Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (80)

“What sort of cleanup did he have in mind?”

“Destroy the forgeries in the gallery’s inventory and, if necessary, return the million euros that you and the violinist paid for A River Scene with Distant Windmills.”

“I was right about it being a forgery?”

She nodded. “Evidently, you told Phillip that you had given it to Aiden Gallagher for scientific analysis. Phillip was convinced that Aiden would be able to tell it was a fake.”

“Because Aiden is the best in the business.”

“The final word,” said Magdalena.

“And when you heard the gallery had been bombed?”

“I knew that Phillip had once again misled me.” She paused. “And that he had made a dreadful mistake.”

For three weeks, she continued, she remained a prisoner of her apartment in Madrid. She followed the news from Paris obsessively, chewed her nails to the quick, painted a Picassoesque self-portrait, and drank far too much. Her suitcases stood in the entrance hall. One of them contained a million euros in cash.

“Where were you planning to go?”

“Marrakesh.”

“Leaving your father to face the music for your crimes?”

“My father did nothing wrong.”

“I doubt the Spanish police would have seen it that way,” said Gabriel. “But please go on.”

She instructed the network’s remaining galleries to freeze all sales of forged paintings and reduced her telephone-and-text contact with Phillip to a bare minimum. But in late April, he summoned her to New York and told her to open the spigot.

“One of his largest investors had requested a forty-five-million-dollar redemption. The kind of redemption that leaves a mark on the balance sheet. Masterpiece needed to replenish its cash reserves in a hurry.”

And so the forgeries flowed into the market, and the money flowed into Phillip’s accounts in the Cayman Islands. By June the bombing of Galerie Fleury had receded from the headlines, and the eyes of the art world were on London, where Dimbleby Fine Arts was preparing to exhibit a newly discovered version of Susanna in the Bath by Paolo Veronese. The painting had purportedly emerged from the same unidentified European collection that had previously produced a Titian and a Tintoretto. But Magdalena knew what the rest of the art world did not, that all three paintings were forgeries.

“Because the forger’s front man,” said Gabriel, “made quite a scene at Galerie Hassler in Berlin.”

Magdalena looked at Rossetti. “I was suspicious about those paintings even before your front man tried to sell the Gentileschi to Herr Hassler.”

“Why?”

“I know a provenance trap when I see one, Mr. Allon. Yours wasn’t terribly clever or original. Still, I wasn’t surprised by the reaction of the art world. It’s the secret of our success.”

“What’s that?”

“The gullibility of collectors and so-called experts and connoisseurs. The art world desperately wants to believe that there are lost masterpieces just waiting to be rediscovered. Phillip and I make dreams come true.” She managed a smile. “As do you, Mr. Allon. Your Veronese took my breath away, but the Gentileschi was to die for.”

“You had to have it?”

“No,” she answered “I had to have you.”

“Because the market for museum-quality Old Masters is small? Because two major Old Master forgery rings cannot compete against one another and survive?”

“And because Phillip’s forger is unable to supply enough paintings to meet the demands of my distribution network,” said Magdalena. “And because, for all his talent, he cannot hold a candle to you.”

“In that case, I accept your offer.”

“What offer?”

“To join the team at Masterpiece Art Ventures.” Gabriel switched off the video camera. “Let’s take a walk, shall we, Magdalena? There are one or two details we need to finalize before you call Phillip and give him the good news.”





50

Villa dei Fiori




They made their way down the gentle slope of the drive, beneath the canopy of the umbrella pine. The first brushstrokes of dawn lay over the hills to the east, but overhead the stars shone brightly. The air was cool and still, not a breath of movement. It smelled of orange blossom and jasmine and the cigarette that Magdalena had charmed from Luca Rossetti.

“Where did you learn to paint like that?” she asked.

“In the womb.”

“Your mother was an artist?”

“And my grandfather. He was a disciple of Max Beckmann.”

“What was his name?”

“Viktor Frankel.”

“I know your grandfather’s work,” said Magdalena. “But good genes alone can’t explain talent like yours. If I didn’t know better, I would have guessed that you were an apprentice in Titian’s workshop.”

“It’s true that I served my apprenticeship in Venice, but it was with a famous restorer named Umberto Conti.”

“And you were no doubt Signore Conti’s finest pupil.”

“I suppose I have a knack for it.”

“Restoring paintings?”

“Not just paintings. People, too. I’m trying to decide whether you’re worth the effort.” He gave her a sideways glance. “I have a terrible feeling you’re beyond repair.”