Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (7)
“So where’s this masterpiece of yours?” he asked.
“Under armed guard in London.”
“Is there a deadline?”
“Have you another pressing commission?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How you answer my next question.”
“You want to know what really happened to my face?”
Gabriel nodded. “The truth this time, Julian.”
“I was attacked by a lamppost.”
“Another one?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Please tell me it was a foggy night in London.”
“Actually, it was yesterday afternoon in Bordeaux. I went there at the invitation of a woman named Valerie Bérrangar. She said she wanted to tell me something about a painting I sold not long ago.”
“Not the Van Dyck?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I wouldn’t know. You see, Madame Bérrangar died in an automobile accident on the way to our meeting.”
“And the incident involving the lamppost?” asked Gabriel.
“Two men on a motorcycle tried to steal my briefcase as I was walking back to my hotel. At least I think that’s what they were doing. For all I know,” said Julian, “they were trying to kill me, too.”
4
San Marco
In the Piazza San Marco, a string quartet wearily serenaded the day’s last customers at Caffè Florian.
“Are they incapable of playing anything other than Vivaldi?” asked Julian.
“What have you got against Vivaldi?”
“I adore him. But how about Corelli for a change of pace? Or Handel, for heaven’s sake?”
“Or Anthony van Dyck.” Gabriel paused before a shop window in the arcade on the square’s southern flank. “The original story in ARTnews didn’t mention where you found the painting. It didn’t identify the buyer, either. The price tag, however, received prominent play.”
“Six and a half million pounds.” Julian smiled. “Now ask me how much I paid for the bloody thing.”
“I was getting to that.”
“Three million euros.”
“Which means your profit was in excess of one hundred percent.”
“But that’s how the secondary art market works, petal. Dealers like me search out misattributed, misplaced, or undervalued paintings and bring them to market, hopefully with enough flair and panache to attract one or more deep-pocketed buyers. And don’t forget, I had my expenses, too.”
“Long lunches at London’s finest restaurants?”
“Actually, most of the lunches took place in Paris. You see, I bought the painting from a gallery in the Eighth. The rue la Boétie, of all places.”
“Does this gallery have a name?”
“Galerie Georges Fleury.”
“Have you done business with him in the past?”
“A great deal. Monsieur Fleury specializes in French paintings from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but he deals in Dutch and Flemish works as well. He has excellent relationships with many of France’s oldest and wealthiest families. The ones who live in drafty chateaux crammed with art. He contacts me when he finds something interesting.”
“Where did he find Portrait of an Unknown Woman?”
“It came from an old private collection. That’s all he would say.”
“Attribution?”
“Manner of Anthony van Dyck.”
“Which covers all manner of sins.”
“Indeed,” agreed Julian. “But Monsieur Fleury thought he saw evidence of the master’s hand. He called me for a second opinion.”
“And?”
“The instant I laid eyes on it, I got that funny feeling at the back of my neck.”
They emerged from the arcade into the fading afternoon light. To their left rose the Campanile. Gabriel led Julian to the right instead, past the ornate facade of the Doge’s Palace. On the Ponte della Paglia, they joined a knot of tourists gawking at the Bridge of Sighs.
“Looking for something?” asked Julian.
“You know what they say about old habits.”
“I’m afraid that most of mine are bad. You, however, are the most disciplined creature I’ve ever met.”
On the opposite side of the bridge lay the sestiere of Castello. They hurried past the souvenir kiosks lining the Riva degli Schiavoni, then followed the passageway to the Campo San Zaccaria, home of the Carabinieri’s regional headquarters. Julian had once spent a sleepless night in an interrogation room on the second floor.
“How’s your old friend General Ferrari?” he asked. “Still pulling the wings off flies? Or has he managed to find a new hobby?”
General Cesare Ferrari was the commander of the Carabinieri’s Division for the Defense of Cultural Patrimony, better known as the Art Squad. It was headquartered in a palazzo in Rome’s Piazza di Sant’Ignazio, though three of its officers were stationed full-time in Venice. While not searching for stolen paintings, they kept tabs on the former Israeli spymaster and assassin living quietly in San Polo. It was General Ferrari who had arranged for Gabriel to receive a permesso di soggiorno, a permanent Italian residence permit. Consequently, Gabriel tried to stay on his good side, no easy feat.