Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (93)

“What are we going to do about his partner? This Alessandro Calvi fellow?”

“Now that Mario and I are sleeping together, I think I can convince him to part company with Signore Calvi.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“You know there’s no one but you, Phillip.” She patted the back of his hand reassuringly. “The truth is, I’m more worried about he who shall not be named than I am about Signore Calvi.”

“Let me worry about him.”

“How will he feel about having an Old Master stablemate?”

“I never promised him exclusivity.”

Magdalena raised her wineglass to her lips. “Where have I heard that one before?”

Phillip adopted a new expression—caring friend and sexual partner. It was even less authentic than Phillip the intellectual and art world sophisticate. “What’s got into you?” he asked.

“Besides you, you mean?” Magdalena laughed quietly at her own witticism. “I suppose I’ve just been thinking about my future, that’s all.”

“Your future is assured.”

“Is it really?”

“Have you checked your balance lately? You could retire tomorrow and spend the rest of your life lying on a beach in Ibiza.”

“And if I did?”

Phillip made no reply; he was staring at his phone again.

“Who is it now?”

“Nicky Lovegrove.” He sent the call to voice mail. “Several of his clients are trying to cash out of my fund.”

“My money is in that fund. All of it.”

“Your money is safe.”

“You also once assured me that you were going to turn me into a Spanish Damien Hirst. But it was nothing more than a clever ploy on your part to put a little cash in my pocket.”

“It wasn’t a little cash, as I recall.”

“Where are they?” asked Magdalena suddenly.

“The paintings?”

She nodded.

“They’re in the warehouse.”

“I’d like them back.”

“You can’t have them.”

“Why not?”

“Because they belong to me. And so do you, Magdalena. Never forget that.”

His phone flared.

“Not another one.”

“No. It’s only Lindsay.”

Magdalena smiled. “Do give her my best.”



After speaking briefly to his wife and bidding farewell to his business partner and mistress, Phillip Somerset returned to his office and rang Ellis Gray, head of art-based lending at JPMorgan Chase. Phillip and Ellis had bumped into one another in Sag Harbor over the weekend, rendering foreplay unnecessary. Phillip said he needed a bit of cash. Ellis, who had made millions dealing with Masterpiece Art Ventures, merely asked for the number Phillip had in mind and a description of the painting he intended to use as collateral.

“The number is forty million.”

“And the painting?”

Phillip answered.

“A Gentileschi Gentileschi?” asked Ellis.

“It’s newly discovered. I’m planning to keep it under wraps for a year or two before putting it on the market.”

“How’s the attribution?”

“Bulletproof.”

“And the provenance?”

“On the thin side.”

“Where did you purchase it?”

“A Spanish dealer. That’s all I can say.”

Ellis Gray, who made his living lending money against paintings, was well acquainted with the opacity of the art world. Nevertheless, he was not prepared to fork over $40 million of JPMorgan Chase’s money on a picture without a past, even for a client as important and reliable as Phillip Somerset.

“Not without a full scientific evaluation,” added Ellis. “Send it to Aiden Gallagher up in Westport. If Aiden says it’s kosher, I’ll expedite the loan.”

Phillip killed the connection. Then he video-called Kenny Vaughan and told him that no emergency infusion of cash was in the offing.

“We might have to consider suspending redemptions.”

“We can’t. You have to make it work.”

“I’ll light a few candles and see what I can do.”

Phillip dumped Kenny and accepted another call.

It was Allegra Hughes.

Allegra wanted out.





60

Pierre Hotel




Gabriel had made the request of Yuval Gershon early that morning. Yes, he realized it was an imposition and not altogether legal, as he had no official standing. And, no, he could not state with any degree of certainty that it would be the last time. It seemed he had become the first port of call for anyone with a problem, be they adulterous British prime ministers, supreme Roman pontiffs, or London art dealers. His current investigation, as was often the case, had included an attempt on his life. Yuval Gershon, of course, knew this. In fact, were it not for Yuval’s timely intercession, the attempt might well have proven successful.

He gave the job to a new kid. It was no matter; in a field like theirs, the new kids were frequently better than the old hands. This one was an artist in the truest sense of the word. He made his first move at ten fifteen Eastern time, and by half past two he owned the place—the place being a Manhattan-based concern called Chelsea Fine Arts Storage.