Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (73)

Downstairs, she crossed the lobby and stepped through the hotel’s unassuming entrance into the Borgo Pinti. The midday crowds had retreated from the city, as had the heat. She stopped for a coffee at Caffè Michelangelo, then walked through the cool twilight to the Piazza della Repubblica. Its dominant architectural feature was the towering triumphal arch on the western flank. She arrived there, as instructed, at nine o’clock exactly. The Piaggio motor scooter drew alongside her a minute later.

She recognized the man at the helm.

Young, good-looking, athletically built.

Wordlessly he moved to the back of the saddle. Magdalena mounted the bike and asked for a destination.

“The Lungarno Torrigiani. It’s on the—”

“I know where it is,” she said, and executed a flawless U-turn in the narrow street. As she sped toward the river, his strong hands moved over the small of her back, her hips, her crotch, the inside of her thighs, her breasts. There was nothing sexual in his touch. He was merely searching her for a concealed weapon.

He was a professional, she thought. Fortunately, she was a professional, too.



The call arrived at Villa dei Fiori at 9:03 p.m. It was from one of the Carabinieri surveillance artists in the Piazza della Repubblica. The woman had appeared at the rendezvous point as instructed. She and Rossetti were now bound for the apartment. General Ferrari quickly relayed the information to Gabriel, who was still at his easel. He carefully wiped the paint from his brush and headed to the makeshift op center to watch the next act. The Oliver Dimbleby show had been a smashing success. Now it was Alessandro Calvi’s turn in the spotlight. One mistake, thought Gabriel, and they were dead.





46

Lungarno Torrigiani




The building was the color of burnt sienna, with a balustrade running along the length of the second floor. The apartment was on the third. In the darkened entrance hall, Rossetti relieved the woman of her Hermès Birkin handbag and emptied the contents onto the kitchen counter. Her possessions included an ultraviolet torch, a professional-grade LED magnifier, and a disposable Samsung phone. The device was powered off. The SIM card had been removed.

Rossetti opened her passport. “Is your name really Magdalena Navarro?”

“Is yours really Alessandro Calvi?”

He unsnapped her Cartier wallet and checked the credit cards and the Spanish driver’s permit. All bore the name Magdalena Navarro. The cash compartment contained about three thousand euros and a hundred unspent British pounds. In the zippered compartment Rossetti found a few receipts, all from her visit to London. Otherwise, the wallet and bag were unusually free of pocket litter.

He returned her belongings to the bag, leaving a single item on the counter. It was a photograph of Dana? and the Shower of Gold by Gabriel Allon. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

“I happened to be in Berlin not long ago and had lunch with an old friend. He told me an interesting story about a recent visitor to his art gallery. Evidently, this visitor tried to sell my friend the painting in that photograph. He said it came from the same private collection as the pictures that have caused such a sensation in London. He showed my friend a photograph of those paintings as well. Three paintings, one photo. My friend found that odd, to say the least.”

“The photograph was taken by my restorer.”

“In my experience, art restorers make the best forgers. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“That sounds like a question a cop would ask.”

“I’m not a police officer, Signore Calvi. I am an art broker who connects buyers and sellers and lives off the scraps.”

“Lives quite well, from what I hear.”

He led her into the apartment’s large sitting room. Three tall casement windows, open to the evening air, overlooked the domes and campanili of Florence. The woman, however, had eyes only for the paintings hanging on the walls.

“You have extraordinary taste.”

“The apartment doubles as my saleroom.”

She pointed out an exquisite terra-cotta Etruscan amphora. “You also deal in antiquities, I see.”

“It’s a major part of my business. Chinese billionaires love Greek and Etruscan pottery.”

She trailed a forefinger along the curve of the vessel. “This piece is quite lovely. But tell me something, Signore Calvi. Is it a forgery like those three paintings you sold to Mr. Dimbleby? Or is it merely looted?”

“The paintings I sold to Dimbleby were examined by the most prominent Italian Old Master experts in London. And no one questioned the attribution.”

“That’s because your forger is the world’s greatest living Old Master painter.”

“There’s no such thing as a living Old Master.”

“Of course there is. I should know. You see, I work for one. He, too, can fool the experts. But your forger is far more talented than mine. That Veronese is a masterpiece. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”

“I thought you said you were a broker.”

“I am a broker. But the paintings I represent simply happen to be forgeries.”

“So you’re a front man? Is that what you’re saying?”

“You are a front man, Signore Calvi. As you well know, I am in fact a woman.”

“Why are you in Florence?”