Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (78)

“How much?”

“A million and a half.” Magdalena shrugged. “Chump change.”

After the initial test run, the paintings began arriving from New York at a steady clip. There were too many to sell through the gallery, so Magdalena established herself as a Madrid-based runner. She sold one of the canvases—a biblical scene purportedly by the Venetian painter Andrea Celesti—to Spain’s most prominent Old Master dealer, who in turn sold it to a museum in the American Midwest.

“Where it hangs to this day.”

But Phillip soon discovered that it was far easier for Magdalena to simply sell the paintings back to Masterpiece Art Ventures—at wildly inflated prices, with no actual money changing hands. He then moved the works in and out of Masterpiece’s portfolio through private phantom sales of his own, using an array of corporate shell entities. Each time a painting supposedly changed hands, it increased in value.

“By the end of 2010, Masterpiece Art Ventures claimed to control more than four hundred million dollars’ worth of art. But a significant percentage of those paintings were worthless fakes, the value of which had been artificially inflated with fictitious sales.”

But Phillip was not content with the scale of the operation, she continued. He wanted to show explosive growth in the value of Masterpiece’s portfolio and higher earnings for his investors. Meeting that goal required the introduction of additional paintings to the market. Until then they had limited themselves primarily to middle-tier works, but Phillip was eager to raise the stakes. The current distribution network wouldn’t do; he wanted a premier gallery in a major art world hub. Magdalena found such a gallery in Paris, on the rue la Boétie.

“Galerie Georges Fleury.”

Magdalena nodded.

“How did you know that Monsieur Fleury would be interested in going into business with you?”

“He acquired a painting from my father once and conveniently forgot to pay for it. Even by the reduced standards of the art world, Monsieur Fleury was an unscrupulous worm.”

“How did you play it with him?”

“Straight up.”

“He had no qualms about selling forgeries?”

“None whatsoever. But he insisted on subjecting one of our pictures to scientific analysis before agreeing to handle them.”

“What did you give him?”

“A Frans Hals portrait. And do you know what Monsieur Fleury did with it?”

“He showed it to the future president of the Louvre. And the future president of the Louvre gave it to the National Center for Research and Restoration, which affirmed its authenticity. And now the forged Frans Hals portrait is part of the Louvre’s permanent collection, along with a Gentileschi, a Cranach, and the most delicious little Van der Weyden you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Not the outcome Phillip expected. But quite an accomplishment nonetheless.”

“How many fakes did the two of you move through Galerie Fleury?”

“Somewhere between two and three hundred.”

“How was Fleury compensated?”

“The first sales were consignment deals.”

“And after that?”

“Phillip purchased the gallery through an anonymous shell corporation in 2014. For all intents and purposes, Monsieur Fleury was an employee of Masterpiece Art Ventures.”

“When did Galerie Hassler in Berlin come under your control?”

“The following year.”

“I’m told you have a distribution point in Brussels.”

“Galerie Gilles Raymond on the rue de la Concorde.”

“Am I missing any?”

“Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Dubai. And all of it flows into the coffers of Masterpiece Art Ventures.”

“The greatest scam in the history of the art world,” said Gabriel. “And it might well have gone on forever if Phillip hadn’t purchased Portrait of an Unknown Woman from Isherwood Fine Arts of London.”

“It was your friend Sarah Bancroft’s fault,” said Magdalena. “If she hadn’t bragged about the sale to that reporter from ARTnews, the Frenchwoman would have never known about it.”

Which brought them, at half past two in the morning, to Madame Valerie Bérrangar.





49

Villa dei Fiori




The first time Magdalena heard Valerie Bérrangar’s name, she was in her usual suite at the Pierre Hotel in New York. It was a cold and rainy afternoon in mid-March. A frustrated Phillip was lying next to her, annoyed that she had interrupted their lovemaking to take a phone call. It was from Georges Fleury in Paris.

“What were you doing in New York?” asked Gabriel.

“I pop over at least once a month to discuss the sort of things that can’t be put in an email or encrypted text.”

“Do you and Phillip always end up in bed?”

“That part of our relationship has never changed. Even during his brief infatuation with your friend Sarah Bancroft, Phillip was sleeping with me on the side.”

“Does his wife know about the two of you?”

“Lindsay doesn’t have a clue. About much of anything.”

With General Ferrari’s approval, Rossetti had removed the restraints from her wrists. Her long hands were folded atop her right leg, which was crossed over her left. Her dark eyes tracked Gabriel as he slowly paced the perimeter of the room.