Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (56)

Gabriel exchanged a glance with Christopher before returning his gaze to Durand. “I thought you dealt directly with collectors.”

“For the most part. But I occasionally filled special orders for Monsieur Toussaint. He did a brisk trade in stolen art, but Lucien Marchand was his golden goose.”

“Which is why Toussaint fought so hard to keep Lucien when the front woman from a rival forgery network tried to steal him away.”

Durand smiled at Gabriel over the rim of his champagne glass. “You’re getting rather good at this, Monsieur Allon. Soon you will no longer require my help.”

“Who is she, Maurice?”

“Miranda álvarez? That depends on whom you ask. Apparently, she’s something of a chameleon. They say she lives in a remote village in the Pyrenees. They also say that she and the forger are lovers or perhaps even husband and wife. But this is only a rumor.”

“Who are they?”

“People who toil in the dirty end of the art trade.”

“People like you, you mean?”

Durand was silent.

“Is the forger Spanish, too?”

“That is the assumption. But, again, this is only speculation. Unlike some forgers who crave notoriety, this man is very serious about his privacy. The woman is said to be one of only two people who know his identity.”

“And the other?”

“The man who runs the business side of the network. Think of them as an unholy trinity.”

“What’s the Spanish woman’s role?”

“She oversees the delivery of the paintings to the galleries where they are sold. Most are midmarket pieces that quietly generate enormous amounts of cash. But every few months, another so-called lost master magically reappears.”

“How many galleries are there?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Try.”

“One hears rumors about a gallery in Berlin and another in Brussels. One also hears rumors of a recent expansion into Asia and the Middle East.”

“One wonders,” said Gabriel pointedly, “why you didn’t disclose any of this information during our last conversation.”

“Perhaps if you had told me that you intended to purchase a painting from Galerie Fleury, I might have been more forthcoming.” Durand smiled. “A River Scene with Distant Windmills. Definitely not by the Dutch Golden Age painter Aelbert Cuyp.”

“How do you know about the sale?”

“Fleury was discreet in some matters, less so in others. He boasted of the sale to several of his competitors, despite the fact that he allowed Madame Rolfe’s art adviser to remove the painting from France without an export license.”

“He had no suspicions about me?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then why was I targeted for assassination when I returned to the gallery four days later?”

“Perhaps you should ask the man who delivered the bomb.”

Gabriel handed the Frenchman his phone a second time. “Do you recognize him?”

“Fortunately, no.”

“I believe he murdered a woman in Bordeaux not long ago.”

“The Bérrangar woman?”

Gabriel exhaled heavily. “Is there anything you don’t know, Maurice?”

“Information is the key to my longevity, Monsieur Allon. And yours, I imagine.” Durand looked down at the phone. “How else to explain the fact that you are in possession of this photograph?”

“It was given to me by the head of the Police Nationale’s art crime unit.”

“Jacques Ménard?”

Gabriel nodded.

“And what exactly is the nature of your relationship?”

“It’s a bit like ours.”

“Coercive and abusive?”

“Discreet and unofficial.”

“Is he aware of our past collaboration?”

“Non.”

“I’m relieved.” Durand returned the phone. “That said, I think this should be our last meeting for the foreseeable future.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have an assignment for you.”

“The names of those galleries in Berlin and Brussels?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Durand removed his spectacles and rose. “Tell me something, Monsieur Allon. What happened to those paintings you found in Lucien’s workshop?”

“Up in smoke.”

“The Picasso?”

“All of them.”

“A pity,” said Durand with a sigh. “I could have found a good home for them.”



At half past ten the following morning, while seated at the Louvre’s Café Marly, Gabriel delivered his first report to Jacques Ménard. The briefing was thorough and complete, though evasive when it came to sources and methods. Like Christopher Keller, who occupied a nearby table, Ménard found fault with Gabriel’s decision to destroy the forgeries he had discovered in Lucien Marchand’s studio in Roussillon. Nevertheless, the French art detective was impressed by the scope of his informant’s findings.

“I have to admit, it all makes a great deal of sense.” Ménard gestured toward the gleaming glass-and-steel structure in the Cour Napoléon. “The criminal art world is a bit like la pyramide. There are tens of thousands of people involved in the illicit market, but it’s controlled by a few major players at the top.” He paused. “And it’s obvious that you’re acquainted with at least one or two of them.”