Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (96)

Phillip’s expression darkened, but he said nothing.

“Did the two of you discuss business after you were finished in the bedroom?”

“In detail,” answered Phillip.

“Was your phone with you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Where was hers?”

“I assume it was in her handbag.”

“It was probably recording every word you said. You should assume your phone is probably compromised, too.”

Phillip swore softly.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I had two rather candid calls with Kenny Vaughan. I also tried to obtain an art-backed loan from Ellis Gray of JPMorgan Chase.”

“Because several of your largest investors just happened to withdraw from your fund on the very day that Ms. Navarro was in your home taking pictures of a painting.”

Phillip clambered to his feet.

“Sit down,” said Silk calmly. “You’re not going anywhere near her.”

“You work for me, Leonard.”

“Which is not something I’d like the FBI to know. Or Gabriel Allon, for that matter. Therefore, you will do exactly what I tell you to do.”

Phillip managed a smile. “Did you just threaten me?”

“Only amateurs make threats. And I’m no amateur.”

Phillip lowered himself into his chair.

“Where is she staying?” asked Silk.

“Her usual suite at the Pierre.”

“I think I’ll check in on her. In the meantime, I’d like you to go upstairs and pack a bag.”

“Where am I going?”

“To be determined.”

“If I leave the country now—”

“Your remaining investors will head for the lifeboats, and your fund will collapse within hours. The question is, do you want to be in New York when that happens? Or would you rather be lying on a beach with Lindsay?”

Phillip gave no answer.

“How much cash is on hand?” asked Silk.

“Not much.”

“In that case, now might be a good time for you to settle your bill with Integrity Security Solutions.” Silk handed over a phone. “Your outstanding balance is fifteen million.”

“Rather steep, don’t you think?”

“Now is not the time to quibble over money, Phillip. I’m the only thing standing between you and a cell in the Metropolitan Correctional Center.”

Phillip dialed Kenny Vaughn and instructed him to wire $15 million into Silk’s account at Oceanic Bank and Trust Ltd. in Nassau. “I know, Kenny. Just do whatever you need to do.”

Phillip killed the call and tried to return the phone.

“Keep it,” said Silk. “Leave your personal phone on the desk connected to a charger and go to your place on the island. Don’t make a move until you hear from me.”





62

Pierre Hotel




During the thirteen-block ride from Phillip Somerset’s town house to the Pierre Hotel, Leonard Silk made a series of hurried phone calls. The first was to Executive Jet Services at MacArthur Airport on Long Island; the second, to a man who had run guns to the Contras and cocaine for the cartels. Lastly, Silk called an old friend from the Agency named Martin Roth. Marty was a supplier of cyber-and-surveillance specialists and, if circumstances warranted, muscle and firepower. His private security business was based in a warehouse in Greenpoint. Silk was a regular customer.

“When do you need them?” asked Marty.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

“The traffic in Midtown is a bitch. And I’m stretched pretty thin as it is.”

“Do what you can,” said Silk as his Escalade drew to a stop outside the Pierre’s Fifth Avenue entrance. “My client will be grateful. And so will I.”

Inside, the hostess in the Two E Bar & Lounge greeted Silk by name and showed him to a corner table. A glass of single malt appeared a moment later, followed soon after by Ray Bennett, a retired NYPD detective who now served as the Pierre’s director of security. Nothing happened inside the hotel’s walls that escaped Bennett’s notice, which is why Silk paid him a substantial monthly retainer.

Bennett wasn’t alone. There were others like him at every high-end hotel in town, all feeding Silk a steady stream of dirt, most of it accompanied by receipts and security video. Information about the private lives of reporters was a priority. Bennett had once given Silk the means to kill a New York magazine exposé about one of his most important clients. Silk had rewarded his asset with a $25,000 bonus, enough to take the financial sting out of his divorce settlement and pay for his kid’s tuition at Holy Rosary.

Hotel regulations forbade Bennett to sit down with a customer, so he remained on his feet while Silk made his request. “There’s a woman staying in a suite on the twentieth floor. She’s acquainted with an important client of mine. The client is concerned she might be in danger.”

“What’s her name?”

“She checked in under Miranda álvarez. Her real name is—”

“Magdalena Navarro. She’s a regular.”

“Have you noticed anything unusual?”

“Unless I’m mistaken, she’s only set foot outside the hotel once since she arrived.”