Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (65)

“Please, Oliver. Don’t make me beg.”

“Match the Getty’s offer, and it’s yours.”

“Is that a promise?”

“You have my solemn word.”

Which is how the first day of viewings ended, with one final untruth. Oliver showed the Ontario delegation out of the gallery and collected the newest telephone messages from Cordelia’s desk.

Magdalena Navarro had called at four fifteen.

“She sounded rather annoyed,” said Cordelia.

“With good reason.”

“Who do you suppose she represents?”

“Someone with enough money to put her up at the Lanesborough.”

Cordelia collected her belongings and went out. Alone, Oliver reached for the telephone and dialed Sarah.

“How was your afternoon?” she asked.

“I have a bidding war on my hands for a painting I can’t sell. Otherwise, nothing much happened.”

“How many times did she call?”

“Only once.”

“Perhaps she’s losing interest.”

“All the more reason I should call her and get it over with.”

“Let’s discuss it at Wiltons. I feel a martini coming on.”

Oliver hung up the phone and engaged in the familiar ritual of putting his gallery to bed for the night. He lowered the internal security screens over the windows. He engaged the alarm. He placed a baize-cloth cover over Susanna in the Bath, oil on canvas, 194 by 194 centimeters, by Gabriel Allon.

Outside, Oliver triple-locked his door and set off along Bury Street. It should have been a triumphal march. He was, after all, the toast of the art world, the dealer who had stumbled upon a long-hidden collection of lost masters. Never mind that all of the paintings were forgeries. Oliver assured himself that his actions were in service of a noble cause. If nothing else, it would make for a good story one day.

Crossing Ryder Street, he became conscious of the fact that someone was walking behind him. Someone wearing a pair of well-made pumps, he thought, with stiletto heels. He paused outside the Colnaghi gallery and cast a leftward glance along the pavement.

Tall, slender, expensively attired, lustrous black hair hanging over the front of one shoulder.

Dangerously attractive.

Much to Oliver’s surprise, the woman joined him and fixed her wide dark eyes on the Old Master painting displayed in the window. “Bartolomeo Cavarozzi,” she said in faintly accented English. “He was an early follower of Caravaggio who spent two years working in Spain, where he was much admired. If I’m not mistaken, he painted this picture after his return to Rome in 1619.”

“Who in the world are you?” asked Oliver.

The woman turned to him and smiled. “I’m Magdalena Navarro, Mr. Dimbleby. And I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”



Wiltons was overrun with American and Canadian museum curators, all divided into opposing camps. Sarah shook the hand of the Austrian-born director of the Met, then shouldered her way to the bar, where she endured a wait of ten minutes for her martini. The cocktail-party din was so deafening that for a moment she didn’t realize her phone was ringing. It was Oliver calling from his mobile.

“Are you in this madhouse somewhere?” she asked.

“Change in plan, I’m afraid. We’ll have to do it another time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Yes, tomorrow evening would be fine. Cordelia will call you in the morning and make the arrangements.”

And with that, the call went dead.

Sarah quickly dialed Gabriel. “I could be wrong,” she said, “but I believe our girl just made her next move.”





41

Piccadilly




“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere I can have you all to myself.”

“Not the Lanesborough?”

“No, Mr. Dimbleby.” She gave him a look of contrived reproach. “Not on our first date.”

They were walking along Piccadilly into the blinding light of the sun. It was one of those perfect early-summer evenings in London, cool and soft, a gentle breeze. The woman’s intoxicating scent reminded Oliver of the south of Spain. Orange blossom and jasmine and a hint of manzanilla. Twice the back of her hand brushed against his. Her touch was electric.

She slowed to a stop outside Hide. It was one of London’s costliest restaurants, a temple of gastronomic and social excess beloved by Russian billionaires, Emirati princes, and, evidently, beautiful Spanish art criminals.

“I’m not quite posh enough for this place,” protested Oliver.

“The art world is at your feet tonight, Mr. Dimbleby. You are, without a doubt, the poshest man in London.”

They made quite an entrance—the corpulent, pink-cheeked art dealer and the tall, elegantly dressed woman with shimmering black hair. She led him down a swirling oaken staircase to the dimly lit bar. A secluded candlelit table awaited them.

“I’m impressed,” said Oliver.

“My butler at the Lanesborough arranged it.”

“Do you stay there often?”

“Only when a certain client of mine is footing the bill.”

“A client who’s interested in acquiring the Veronese?”