Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (95)

Silk offered his clients the usual array of advisory services but derived most of his income through illicit activities such as corporate espionage, computer hacking, blackmail, sabotage, and a product he euphemistically referred to as “reputational defense.” He was renowned for his ability to make problems go away, or, whenever possible, to prevent problems from arising in the first place. He also possessed the capability, as a last resort, to make “problems” suffer fatal auto accidents or drug overdoses, or vanish without a trace. He had no operatives on his payroll. Instead, he hired freelance professionals as needed. Two recent operations had taken place in France, where Silk was well connected. Both had been carried out at the behest of the same client.

At 9:42 that morning, the client had asked Silk to ascertain why several investors had requested multimillion-dollar redemptions from his art-based hedge fund. With a few phone calls to his network of paid or coerced informants, Silk had discovered a possible explanation. It was not the sort of matter he liked to discuss over the phone, so he summoned his driver and headed uptown. Arriving at the client’s residence on East Seventy-Fourth Street, Silk saw two workmen maneuvering a crated painting into the back of a delivery truck. A security man named Tyler Briggs was observing their efforts from the open doorway.

“Where’s your boss?” asked Silk.

“Upstairs in his office.”

“Is he alone?”

“He is now. He had company earlier.”

“Anyone interesting?”

Briggs ushered Silk into the mansion’s security control room. The art-filled residence was protected by an array of high-resolution cameras. At present, one was trained on Silk’s client. He was sitting at his desk, a phone to his ear. He looked unwell.

Briggs sat down at a computer and wordlessly entered a few keystrokes. A moment later a tall, dark-haired woman appeared on one of the video screens. She was standing before a painting in the gallery. A Gentileschi, thought Silk. Quite stunning, but almost certainly a forgery.

“Why is she photographing it?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Where did she go next?”

The security man played the recording.

“That’s quite enough,” said Silk after a moment.

The image froze.

“Walk upstairs to Mr. Somerset’s office and quietly tell him to meet me in the garden.”

The security man rose and started toward the door.

“One more thing, Tyler.”

“Yes, Mr. Silk?”

“Tell Mr. Somerset to leave his phone behind.”



Silk followed a corridor toward the back of the town house—past the wine cellar, the movie theater, and the yoga studio—and emerged into the walled garden. It was shaded by a large tree in midsummer leaf and overlooked on the north and east by elderly apartment buildings. Decorator outdoor furnishings stood forlornly on the spotless stonework. The splashing of the Italianate fountain silenced the rush of afternoon traffic on Fifth Avenue.

Five minutes elapsed before Phillip Somerset finally appeared. As usual, he was nautically attired. They sat down in a pair of low-slung wicker chairs. Silk delivered his findings without preamble or pleasantries. He was a busy man, and Phillip Somerset was in serious trouble.

“How bad is it going to be?”

“My sources haven’t been able to uncover anything regarding the content.”

“Isn’t that exactly the sort of information I pay you for, Leonard?”

“The magazine’s publicity department has contacted every business news desk in the city. They wouldn’t have done that unless she had something big.”

“Is it fatal?”

“Could be.”

“And you’re sure the story is about me?”

Silk nodded.

“Is the FBI involved?”

“My sources say not.”

“So where is it coming from? And why did several of my investors choose today of all days to flee the fund?”

“It’s possible that rumors are swirling in the art world about a damaging story in the works. But the more likely explanation is that you are under a coordinated attack by a determined and resourceful adversary.”

“Any candidates?”

“Only one.”

Silk didn’t speak the name; it wasn’t necessary. He had opposed targeting a man like Gabriel Allon but had relented when Phillip offered him a payment of $10 million. Silk had given a substantial portion of that money to a French organization known only as the Groupe, the same organization that had handled the Valerie Bérrangar job. He had also supplied the Groupe detailed information regarding Allon’s travel plans—specifically, his intention to pay a visit to an art gallery on the rue la Boétie in Paris. Even so, the Israeli and his friend Sarah Bancroft had managed to escape the gallery alive.

“You assured me that Allon was no longer an issue,” said Phillip.

“The video of Ms. Navarro’s arrival here earlier this afternoon would suggest otherwise.”

Phillip frowned. “Is Tyler Briggs on your payroll or mine, Leonard?”

Silk ignored the question. “She took several photographs of the painting that was on display in the gallery. Close-ups and wide shots. Looked to me as though she was trying to establish its location.”