Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (64)

She was tall and slender, with the square shoulders of a swimmer, narrow hips, and long legs. The pantsuit she wore was dark and businesslike, but the daring neckline of her white blouse revealed the fine curve of her delicate upturned breasts. Her hair was nearly black and hung long and straight down the center of her back. Even in the unflattering light of Heathrow’s Terminal 5, it shone like a newly varnished painting.

Her name, according to the passport, was Magdalena Navarro. She was thirty-nine and a resident of Madrid. She had arrived at Heathrow aboard Iberia Flight 7459 and had dialed Dimbleby Fine Arts at 3:07 p.m. from her room phone at the Lanesborough. The call had bounced automatically to Oliver’s mobile. After listening to the message, he had rung Sarah, who had prevailed upon her husband, an officer of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, to have an off-the-record peek at the Spanish woman’s particulars. He had done so with the approval of his director-general.

“It took our brethren at MI5 all of twenty minutes to pull together the file.”

“Did they have a look at her recent travel?”

“It seems she’s a frequent visitor to France, Belgium, and Germany. She also spends a fair amount of time in Hong Kong and Tokyo.”

Christopher ignited a Marlboro and exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling of his elegantly decorated drawing room. He wore a pair of fitted chinos and a costly cashmere pullover. Sarah was more casually attired, in stretch jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. She plucked a cigarette from Christopher’s packet and quickly lit it before Gabriel could object.

“Any other interesting travel?” he asked.

“She goes to New York about once a month. Apparently, she lived there for a few years in the mid-aughts.”

“Credit card?”

“A corporate American Express. The company has a fuzzy Liechtenstein registry. She seems to use it only for foreign travel.”

“Which would help to conceal the real location of her home in Spain.” Gabriel turned to Sarah. “How did she describe herself in the message?”

“She says she’s a broker. But she doesn’t have a website or an entry on LinkedIn, and neither Oliver nor Julian has ever heard of her.”

“Sounds like she’s our girl.”

“Yes,” agreed Sarah. “The question is, how long do we make her wait?”

“Long enough to create the impression that she is of absolutely no consequence.”

“And then?”

“She’ll have to convince Oliver to let her see the painting.”

“Could be dangerous,” said Sarah.

“He’ll be fine.”

“It’s not Oliver I’m worried about.”

Gabriel smiled. “All’s fair in love and forgery.”





40

Dimbleby Fine Arts




The director of the National Gallery arrived at Dimbleby Fine Arts at ten the following morning, accompanied by the infallible Niles Dunham and three other curators who specialized in Italian Old Masters. They sniffed, poked, prodded, kicked the tires, and examined the canvas under ultraviolet light. No one questioned the authenticity of the work, only the provenance.

“An old European collection? It’s a bit gossamer, Oliver. That said, I must have it.”

“Then I suggest you make me an offer.”

“I won’t get caught up in a bidding war.”

“Of course you will.”

“Who’s next at bat?”

“The Getty.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I will if the price is right.”

“Scoundrel.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“See you at Wiltons tonight?”

“Unless I get a better offer.”

The delegation from the Getty arrived at eleven. They were young and suntanned and loaded with cash. They made a takeaway offer of ￡25 million, ￡5 million above the top end of the estimated price band. Oliver turned them down flat.

“We won’t be back,” they vowed.

“I have a feeling you will.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because I see that look in your eyes.”

It was noon when Oliver ushered the Gettys into Bury Street. Cordelia handed him a stack of telephone messages on her way to lunch. He leafed through them quickly before ringing Sarah.

“She’s called twice this morning.”

“Wonderful news.”

“Perhaps we should put her out of her misery.”

“Actually, we’d like you to play hard to get a little longer.”

“Hard to get isn’t my usual modus operandi.”

“I’ve noticed, Ollie.”

The afternoon session was a reprise of the morning. The delegation from the Metropolitan Museum of Art was smitten, their counterparts from Boston head over heels. The director of the Art Gallery of Ontario, a Veronese expert himself, was practically speechless.

“How much do you want for it?” he managed to say.

“I’ve got twenty-five from the Getty.”

“They’re heathens.”

“But rich.”

“I might be able to do twenty.”

“A novel negotiating tactic.”