s not important how I know,” interjected Gabriel. “All that matters is that you now have the evidence to link her murder to the bombing of the gallery.”

“The phone’s identification number and SIM card?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Only if they survived the detonation. Still, it was rather reckless on his part, don’t you think?”

“Almost as reckless as leaving that bronze bust next to the door. The man who hired him probably thought that I would be suspicious if it wasn’t there. After all, I spotted three forgeries within a few minutes of setting foot in that gallery.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “Which is why I had to die.”

“Because you were a threat to a forgery ring?” asked Ménard skeptically.

“It’s not a traditional ring. It’s a sophisticated business enterprise that’s flooding the art market with high-quality forgeries. And the man who’s running it is making enough money to hire professionals to eliminate anyone who threatens him.”

Ménard made a show of thought. “An interesting theory, Allon. But you have no proof.”

“If you had listened to Valerie Bérrangar, you would have all the proof you need.”

“I did listen to her,” insisted Ménard. “But Fleury assured me there was nothing wrong with the painting he sold to Monsieur Isherwood, that it was simply a case of two copies of the same portrait.”

“And you believed him?”

“Georges Fleury was a respected member of the Paris art community. My unit never received a single complaint about him.”

“That’s because the fakes he was selling were good enough to fool the best eyes in the art world. Based on what I’ve seen of the forger’s work, he could hold his own among the Old Masters.”

“From what I hear, you’re not too bad yourself, Allon. One of the world’s finest art restorers. At least that’s the rumor.”

“But I use my talent to heal existing paintings.” Gabriel tapped the surface of the forgery. “This man is creating entirely new works that appear as though they were executed by some of the greatest artists who ever lived.”

“Do you have any idea who he might be?”

“You’re the detective, Ménard. I’m sure you’ll be able to find him if you put your mind to it.”

“And who are you these days, Allon?”

“I’m the director of the paintings department at the Tiepolo Restoration Company. And I’d like to go home now.”



Ménard insisted on keeping the forged painting and the original copies of the documents, including Valerie Bérrangar’s letter. Gabriel, who was in no position to make demands of his own, requested only anonymity—for himself and for Isherwood Fine Arts.

The French detective rubbed his jaw noncommittally. “You know how these things go, Allon. Criminal inquiries can be hard to control. But don’t worry about the German passport. It will be our little secret.”

By then it was approaching eight o’clock. Ménard escorted Gabriel downstairs to the courtyard, where Sarah waited in the backseat of the same unmarked Peugeot. It delivered them to the Gare du Nord in time to make the evening’s last Eurostar to London.

“All in all,” said Sarah, “a rather disastrous turn of events.”

“It could have been worse.”

“Much,” she agreed. “But why is it that things always explode whenever I’m around you?”

“I just seem to rub certain people the wrong way.”

“But not Jacques Ménard?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “We got on famously.”

“So much for handling the matter quietly. But I suppose that you got exactly what you wanted in the end.”

“What’s that?”

“A formal investigation by the French police.”

“No one will be spared?”

“No one,” said Sarah as she closed her eyes. “Not even you.”