Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (97)

“What’s she been doing with herself?”

“She had a dinner party last night.”

“Really? With whom?”

“Her friends from across the hall. They checked in at the same time. False names. Just like Ms. Navarro.”

“I need their real names,” said Silk.

“How badly?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Twenty.”

“Done,” said Silk.



Ray Bennett returned to his office, closed the door, and sat down at his computer. As director of security, he had unlimited access to guest information, regardless of their demands for privacy. He called Leonard Silk a moment later and read him the names.

“Sarah Bancroft and Gabriel Allon.”

Bennett’s iPhone pinged with a text message.

“Look at the photograph I just sent you,” said Silk.

Bennett enlarged the image.

“Recognize her?”

“She’s that reporter from Vanity Fair.”

“Has she been in Ms. Navarro’s suite?”

“I believe she’s there now.”

“Thanks, Ray. The check’s in the mail.”

The connection died.

Bennett looked at the two names on his computer screen. One of them was familiar. Gabriel Allon . . . Bennett was certain he had seen it before. But where?

Google gave him the answer.

“Shit,” he said softly.



Outside, Leonard Silk slid into the back of his Escalade and dialed the burner phone he had given to Phillip.

“Did you speak to her?” he asked.

“I couldn’t. She’s rather busy at the moment.”

“Doing what?”

“Telling Evelyn Buchanan everything she knows about Masterpiece Art Ventures. Gabriel Allon and your friend Sarah Bancroft are with her. It’s over, Phillip. Your charter leaves MacArthur at ten fifteen. Don’t be late.”

“Maybe I should take the Gulfstream instead.”

“The point of this operation is to get you and Lindsay out of the country without leaving any footprints. When you arrive in Miami, a car will run you down to Key West. By the time the sun rises, you’ll be halfway to the Yucatán Peninsula.”

“What about you, Leonard?”

“That depends on whether you ever mentioned my name to your friend from Seville.”

“Don’t worry, she can’t implicate you in anything.”

Silk heard a chorus of car horns through the phone. “Why aren’t you on the chopper yet?”

“Second Avenue is jammed.”

“You won’t have to worry about traffic where you’re going.”

Silk hung up the phone and lifted his gaze toward the upper floors of the hotel. She can’t implicate you . . . Perhaps not, but Silk wasn’t prepared to take that chance.

He rang Ray Bennett.

“I have another assignment, if you’re interested.”

“I’m listening.”

Silk explained.

“How much?” asked Bennett.

“Fifty thousand.”

“To go up against a man like Gabriel Allon? Get real, Leonard.”

“How about seventy-five?”

“A hundred.”

“Done,” said Silk.





63

North Haven




Alone in the vast, empty house in North Haven, Lindsay Somerset sat in a simple cross-legged pose, her hands resting lightly on her knees. The floor-to-ceiling window before her overlooked the copper waters of Peconic Bay. Ordinarily the panorama filled her with a sense of contentment, but not now. She could find no inner peace, no shanti.

Her phone lay on the floor next to her mat, silenced, aglow with an incoming call. She didn’t recognize the number, so she tapped decline. Instantly the phone rang a second time, and once again Lindsay terminated the call. After two additional attempts to fend off the intruder, she lifted the device angrily to her ear.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I was hoping to have a word with my wife.”

“Sorry, Phillip. I didn’t recognize the number. Whose phone are you using?”

“I’ll explain when I get there.”

“I thought you were staying in the city tonight.”

“Change in plan. We’re scheduled to land at East Hampton at six forty-five.”

“Wonderful news. Shall I make a dinner reservation?”

“I don’t think I can face the mob scene tonight. Let’s pick up something on the way home.”

“Lulu?”

“Perfect.”

“Any requests?”

“Surprise me.”

“Is something wrong, Phillip? You sound down.”

“Rough day. That’s all.”

Lindsay hung up the phone and, rising, pulled on a pair of Nikes and a Lululemon half-zip hoodie. Then she headed downstairs to the great room. Rothko, Pollock, Warhol, Basquiat, Lichtenstein, Diebenkorn . . . Nearly a half-billion dollars’ worth of paintings, all controlled by Masterpiece Art Ventures. Phillip had carefully shielded Lindsay from the company’s affairs, and her knowledge of how it functioned was limited to the basics. Phillip purchased paintings shrewdly and sold them at an immense profit. He kept a portion of those profits for himself and passed the rest on to his investors. Banks were eager to lend him capital because he never missed a payment and used his inventory as collateral. The loans allowed him to buy still more art, which produced still greater returns for his investors. Most saw the paper valuation of their accounts double in just three years. Few ever withdrew their money. Masterpiece was too sweet a deal.