Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (63)

“Probably in Genoa.”

“Where did I paint my version?”

“None of your fucking business.”



Capitano Luca Rossetti left the coffeehouse at 3:27 p.m. and crossed to the opposite side of the elegant tree-lined boulevard. Gabriel tensed as the young Carabinieri officer reached his right hand toward the intercom of Galerie Konrad Hassler. Fifteen seconds elapsed, long enough for the dealer to have a good long look at his visitor. Then Rossetti leaned on the glass door and disappeared from view.

Five minutes later Gabriel’s phone shivered with an incoming call. It was General Ferrari.

“Nothing exploded, did it?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me know the minute he walks out of there,” said the general, and rang off.

Gabriel returned the phone to the tabletop and directed his gaze toward the gallery. By now the introductions had been made and the two men had withdrawn to the dealer’s office for a bit of privacy. A photograph had been placed on his desk. Perhaps two. When viewed together, the images made it clear that a talented new forger had stepped onto the stage of the illicit art market. Which was exactly the message that Gabriel wished to send.

Just then his phone pulsed with another call. “What’s going on in there?” asked General Ferrari.

“Hold on, I’ll run across the road and check.”

This time it was Gabriel who killed the connection. Two minutes later the door of the gallery opened, and out stepped Rossetti, followed by a well-dressed man with iron-gray hair and a crimson face. A few final words were exchanged, and fingers were pointed in anger. Then Rossetti ducked into a taxi and was gone, leaving the crimson-faced man alone on the pavement. He looked left and right along the boulevard before returning to the gallery.

Message delivered, thought Gabriel.

He dialed Rossetti’s number.

“Looks as though you two really hit it off.”

“It went exactly the way you said it would.”

“Where’s the photograph?”

“It’s possible that in my rush to get out of the gallery I might have left it on his desk.”

“How long before he sends it to our girl?”

“Not long,” said Rossetti.





39

Queen’s Gate Terrace




For the remainder of that week, the phone at Dimbleby Fine Arts rang nearly without cease. Cordelia Blake, Oliver’s long-suffering receptionist, served as the first line of defense. Those with names she recognized—longtime clients or representatives of prominent museums—she transferred directly to Oliver’s line. Those of lesser repute were asked to leave a detailed message and were given no assurance their inquiry would receive a reply. It was Mr. Dimbleby’s ambition, Cordelia explained, to find a suitable home for the Veronese. He had no intention of selling the painting to just anyone.

Unbeknownst to Cordelia, Oliver delivered each of her pink message slips to Sarah Bancroft in Mason’s Yard, and Sarah in turn forwarded the names and numbers to Gabriel in Venice. By the close of business on that Friday, Dimbleby Fine Arts had received more than two hundred requests to view the forged Veronese—from the directors of the world’s greatest museums, from representatives of prominent collectors, and from a multitude of journalists, art dealers, and learned connoisseurs of the Italian Old Masters. With the exception of a curator from the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles, none of the names on the list was Spanish in origin, and none of the callback numbers began with a Spanish country code. Forty-two women wished to see the painting, all of whom were well-known figures in the art world.

One of the women was a reporter from the London bureau of the New York Times. With Gabriel’s approval, Oliver allowed her to see the painting the following Monday, and by Wednesday evening her story and accompanying photographs were the talk of the art world. The result was another avalanche of calls to Dimbleby Fine Arts. Twenty-two of the new callers were women. None of their names or callback numbers were Spanish in origin. And none, according to Cordelia Blake, spoke with a Spanish accent.

Gabriel feared the worst, that the forgery network’s front woman had no intention of attending the party he had so meticulously planned in her honor. Nevertheless, he instructed Oliver to prepare a schedule for the viewings. They were to last for one week only. The price band would be set at ￡15 million to ￡20 million, which would separate the wheat from the chaff. Oliver was to make it clear that he reserved the right not to sell to the highest bidder.

“And make sure you dim the lights in your exhibition room,” added Gabriel. “Otherwise, one of your eagle-eyed clients might notice that your newly discovered Veronese is a forgery.”

“Not a chance. On the surface, at least, it looks like Veronese painted it in the sixteenth century.”

“He did paint it, Oliver. I just happened to be holding the brush at the time.”

Gabriel spent Saturday sailing the Adriatic with Chiara and the children, and on Sunday, the day before the viewings were to begin, he flew to London. Upon arrival he headed for Christopher and Sarah’s maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace. There, arrayed on the granite-topped kitchen island, he found a surveillance photograph from Heathrow Airport, a scan of a Spanish passport, and a printout of a guest registration from the Lanesborough Hotel.

Smiling, Sarah handed him a glass of Bollinger Special Cuvée. “Tagliatelle with ragù or veal Milanese?”