Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (62)

But it was the photograph of the painting that raised the most eyebrows, at least among the backbiting world of St. James’s. For many years Oliver had utilized the services of the same fine art photographer—the renowned Prudence Cuming of Dover Street. But not, as it turned out, for his newly discovered Titian. Perhaps even more suspicious was his claim that he had taken the photograph himself. All were in agreement that Oliver could handle a tumbler of good whisky, or a shapely backside, but not a camera.

And yet no one, not even the unscrupulous Roddy Hutchinson, suspected Oliver of wrongdoing. Indeed, the general consensus was that he was guilty of nothing more serious than protecting the identity of his source, a common practice among art dealers. The logical conclusion was that it was only a matter of time before another noteworthy picture emerged from the same European collection.

When the inevitable finally happened, it was once again Amelia March of ARTnews who broke the story. This time the work in question was Bacchus, Venus, and Ariadne by the Venetian painter Tintoretto—deeply private sale, price unavailable upon request. Just ten days later, to absolutely no one’s surprise, Dimbleby Fine Arts announced its newest offering: Susanna in the Bath, oil on canvas, 194 by 194 centimeters, by Paolo Veronese. The gallery retained Prudence Cuming of Dover Street to make the photograph. The art world swooned.



With the exception, that is, of the powerful director of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, who found the sudden appearance of three Italian Old Master paintings suspicious, to say the least. He rang General Ferrari of the Art Squad and demanded an immediate investigation. Surely, he shouted down the line to Rome, the canvases had been smuggled out of Italy in violation of the country’s draconian Cultural Heritage Code. The general promised to look into the matter, though his fingers were firmly crossed at the time. Needless to say, he did not inform the director that the paintings in question were all modern fakes and that he himself was operating in league with the forger.

The forger’s phantom front man—a collector and occasional dealer who called himself Alessandro Calvi—was currently living in an art-filled apartment within sight of the Uffizi, on the Lungarno Torrigiani. As it happened, General Ferrari had occasion to ring this disreputable character two days later on an unrelated matter. It concerned a piece of information the forger had received from a well-placed informant in Paris, an art thief and antiques dealer named Maurice Durand.

“Galerie Konrad Hassler. It’s located on the Kurfürstendamm in Berlin. There’s a coffeehouse on the opposite side of the street. Your associate will meet you there tomorrow afternoon at three.”

And so it was that the phantom front man, whose real name was Capitano Luca Rossetti, left the luxury apartment on the Arno early the following morning and rode in a taxi to Florence Airport. His tailored Italian suit was new and expensive, as were his handmade shoes and his soft-sided leather attaché case. The watch on his wrist was a Patek Philippe. Like his collection of art and antiquities, it was borrowed from the evidence rooms of the Carabinieri.

Rossetti’s travel itinerary included a stopover in Zurich, and it was approaching three o’clock when he arrived at the coffeehouse on the Kurfürstendamm. Gabriel was seated at a table outside, in the dappled shade of a plane tree. He ordered two coffees from the waitress in rapid German before handing a manila envelope to Rossetti.

Inside were two photographs. The first depicted three unframed paintings displayed side by side against the wall of an artist’s workshop—a Titian, a Tintoretto, and a Veronese. The second was a high-resolution image of Dana? and the Shower of Gold, purportedly by Orazio Gentileschi. Rossetti knew the work well. At present, it was hanging on the wall of the apartment in Florence.

“When is he expecting me?”

“Three thirty. He’s under the impression that your name is Giovanni Rinaldi and that you are from Milano.”

“How do you want me to play it?”

“I’d like you to present Herr Hassler with a unique opportunity to acquire a lost masterwork. I would also like you to make it clear that you are the source of the three paintings that have resurfaced in London.”

“Do I tell him they’re forgeries?”

“You won’t have to. He’ll get the idea when he sees the photos.”

“Why am I coming to him?”

“Because you’re looking for a second distributor for your merchandise and you’ve heard rumors that he’s less than honest.”

“How do you suppose he’ll react?”

“He’ll either make you an offer or throw you out of his gallery. I’m betting on the latter. Make sure you leave behind the photo of the Gentileschi on your way out the door.”

“What happens if he calls the police?”

“Criminals don’t call the police, Rossetti. In fact, they do their best to avoid them.”

The Carabinieri officer lowered his gaze to the photograph.

“When was he born?” asked Gabriel quietly.

“Fifteen sixty-three.”

“What was his name?”

“Orazio Lomi.”

“What sort of work did his father do?”

“He was a Florentine goldsmith.”

“Who was Gentileschi?”

“An uncle he lived with when he moved to Rome.”

“Where did he paint Dana? and the Shower of Gold?”