Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (74)

“Because I’d like to make you and your forger an offer.”

“What sort of offer?”

“Show me the Gentileschi,” said the woman. “And then I’ll explain everything.”



Rossetti led her into the adjoining room and switched on the lights. She stared at the painting in silence, as though she had been struck mute.

“Shall I bring you the magnifier and ultraviolet torch?” asked Rossetti after a moment.

“That won’t be necessary. The painting is . . .”

“Incandescent?”

“Incendiary,” whispered the woman. “But also quite dangerous.”

“Is that so?”

“Oliver Dimbleby behaved recklessly by bringing those three pictures to market from your so-called old European collection. Already there are whispers in certain corners of the art world that the paintings might be forgeries. And then you compounded the mistake with your conduct at Galerie Hassler. It is only a matter of time before your ruse unravels. And when it does, there will be collateral casualties.”

“You?”

She nodded. “The market for museum-quality Old Masters is a small one, Signore Calvi. There are only so many good pictures and so many collectors and museums who are willing to pay millions for them. Two major Old Master forgery rings cannot compete against one another and survive. One will inevitably collapse. And it will take the other one down with it.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“I am prepared to offer you and your partner the protection of a proven distribution network, one that will guarantee a steady stream of income for many years to come.”

“I don’t need your network.”

“Your behavior in Berlin would suggest otherwise. The painting in the next room is worth thirty million if handled properly. And yet you were willing to let Herr Hassler have it for a mere two million.”

“And if I were to entrust it to you?”

“I would sell it in a way that favors long-term security over short-term financial gain.”

“I didn’t hear a price.”

“Five million,” said the woman. “But I would insist on meeting with your forger in his studio before payment.”

“Ten million,” countered Rossetti. “And you will wire the money into my account before meeting with my forger.”

“When would such a meeting take place?”

Rossetti pondered his Patek Phillipe wristwatch. “Shortly after midnight, I imagine. Provided, of course, that you have more than three thousand euros hidden in that Cartier wallet of yours.”

“Where do you do your banking, Signore Calvi?”

“Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena.”

“I need the account and routing numbers.”

“I’ll bring you your phone.”



She entered the number manually and from memory. The first time she dialed, she received no answer and rang off without leaving a message. The second attempt met with the same result. Call number three, however, found its intended target.

She addressed the person at the other end of the call in excellent English. There was no exchange of pleasantries, only the swift execution of a wire transfer of €10 million to an account at the world’s oldest bank. Email confirmation arrived a few minutes after the call was concluded. With her thumb concealing the sender’s name, she showed it to Rossetti. Then she carried the phone to the nearest window and hurled it into the black waters of the Arno.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“A little town in southern Umbria.”

“Not by motor scooter, I hope.”

The Maserati was parked outside the building. Rossetti behaved himself in town but let it rip when they hit the Autostrada. He waited until they reached Orvieto before informing his forger—with a phone call placed in speaker mode on the car’s Bluetooth system—that he was coming to see him on an important matter. His forger expressed disappointment at the intrusion on his privacy, as he was hoping to complete a painting that evening.

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“I’m afraid not. Besides, I have some good news.”

“Speaking of news, have you seen the Times? Oliver Dimbleby announced that he sold the Veronese to a private collector. Thirty-five million. At least that’s the rumor.”

And with that, the call went dead.

“He doesn’t sound pleased,” said the Spanish woman.

“With good reason.”

“It wasn’t a consignment deal?”

“Straight sale.”

“How much did Dimbleby pay you for it?”

“Three million.”

“And the new painting?” asked the woman.

“It’s a Van Dyck.”

“Really? What’s the subject matter?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” said Rossetti, and put his foot to the floor.



Shortly before midnight Isabella was awakened from a pleasant dream by the frenzied barking of the dogs. Usually, the culprit was one of the wild boars that dwelled in the surrounding woods. But on that evening the source of the commotion was the two men traipsing across the moonlit pasture. They were part of a large all-male party of guests who had arrived that afternoon. Isabella was of the opinion that the guests were not guests at all, but were in fact police officers. How else to explain the fact that two of them were now strolling the pasture by moonlight, each armed with a compact submachine gun?