Portrait of an Unknown Woman, page 9
“I can’t possibly afford Cork Street,” she demurred.
“You just sold a newly discovered Van Dyck for six and a half million pounds.” Amelia lowered her voice. “Very hush-hush. Secret buyer. Mysterious source.”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “I think I read about that somewhere.”
“I’ve been very good to you and Julian over the years,” said Amelia. “And on numerous occasions, I have refrained from pursuing stories that might well have damaged the gallery’s reputation.”
“Such as?”
“Your exact role in the reemergence of that Artemisia, for a start.”
Sarah sipped her drink but said nothing.
“Well?” probed Amelia.
“Isherwood Fine Arts will never leave Mason’s Yard. Is now and ever shall be. World without end. Amen.”
“Then why are you looking for a long-term lease in Cork Street?”
Because she wanted to cast a long shadow over the gallery owned by the former fashion model, who at that moment was whispering something into the ear of Simon Mendenhall, the mannequin-like chief auctioneer from Christie’s.
“I swear to you,” said Sarah, “as a friend and as a woman, that I will tell you when the time is right.”
“You’ll tell me first,” insisted Amelia. “And in the meantime, you will give me something juicy.”
“Have a quick look over your right shoulder.”
Amelia did as Sarah suggested. “The lovely Miss Watson and sleazy Simon Mendenhall?”
“Torrid,” said Sarah.
“I thought she was dating that actor.”
“She’s shagging sleazy Simon on the side.”
As if on cue, there was another eruption of laughter from the opposite end of the bar, where Julian had just concluded an encore performance of the alleged incident in Kensington—this time for Nicky Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly wealthy.
“Is that really how it happened?” asked Amelia.
“No,” said Sarah, smiling sadly. “The lamppost attacked him.”
After finishing her drink, Sarah wiped the smudge of lipstick from Julian’s cheek and went into Jermyn Street. There were no taxis in sight, so she walked around the corner to Piccadilly and caught one there. As it bore her westward across London, she scrolled through the possibilities on Deliveroo, dithering between Indian and Thai. She ordered Italian instead and immediately regretted her choice. She had gained five pounds during the pandemic and another five after marrying Christopher. Despite thrice-weekly training runs on the footpaths of Hyde Park, the weight refused to budge.
As the taxi sped past the Royal Albert Hall, Sarah resolved to place herself on yet another diet. But not tonight; she was hungry enough to eat one of her Ferragamo pumps. After dinner, which she would consume while watching something mindless on television, she would crawl into her empty marital bed and remain there for the better part of the weekend, listening to “When Your Lover Has Gone” on repeat. Billie Holiday’s classic 1956 recording, of course. When one was truly depressed, no other version would do.
She did her best Lady Day impersonation as the taxi turned into Queen’s Gate Terrace and stopped opposite the elegant Georgian house at Number 18. It wasn’t all theirs, only the luxurious maisonette on the lower two levels. Sarah was overjoyed to see a light burning downstairs in the kitchen. Environmentally conscious, she was certain she had not left it on by mistake that morning. The most plausible explanation was that her lover was not gone after all.
She paid off the driver and hurried down the steps to the maisonette’s lower entrance. There she found the door ajar and the security system disengaged. Inside, lying on the kitchen island, was a canvas that had been removed from its stretcher—a riverscape with distant windmills, somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 by 60 centimeters, bearing what appeared to be the initials of the Dutch Golden Age painter Aelbert Cuyp.
Next to the painting was an envelope from Galerie Georges Fleury in Paris. And next to the envelope was an excellent bottle of Sancerre, from which Gabriel, wincing in pain, was attempting to extract the cork. Sarah closed the door and, laughing in spite of herself, shed her coat. It was, she thought, the perfect end to a perfectly dreadful week.
19
Queen’s Gate Terrace
Sarah checked the status of her Deliveroo order and saw it was still open. “Tagliatelle with ragù or veal Milanese?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“My husband is away. I could use the company.”
“In that case, I’ll have the veal.”
“Tagliatelle it is.” Sarah placed the order, then looked down at the frameless, stretcherless canvas lying on her counter. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. And for that swollen hand of yours as well.”
“Where would you like me to begin?”
“Why not the hand?”
“I assaulted a plainclothes Carabinieri officer after meeting with Julian in Venice.”
“And the painting?”
“I acquired it this afternoon at Galerie Georges Fleury.”
“I can see that.” Sarah tapped the envelope. “But how in the world did you pay for it?”
Gabriel removed the sales agreement from the envelope and pointed toward the practiced signature of the buyer.
“That was very generous of her,” said Sarah.
“Generosity had nothing to do with it. She expects to be repaid in full.”
“By whom?”
“You, of course.”
“So the painting is mine? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I suppose it is.”
“How much did I spend on it?”
“One million euros.”
“For that kind of money, I should have got a frame.” Sarah tugged at the frayed corner of the canvas. “And a stretcher as well.”
“The management of the Bristol Hotel might have found it odd if I had left an antique picture frame behind in my room.”
“And the stretcher?”
“It’s in a rubbish bin outside the Gare du Nord.”
“Of course it is.” Sarah sighed. “You should probably put it on a new one first thing in the morning to stabilize the image.”
“If I do that, it won’t fit in my carry-on luggage.”
“Where are you planning to take it?”
“New York,” said Gabriel. “And you’re coming with me.”
“Why?”
“Because that painting is a forgery. And I have a funny feeling the one you sold to Phillip Somerset for six and a half million pounds is a fake as well.”
“Oh, hell,” said Sarah. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Gabriel drew his mobile phone and retrieved the photograph of the painting he had seen in Valerie Bérrangar’s villa in Saint-André-du-Bois. Portrait of an Unknown Woman, oil on canvas, 115 by 92 centimeters, attributed to a follower of the Flemish Baroque painter Anthony van Dyck.
“That would explain the letter she wrote to Julian.”
“Only partially.”
“Meaning?”
“She called Georges Fleury first.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to know whether her version of the painting was a valuable Van Dyck as well.”
“And what did Monsieur Fleury tell her?”
“Given my limited experience with him, I can assure you it bore no resemblance to the truth. But whatever he said made her suspicious enough to contact the art crime unit of the Police Nationale.”
Sarah swore softly as she pulled the cork from the bottle of Sancerre.
“Don’t worry, I’m all but certain the police told Madame Bérrangar that they had no interest in pursuing the matter. Which is why she asked Julian to come to Bordeaux.” Gabriel paused. “And why she is now dead.”
“Was she—”
“Murdered?” Gabriel nodded. “And her killers took her mobile phone for good measure.”
“Who were they?”
“I’m still working on that. I’m quite certain, however, that they were professionals.”
Sarah poured two glasses of the wine and handed one to Gabriel. “What kind of art dealer hires professional assassins to kill someone in a dispute over a painting?”
“The kind who’s involved in a lucrative criminal enterprise.”
Sarah took up Gabriel’s phone and enlarged the image. “Is Madame Bérrangar’s painting a forgery, too?”
“In my opinion,” replied Gabriel, “it is the work of a later follower of Van Dyck. Forty-eight hours ago, I told Valerie Bérrangar’s daughter that I thought it was a copy of the painting you sold to Phillip Somerset. But I’m now convinced it’s the other way around. Which would explain why the picture doesn’t appear in Van Dyck’s catalogue raisonné.”
“The forger copied the follower?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. And in the process, he made marked improvements. He’s quite amazing. He truly paints like Anthony van Dyck. It’s no wonder your five experts were deceived.”
“How do you explain the paint losses and retouching that showed up when we examined the painting under ultraviolet light?”
“The forger artificially ages and damages his paintings. Then he restores them using modern pigments and medium in order to make them appear authentic.”
Sarah glanced at the canvas lying on the countertop. “This one, too?”
“Absolutely.”
Gabriel removed the painting’s condition report from the envelope. Attached were three accompanying photographs. The first depicted the canvas in its present state: retouched, with a fresh coat of unsoiled varnish. The second photo, made with ultraviolet light, revealed the paint losses as an archipelago of small black islands. The last photograph presented the painting in its truest state, without retouching or varnish. The losses appeared as white blotches.
“It looks exactly like a four-hundred-year-old painting should look,” said Gabriel. “I hate to admit it, but it’s possible even I might have been fooled.”
“Why weren’t you?”
“Because I went into that gallery on the lookout for forgeries. And because I’ve been around paintings for a hundred years. I know the brushstrokes of the Old Masters like the lines around my eyes.”
“With all due respect,” replied Sarah, “that isn’t good enough to prove the painting is a forgery.”
“Which is why we’re going to give it to Aiden Gallagher.”
Gallagher was the founder of Equus Analytics, a high-tech art research firm that specialized in detecting forgeries. He sold his services to museums, dealers, collectors, auction houses, and, on occasion, to the Art Crime Team of the FBI. It was Aiden Gallagher, a decade earlier, who had proved that one of New York’s most successful contemporary art galleries had sold nearly $80 million worth of fake paintings to unsuspecting buyers.
“His lab is in Westport, Connecticut,” continued Gabriel. “If the forger made a technical mistake, Gallagher will find it.”
“And while we’re waiting for the results?”
“You’ll arrange for me to have a look at the painting you sold to Phillip Somerset. If, as I suspect, it’s a forgery—”
“Julian and I will be the laughingstocks of the art world.”
No, thought Gabriel as he reached for his wineglass. If Portrait of an Unknown Woman turned out to be a forgery, Isherwood Fine Arts of Mason’s Yard, purveyors of museum-quality Italian and Dutch Old Master paintings since 1968, would be ruined.
20
Westport
They passed through Heathrow security separately—Gabriel under his real name, with the forged Cuyp crammed into his carry-on—and reunited in the departure lounge. While waiting for the flight to be called, Sarah composed an email to Aiden Gallagher, informing him that Isherwood Fine Arts of London wished to hire Equus Analytics to conduct a technical evaluation of a painting. She did not identify the work in question, though she implied it was a matter of some urgency. She was scheduled to arrive in New York at noon and, barring a traffic disaster, could be in Westport by 3:00 p.m. at the latest. Could she deliver the painting to him then?
On board the plane, Sarah informed the flight attendant that she would require no food or drink during the eight-hour flight across the North Atlantic. Then she closed her eyes and did not open them again until the aircraft thudded onto the runway at John F. Kennedy International Airport. Armed with her American passport and Global Entry card, she glided through the rituals of the arrival process while Gabriel, his status reduced, spent an hour working his way through the maze of stanchions and retractable nylon restraints reserved for unwanted foreigners. His journey ended in a windowless room, where he was briefly questioned by a well-fed Customs and Border Protection officer.
“What brings you back to the United States, Director Allon?”
“Private research.”
“Does the Agency know you’re in the country?”
“They do now.”
“How’s your chest feeling?”
“Better than my hand.”
“Anything in the bag?”
“A couple of firearms and a dead body.”
The officer smiled. “Enjoy your stay.”
A blue line directed Gabriel to baggage claim, where Sarah was pondering her mobile phone. “Aiden Gallagher,” she said without looking up. “He’s wondering whether it could wait until Monday. I told him it couldn’t.”
Just then her phone pinged with an incoming email.
“Well?”
“He wants a description of the painting.”
Gabriel recited the particulars. “A River Scene with Distant Windmills. Oil on canvas. Thirty-six by fifty-eight centimeters. Currently attributed to Aelbert Cuyp.”
Sarah sent the email. Gallagher’s reply arrived two minutes later.
“He’ll meet us in Westport at three.”
Equus Analytics was located in an old redbrick building on Riverside Avenue near the overpass of the Connecticut Turnpike. Gabriel and Sarah arrived a few minutes after two o’clock in the back of an Uber SUV. They picked up coffee from a Dunkin’ Donuts up the street and settled onto a bench along the sunlit bank of the Saugatuck. Fat white clouds flew across an otherwise spotless blue sky. Pleasure craft dozed like discarded playthings in their slips at a small marina.
“It almost looks like something Aelbert Cuyp might have painted,” remarked Gabriel.
“Westport definitely has its charms. Especially on a day like this.”
“Any regrets?”
“About leaving New York?” Sarah shook her head. “I think my story ended rather well, don’t you?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re truly happy being married to Christopher.”
“Deliriously so. Though I have to admit, my work at the gallery isn’t quite as interesting as the jobs I used to do for you.” She lifted her face toward the warmth of the sun. “Do you remember our trip to Saint-Barthélemy with Zizi al-Bakari?”
“How could I forget?”
“What about the summer we spent with Ivan and Elena Kharkov in Saint-Tropez? Or the day I shot that Russian assassin in Zurich?” Sarah checked the time on her phone. “It’s nearly three. Let’s go, shall we? I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”
They set out along Riverside Avenue and arrived at Equus Analytics as a black BMW 7 Series sedan was pulling into the parking lot. The man who emerged from the driver’s seat had coal-black hair and blue eyes, and appeared much younger than his fifty-four years.
He extended a hand toward Sarah. “Miss Bancroft, I presume?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Gallagher. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. And on a Saturday, at that.”
“Not at all. Truth be told, I was planning to do a few hours’ work before dinner.” His accent, though faded, betrayed a Dublin childhood. He looked at Gabriel. “And you are?”
“Johannes Klemp,” answered Gabriel, dredging up a name from his tangled past. “I work with Sarah at Isherwood Fine Arts.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you look a great deal like that Israeli who was shot on Inauguration Day? If I’m not mistaken, his name is Gabriel Allon.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Gallagher gave him a knowing smile before turning to Sarah. “That leaves the painting.”
She nodded toward Gabriel’s overnight bag.
“Ah,” said Gallagher. “The plot thickens.”
21
Equus
The locks on the outer door were museum grade, as were the security system and the equipment in Gallagher’s laboratory. His inventory of high-tech gadgetry included an electron microscope, a shortwave infrared reflectography camera, and a Bruker M6 Jetstream, a sophisticated spatial imaging device. Nevertheless, he began his analysis the old-fashioned way, by examining the painting with the naked eye under visible light.
“It seems to have survived the flight intact, but I’d like to put it on a stretcher as quickly as possible.” He cast a reproachful glance in Gabriel’s direction. “As long as Herr Klemp has no objections, of course.”
“Perhaps you should refer to me by my real name,” said Gabriel. “As for the stretcher, a standard fourteen-by-twenty-two should work well. I’d use a five-eighths setback for the canvas.”
Gallagher’s expression turned quizzical. “Are you a painter, Mr. Allon?”
Gabriel’s answer was the same one he had given to Valerie Bérrangar’s daughter seventy-two hours earlier, in the commune of Saint-André-du-Bois. Aiden Gallagher was similarly intrigued, though for a different reason.
“It turns out we have a great deal in common.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” quipped Gabriel.
“Artistically, I mean. I trained to be a painter at the National College of Art and Design in Dublin before coming to America and enrolling at Columbia.”
