Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (70)
“What do you think of it so far?” he asked calmly.
Isabella swung round and laid a hand over her heart. Somehow she managed not to scream.
He took a step forward. “What are you doing in here?”
“Count Gasparri asked me to check on you.”
“In that case, why did you come when you knew I was out?” He contemplated his pigments and oils. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”
“Of course not. I was just wondering what you were working on.”
“Is that all? Or were you also wondering why I returned to this place after all these years?”
“That, too,” Isabella conceded.
He took another step forward. “Do you know who I am?”
“Until a moment ago, I thought you were an art restorer who sometimes worked at the Vatican Museums.”
“And you no longer believe that to be the case?”
“No,” she said after a moment. “I do not.”
A silence fell between them.
“Forgive me,” said Isabella, and started toward the door.
“Wait,” he called out.
She stopped and turned slowly to face him. The greenness of his eyes was unsettling. “Yes, Signore Allon?”
“You never told me what you thought of the painting.”
“It’s quite extraordinary. But who is she?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“When will you know?”
“Soon, I hope.” He took up his palette and brush, and opened the laptop.
“What’s it called?” asked Isabella.
“Portrait of an Unknown Woman.”
“Not the painting. The program about Oliver and Cordelia.”
He looked up suddenly.
“You’ve been playing it quite loudly. The sound carries well in the countryside.”
“I hope it didn’t disturb you.”
“Not at all,” said Isabella, and turned to go.
“Your phone,” he said suddenly.
She stopped. “What about it?”
“Please leave it behind. And bring me your laptop and the keys to your car. Tell Carlos to bring me his devices as well. No phone calls or emails until further notice. And no leaving the estate.”
Isabella switched off her phone and laid it on the table, next to the open laptop. As she slipped from the villa, she heard roguish Oliver tell someone named Nicky that his client would have to increase his offer to ￡30 million if he wanted the Veronese. Nicky called Oliver a thief, then asked whether he was free for a drink that evening. Oliver said he wasn’t.
“What’s her name?”
“Magdalena Navarro.”
“Spanish?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What does she look like?”
“A bit like Penélope Cruz, but prettier.”
44
Dimbleby Fine Arts
It was Sarah Bancroft, from a table at Franco’s Italian restaurant in Jermyn Street, who spotted her first—the tall, slender woman with almost black hair, dressed in a shortish skirt and a formfitting white top. She rounded the corner into Bury Street and instantly caught the attention of Simon Mendenhall, who was leaving Christie’s after an interminable senior staff meeting. Simon being Simon, he paused to have a look at the woman’s backside and was aghast to see her make a beeline for Dimbleby Fine Arts. Simon in turn made a beeline for Wiltons and informed all those present, including the dealer of contemporary art with whom he was rumored to be having a torrid affair, that Oliver’s hot streak continued unabated.
At eight o’clock precisely, the raven-haired woman rang the gallery’s bell. Oliver waited until she rang it a second time before rising from his Eames desk chair and unlocking the door. Stepping across the threshold, she pressed her lips suggestively against his cheek. During their weeklong game of cat and mouse, Oliver had sidestepped two offers of dinner and a thinly veiled sexual proposition. Only heaven knew what the next few minutes might bring.
He closed the door and locked it tightly. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love one.”
“Whisky or whisky?”
“Whisky would be perfect.”
Oliver led her through the half-light to his office and filled two tumblers with scotch.
“Blue Label,” she remarked.
“I keep it for special occasions.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“The impending record-shattering sale of Susanna in the Bath by Paolo Veronese.”
“Where does the bidding stand?”
“As of this evening, I have two firm offers of thirty.”
“Museums?”
“One museum,” answered Oliver. “One private.”
“I have a feeling that both of your bidders are going to be disappointed.”
“The museum’s offer is final. The collector made a killing during the pandemic and has money to burn.”
“So does my client. He’s anxious to hear from me.”
“Then perhaps we shouldn’t keep your client waiting any longer.”
They carried their drinks to the gallery’s rear exhibition room. The large painting was propped on a pair of baize-covered display easels. The tableau was only faintly visible in the semidarkness.