Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (98)

Lindsay contemplated the Basquiat. She had been at Phillip’s side the night he purchased it at Christie’s for $75 million. In fact, it was their first real date. Afterward, he had taken her to Bar SixtyFive at the Rainbow Room to celebrate the acquisition with his employees. They were a small team—three ponytailed young women with sensible shoes and Ivy League educations, and a guy named Kenny Vaughan who had worked with Phillip at Lehman Brothers. There was also a tall, beautiful Spanish woman named Magdalena Navarro. Phillip said she worked as a scout and broker for Masterpiece in Europe.

“Are you still sleeping with her?” Lindsay had asked during the drive to Phillip’s town house.

“With Magdalena? Not anymore.”

Lindsay posed the same question when Phillip proposed marriage—and when he insisted that she sign a prenuptial agreement guaranteeing her a payment of $10 million were they ever to divorce. In neither instance did she believe Phillip’s denial. More troubling was her deeply held conviction that her husband and Magdalena remained lovers to this day. The sexual bond they shared was obvious in their every gesture and expression. Lindsay wasn’t blind. And she wasn’t as dumb as they thought she was.

I’ll explain when I get there . . .

The sensation of disharmony returned. Whether it was their marriage or Phillip’s business, Lindsay could not say. But something was amiss, off-kilter. She was certain of it.

Outside, she climbed behind the wheel of her white Range Rover and headed up the drive. As she passed the staff cottage, a security guard gave her a perfunctory wave and opened the gate. She turned left into Actors Colony Road, then dialed Lulu Kitchen & Bar in Sag Harbor. She greeted the hostess by name and placed her order: fried calamari, grilled octopus, two Bibb lettuce salads, grilled halibut, and a skirt steak. Phillip’s credit card was on file, so there was no discussion of payment or even the size of the bill.

“Is seven fifteen all right, Mrs. Somerset? We’re a bit busy tonight.”

“Seven would be better.”

She followed Route 114 down the length of the peninsula and into downtown Sag Harbor. The airport lay about four miles south of the village, on Daniels Hole Road. Once owned and operated by the town of East Hampton, it was now a fully private airfield that catered to people like the Somersets of North Haven. Phillip’s Sikorsky was dropping from the clear evening sky as Lindsay turned through the entrance. The security guard allowed her to drive onto the tarmac, thus sparing Mr. Somerset the indignity of having to walk to the parking lot.

He settled into the passenger seat of the Range Rover while the ground staff loaded two large aluminum-sided Rimowa suitcases into the back. Both bags appeared to be unusually heavy.

“Dumbbells?” asked Lindsay as she kissed Phillip’s lips.

“One contains two million dollars in cash. The other is filled with five-hundred-gram gold ingots.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not the man you think I am,” said Phillip. “And I’m in trouble.”





64

Pierre Hotel




Shortly before taking over day-to-day management of Isherwood Fine Arts, Sarah Bancroft had endured a brutal interrogation at the hands of a senior Russian intelligence officer, during which she was threatened with a deadly radiological toxin. Watching Evelyn Buchanan write her article was only slightly less torturous. Sarah offered guidance where she could, but mainly she kept her head down and tried to stay out of the line of fire, most of which was directed at Gabriel. No, he said time and time again, he had no desire to see his name included in the story. Ground rules were ground rules. There was no going back at the last minute.

“In that case,” said Evelyn, “I have a few more questions I’d like to ask Magdalena.”

“About what?”

“Oliver Dimbleby.”

“Who?”

“Magdalena mentioned his name when she and Phillip were discussing your Gentileschi.”

“Did she? I wasn’t listening at the time.”

“She also implied that all those newly discovered paintings were forgeries.”

“That’s because they were.”

“Who painted them?”

“Who do you think?”

“Why?”

“To lure Magdalena into the open.”

“Did anyone actually buy them?”

“Goodness, no. That would have been unethical.”

“Please tell me the rest of the story.”

“Finish the one in front of you, Evelyn. Your editor is expecting your first draft at nine o’clock.”

By half past six Sarah could take no more. Rising, she announced her intention to go downstairs for a proper Belvedere martini. Magdalena requested permission to join her.

“Permission denied.”

“If I was going to flee, I would have done it this afternoon while I was with Phillip. Besides, we had a deal, Mr. Allon.”

She had a point. “One drink only,” he said. “And no phone or passport.”

“Two drinks,” countered Sarah. Then she turned to Magdalena. “I’ll meet you at the elevators in five minutes.”

“Ten would be better.”

Sarah headed to her room to freshen up. Magdalena did the same, leaving Gabriel alone with Evelyn.