Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (71)

Oliver reached for the dimmer switch. As Susanna and the two elders emerged from the gloom, the woman raised a hand to her mouth and murmured something in Spanish.

“Translation?” asked Oliver.

“It wouldn’t survive.” She approached the painting slowly, as though trying not to disturb the three figures. “It’s no wonder you have the entire art world at your feet, Mr. Dimbleby. It’s a masterwork painted by an artist at the height of his powers.”

“I believe those were the very words I used to describe it in the press release.”

“Were they?” She reached into her handbag.

“No photographs, please.”

She produced a small ultraviolet torch. “Would you mind switching off the lights for a moment?”

Oliver reached for the dimmer again and returned the room to darkness. The woman played the purple-blue beam of the torch over the surface of the painting.

“The losses are rather extensive.”

“The losses,” replied Oliver, “are exactly what one would expect to find in a four-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Venetian School painting.”

“Who handled the restoration for you?”

“It came to me in this condition.”

“How fortunate,” she said, and switched off the ultraviolet torch.

Oliver allowed the darkness to linger for a moment before slowly bringing up the room lights. The woman was now holding a rectangular LED magnifier. She used it to examine the exposed flesh of Susanna’s neck and shoulder, followed by the vermilion-colored robe she was clutching to her breasts.

“The brushwork is quite visible,” she said. “Not only in the garments but the skin as well.”

“Veronese became more overtly painterly in his brushwork later in his career,” explained Oliver. “This work reflects the change from his earlier style.”

She returned the magnifier to her handbag and stepped away from the painting. A minute passed. Then another.

Oliver cleared his throat gently.

“I heard that,” she said.

“I don’t mean to rush things, but it’s rather late.”

“Do you have a moment to show me the provenance?”

Oliver ushered the woman back to his office. There he drew a copy of the provenance from a locked file drawer and laid it on the desk. The woman reviewed it with justifiable skepticism.

“An old European collection?”

“Very old,” replied Oliver. “And very private.”

The woman pushed the provenance across the desktop. “I must know the identity of the previous owner, Mr. Dimbleby.”

“The previous owner, like your client, insists on anonymity.”

“Are you in direct contact with him?”

“Her,” said Oliver. “And the answer is no. I deal with her representative.”

“A lawyer? A dealer?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t reveal the representative’s name or characterize his connection to the collection. Especially to a competitor.” Oliver lowered his voice. “Even one as attractive as you.”

She gave him a coquettish pout. “Is there really nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The woman sighed. “And if I were to offer you, say, thirty-five million pounds for your Veronese?”

“My answer would be the same.”

She tapped the provenance with the tip of her forefinger. “Are none of your other potential buyers concerned about the flimsiness of the painting’s chain of ownership?”

“Not at all.”

“How can that be?”

“Because it doesn’t matter where the painting came from. The work speaks for itself.”

“It certainly spoke to me. In fact, it was rather talkative.”

“And what did it say?”

She leaned forward across the desk and looked directly into his eyes. “It said that Paolo Veronese didn’t paint it.”

“Nonsense.”

“Is it, Mr. Dimbleby?”

“I have spent the last four days showing that painting to the leading Old Master experts from the world’s most respected museums. And not one of them has questioned the authenticity of the work.”

“That’s because none of those experts know about the man who visited Galerie Konrad Hassler in Berlin a few days after you announced the rediscovery of your so-called Veronese. This man showed Herr Hassler a photograph of the so-called Veronese side by side with the so-called Titian and the so-called Tintoretto. The photograph was taken in the studio of the art forger who painted them.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“He assured me that the paintings were genuine.”

“Signore Rinaldi?”

“Never heard of him,” swore Oliver, truthfully.

“That’s the name he used when he visited Galerie Hassler. Giovanni Rinaldi.”

“I know him by a different name.”

“And what name is that?”

Oliver made no reply.

“He deceived you, Mr. Dimbleby. Or perhaps you simply wanted to be deceived. Whatever the case, you are now in a very precarious situation. But don’t worry, it will be our little secret.” She paused. “For a small fee, of course.”