Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (72)
“How small?”
“Half of the final sales price of the Veronese.”
Oliver uncharacteristically chose the high road. “I couldn’t possibly sell the picture after what you’ve told me.”
“If you withdraw the painting now, you will be forced to return the millions of pounds you accepted for the Titian and the Tintoretto. And then . . .”
“I’ll be ruined.”
She handed Oliver a sheet of stationery from the Lanesborough. “I would like you to wire fifteen million pounds into that account first thing tomorrow morning. If the money doesn’t appear by the close of business, I will telephone that reporter from the New York Times and tell her the truth about your so-called Veronese.”
“You’re a cheap blackmailer.”
“And you, Mr. Dimbleby, don’t know as much about the art world as you think you do.”
He looked down at the account number. “You will receive the money after the sale of my Veronese. Which, I might add, is a genuine Veronese and not a fake.”
“I insist on immediate payment.”
“You can’t have it.”
“In that case,” said the woman, “I will require a security deposit.”
“How much?”
“Not money, Mr. Dimbleby. A name.”
Oliver hesitated, then said, “Alessandro Calvi.”
“And where does Signore Calvi live?”
“Florence.”
“Please call Signore Calvi from your mobile phone. I’d like to have a word with him.”
It was half past eight when Oliver showed her into Bury Street. She offered him a hand in farewell. And when he refused it, she placed her mouth close to his ear and warned him of the professional humiliation he would suffer if he failed to send her the money as promised.
“Dinner at the Lanesborough?” he asked as she set off toward Jermyn Street.
“Some other time,” she said over her shoulder, and was gone.
Inside the gallery, Oliver returned to his office. The scent of orange blossom and jasmine hung in the air. On the desk were two unfinished glasses of Johnnie Walker Blue Label whisky, a fictitious provenance for a fake painting by Paolo Veronese, and a sheet of stationery from the Lanesborough Hotel. Oliver returned the provenance to the file drawer. The sheet of stationery he photographed with his phone.
It rang a moment later. “Bravo!” said the voice at the other end of the connection. “I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
45
Firenze
General Ferrari arrived at Villa dei Fiori at two the following afternoon. He was accompanied by four tactical officers and two technicians. The tactical officers conducted a site survey of the villa and the grounds while the techs turned the dining room into an op center. The general, in a business suit and open-necked dress shirt, sat in the great room with Gabriel and watched him paint.
“Your girl arrived in Florence shortly before noon.”
“How did she manage that?”
“A chartered Dassault Falcon from London City Airport. The Four Seasons sent a car for her. She’s there now.”
“Doing what?”
“Our surveillance capabilities inside the hotel are limited. But we’ll keep an eye on her if she decides to do a bit of sightseeing. And we’ll definitely have a couple of teams in the Piazza della Repubblica at nine o’clock.”
“If she spots them, we’re dead.”
“This might come as a surprise to you, my friend, but the Arma dei Carabinieri has done this a time or two. Without your help,” the general added. “The minute she purchases that painting, we’ll have the grounds to arrest her on numerous art fraud and conspiracy charges. She will be staring down the barrel of a very long sentence in an Italian prison for women. Not a pleasant prospect for a frequent guest of the Lanesborough Hotel in London.”
“I don’t want her in a prison cell,” said Gabriel. “I want her on the opposite side of an interrogation table, telling us everything she knows.”
“As do I. But I am obligated under Italian law to provide her with an attorney if she desires one. If I do not, anything she says will be inadmissible at trial.”
“What does Italian law say about art restorers taking part in interrogations?”
“Not surprisingly, Italian law is silent on that question. If, however, she were to consent to the restorer’s presence, it might be permissible.”
Gabriel stepped away from the canvas and appraised his work. “Perhaps the portrait will influence her thinking.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. In fact, it might be a good idea to put her in handcuffs before you let her see it.”
“Please don’t,” said Gabriel as he loaded his brush. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
She spent the afternoon at the pool and at 6:00 p.m. headed upstairs to her suite to shower and dress. She chose her clothing with care. Pale blue stretch jeans. A loose-fitting white blouse. Flat-soled suede moccasins. Her face was aglow from the Tuscan sun and required little makeup. Her raven hair she wound into a bun, with a few stray tendrils along her neck. Attractive, she thought as she evaluated her appearance in the mirror, but serious. There would be no flirtation tonight. No fun and games of the sort she had played with the art dealer in London. The man she was meeting in the Piazza della Repubblica could not be seduced or tricked into doing her bidding. She had seen a video of his visit to Galerie Hassler in Berlin. He was young, good-looking, athletically built. A dangerous man, she reckoned. A professional.