Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (57)

“Aren’t you?”

“Oui. Just not the right ones, apparently. Your ability to gather this much information so quickly is most embarrassing.”

“Edmond Toussaint never popped up on your radar?”

Ménard shook his head. “And neither did Lucien Marchand. I don’t care what sort of promises you made to the Vionnet woman. I’m going to open a case against her and seize those assets, including the villa in the Lubéron.”

“First things first, Ménard.”

“I’m afraid nothing has changed,” said the Frenchman. “My hands remain tied.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to force the issue.”

“How?”

“By turning over my findings to one of your European partners.”

“Which one?”

“Since we’re looking for a Spanish woman who might or might not reside in a remote village in the Pyrenees, I would think the Guardia Civil might be the most logical choice.”

“I don’t trust them.”

“I’m sure they feel the same about you.”

“They do.”

“How about the British?”

“Scotland Yard dismantled its Art and Antiquities Squad a few years ago. They treat art theft and fraud like any other property or financial crime.”

“Then I suppose that leaves the Italians.”

“They’re the best in the business,” conceded Ménard. “But what’s the Italian connection?”

“At the moment, there isn’t one. But I’m sure General Ferrari and I will think of something.”

“He speaks very highly of you, the general.”

“As well he should. I helped him crack an antiquities-smuggling ring a few years ago. I also helped him find a missing altarpiece.”

“Not the Caravaggio?”

Gabriel nodded.

“The white whale,” whispered Ménard. “How did you find it?’

“I hired a gang of French art thieves to steal Sunflowers from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. Then I painted a copy of it in a safe flat overlooking the Pont Marie and sold it for twenty-five million euros to a Syrian named Sam in a warehouse outside Paris.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “All without your knowledge.”

Jacques Ménard’s face turned the color of the tablecloth. “You’re not going to steal any paintings this time, are you?”

“Non. But I might forge a few.”

“How many?”

Gabriel smiled. “Four, I think.”





36

Mason’s Yard




Lately, it had occurred to Oliver Dimbleby that he was a very lucky man indeed. Yes, his gallery had endured its ups and downs—the Great Recession had been a rather close shave—but somehow the hand of fate had always interceded to save him from ruin. The same was true of his personal life, which was, by universal acclaim, the untidiest in the London art world. Despite his advancing years and ever-increasing girth, Oliver had encountered no shortage of willing partners. He was, after all, a glorified salesman—a man of immense charm and charisma who, as he was fond of saying, could sell sand to a Saudi. He was not, however, a womanizer. Or so he told himself each time he awoke with a strange body on the other side of his bed. Oliver loved women. All women. And therein lay the root of his problem.

Tonight he had nothing on his schedule other than a well-deserved drink—and perhaps a few laughs at Julian Isherwood’s expense—at Wiltons. To reach his destination he merely had to turn to the left after leaving his gallery and walk one hundred and fourteen paces along the spotless pavements of Bury Street. His journey took him past the premises of a dozen competitors, including the mighty P. & D. Colnaghi & Co., the world’s oldest commercial art gallery. Next door was the flagship store of Turnbull & Asser, where Oliver’s deficit spending was approaching American levels.

Entering Wiltons, he was pleased to see Sarah Bancroft sitting alone at her usual table. He procured a glass of Pouilly-Fumé at the bar and joined her. The unexpected warmth of her smile nearly stopped his heart.

“Oliver,” she purred. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’ve always had the distinct impression that you find me repulsive.”

“Don’t be silly. I positively adore you.”

“So there’s hope for me yet?”

She raised her left hand and displayed a three-carat diamond ring and accompanying wedding band. “Still married, I’m afraid.”

“Any chance of a divorce?”

“Not at the moment.”

“In that case,” said Oliver with a dramatic sigh, “I suppose I’ll have to settle for being your sexual plaything.”

“You have plenty of those already. Besides, my husband might not approve.”

“Peter Marlowe? The professional assassin?”

“He’s a business consultant,” said Sarah.

“I think I liked him better when he was a contract killer.”

“So did I.”

Just then the door swung open and in came Simon Mendenhall and Olivia Watson.