Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (84)

“I never sleep on planes.” Magdalena reached for the laptop. “Can I pay for your ticket?”

“Phillip might find that suspicious.”

“At least let me give you some miles.”

“I have plenty.”

“How many have you got?”

“The moon and back.”

“I’ve got more.” She booked their seats. “That leaves the hotel. Is the Pierre all right?”

“I’m afraid Sarah prefers the Four Seasons.”

“Please tell me she’s not coming with us.”

“I need someone to keep an eye on you when I’m not around.”

Magdalena reserved her usual suite at the Pierre and with a childlike frown returned to her chaise longue next to the pool. Her wounds, thought Gabriel, were definitely self-inflicted. Still, she was by no means beyond repair. After all, if a former contract killer like Christopher Keller was salvageable, then surely Magdalena was as well.

For the moment, she was merely a means to an end. All Gabriel required now was a reporter to turn her remarkable story into a weapon that would reduce Masterpiece Art Ventures to rubble. A reporter who was familiar with the worlds of finance and art. Perhaps one who had investigated Masterpiece in the past.

Only a single candidate fit the profile. Fortunately, the number for her cell phone was in Phillip Somerset’s contacts. Gabriel dialed it and introduced himself. Not with a work name, or one he plucked from thin air, but his real name.

“Yeah, right,” she said, and hung up the phone.





52

Rotten Row




The next call Gabriel placed that afternoon was to Sarah Bancroft. It found her on Rotten Row in Hyde Park, where she was attempting to dislodge the ten pounds that had settled astride her hips. The news from Italy came as a shock, so much so that she asked Gabriel to repeat it, just to make certain she hadn’t misunderstood him. It was no less astounding the second time. Masterpiece Art Ventures, the art-based hedge fund where a portion of Sarah’s inheritance was invested, was a $1.2 billion fraud propped up by the sale and collateralization of forged paintings. Furthermore, it seemed that Magdalena Navarro, she of the shimmering black hair and elongated body, had been sleeping with Phillip the entire time he had dated Sarah. For that reason alone, she leapt at the chance to travel to New York to take part in his destruction. Even if it meant staying at the Pierre.

“Shall I bring along Mr. Marlowe? I find that he comes in rather handy in situations like these.”

“As do I. But I have another job in mind for him.”

“Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Sarah left for New York early the following morning and arrived at JFK at midday. A Nissan Pathfinder awaited her at Hertz. She killed an hour in the cell phone lot and at two fifteen made her way to Terminal 1. Gabriel emerged a moment later, accompanied by the woman whom Sarah had last seen walking along the pavements of Jermyn Street.

Now, as then, she was wearing a shortish skirt and a formfitting white top. Gabriel loaded their bags into the rear storage compartment and slid into the backseat. Magdalena climbed into the passenger seat, bringing with her the scent of orange blossom and jasmine. She crossed one long leg over the other and smiled. Sarah slipped the Nissan into drive and set out for Manhattan.



The Pierre Hotel stood at the corner of East Sixty-First Street and Fifth Avenue. Magdalena entered the ornate lobby alone and was received by the hotel’s management as though she were returning royalty. Her suite, with its sweeping views of Central Park, was located on the twentieth floor. Gabriel and Sarah had been assigned adjoining rooms on the opposite side of the corridor. Like Magdalena, they checked in pseudonymously and instructed the woman at Reception to block all outside calls.

Upstairs, all three convened in the sitting room of Magdalena’s suite. She opened a complimentary bottle of Taittinger champagne while Gabriel connected his laptop to the hotel’s Wi-Fi network and logged in to Proteus. It appeared that Phillip had decided to remain in North Haven rather than return to the city. Gabriel increased the volume on the feed from the microphone and heard the clatter of a keyboard. The output from the camera was a rectangle of solid black.

Gabriel handed Magdalena her phone. “Let him know that you’ve arrived and would like to see him as soon as possible. And remember—”

“This call is being recorded for quality assurance.”

Gabriel carried the laptop into the bedroom and closed the heavy internal door. Phillip answered Magdalena’s call instantly. “How about one o’clock tomorrow afternoon?” he asked. “We’ll have lunch.”

“Will Lindsay be joining us?”

“Unfortunately, she’s spending the week on the island.”

“Lucky you.”

“I’ll send a car,” said Phillip, and the connection went dead.

Gabriel listened to a minute or two of typing before returning to the sitting room. “Now the Gentileschi,” he said to Magdalena.

The number for the warehouse was in her contacts. She tapped the screen and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Hello, Anthony. It’s Magdalena Navarro calling. Did the painting arrive from Florence as scheduled? . . . Wonderful. Send it to Mr. Somerset’s residence tomorrow morning . . . Yes, the town house, please. Place it on the easel in the gallery. And make certain it arrives no later than noon.”