Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (59)

“Why six instead of only three?”

“I need two spares in the event of a disaster.”

“And the other one?”

“I’m planning to leave a Gentileschi with my front man in Florence.”

“Silly me,” said Sarah. “But how are we going to explain the missing paintings to Julian?”

“With any luck, he won’t notice.”

Sarah instructed the shippers to arrive no later than nine the following morning and advised Julian to take the day off. Nevertheless, he wandered into Mason’s Yard at his usual time, a quarter past twelve, as the crated paintings were being loaded into a Ford Transit van. The tragicomedy that followed included yet another collision with an inanimate object. This time it was Sarah’s shredder, into which Julian, in a spasm of self-pity, attempted to insert himself.

Gabriel did not witness the incident, for he was in the back of a taxi bound from Fiumicino Airport toward Rome’s Piazza di Sant’Ignazio. Upon arrival he took a table at Le Cave, one of his favorite restaurants in the centro storico. It was located a few steps from the ornate yellow-and-white palazzo that served as the headquarters of the Art Squad.

The palazzo’s door swung open at half past one, and General Cesare Ferrari emerged in his bemedaled blue-and-gold uniform. He crossed the gray cobbles of the square and without uttering a word of greeting sat down at Gabriel’s table. Instantly the waiter delivered a frigid bottle of Frascati and a plate of fried arancini.

“Why doesn’t that happen when I arrive at restaurants?” asked Gabriel.

“I’m sure it’s only the uniform.” The general plucked one of the risotto balls from the plate. “Shouldn’t you be in Venice with your wife and children?”

“Probably. But I needed to have a word with you first.”

“About what?”

“I’m thinking about embarking on a life of crime, and I was wondering whether you would be interested in a piece of the action.”

“What sort of misdeed are you contemplating this time?”

“Art forgery.”

“Well, you certainly have the talent for it,” said the general. “But what would be my end?”

“A high-profile case that will shake the art world to its core and ensure that the generous funding and personnel levels of the Art Squad remain unchanged for years to come.”

“Has a crime been committed on Italian soil?”

“Not yet,” said Gabriel with a smile. “But soon.”





37

Bridge of Sighs




Umberto Conti, universally regarded as the greatest art restorer of the twentieth century, had bequeathed to Francesco Tiepolo a magical ring of keys that could open any door in Venice. Over drinks at Harry’s Bar, Francesco entrusted them to Gabriel. Late that evening he slipped into the Scuola Grande di San Rocco and spent two hours in solitary communion with some of Tintoretto’s greatest works. Then he breached the defenses of the neighboring Frari church and stood transfixed before Titian’s magisterial Assumption of the Virgin. In the deep silence of the cavernous nave, he recalled the words Umberto had spoken to him when he was a broken, gray-haired boy of twenty-five.

Only a man with a damaged canvas of his own can be a truly great restorer . . .

Umberto would not have approved of his gifted pupil’s newest commission. And neither, for that matter, did Francesco. Nevertheless, he agreed to serve as a consultant to the project. He was, after all, one of the world’s foremost authorities on the Venetian School painters. If Gabriel could fool Francesco Tiepolo, he could fool anyone.

Francesco likewise agreed to accompany Gabriel during his nocturnal Venetian wanderings, if only to prevent another mishap like the one involving poor Capitano Rossetti. They stole into churches and scuole, roamed the Accademia and the Museo Correr, and even stormed the Doge’s Palace. While peering through the stone-barred windows of the Bridge of Sighs, Francesco summarized the difficulty of the task ahead.

“Four different works by four of the greatest painters in history. Only a madman would attempt such a thing.”

“If he can do it, so can I.”

“The forger?”

Gabriel nodded.

“It’s not a competition, you know.”

“Of course it is. I have to prove to them that I would be a worthy addition to the network. Otherwise, they won’t make a play for me.”

“Is that why you allowed yourself to be dragged into this? For the challenge?”

“Wherever did you get the idea that this was going to be a challenge for me?”

“You don’t lack for confidence, do you?”

“Neither does he.”

“You’re all the same, you art forgers. You all have something to prove. He’s probably a failed painter who’s taking his revenge on the art world by fooling the connoisseurs and the collectors.”

“The connoisseurs and collectors,” said Gabriel, “haven’t seen anything yet.”

He spent his days in his studio with his monographs and catalogues raisonnés and photographs from past restorations, including several that he had conducted for Francesco. Together, after much debate, some of it conducted with raised voices, they settled on the subject matter and iconography for the four forgeries. Gabriel produced a series of preparatory sketches, then turned the sketches into four swiftly executed rehearsal paintings. Francesco declared the Gentileschi, a reworking of Dana? and the Shower of Gold, to be the finest of the lot, with Veronese’s Susanna in the Bath a close second. Gabriel agreed with Francesco’s assessment of the Gentileschi, though he was fond of his reinterpretation of Tintoretto’s Bacchus, Venus, and Ariadne. His Titian, a pastiche of The Lovers, wasn’t bad, either, though he thought the brushwork was a touch tentative.