Page 103 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

“They’re heathens.”

“But rich.”

“I might be able to do twenty.”

“A novel negotiating tactic.”

“Please, Oliver. Don’t make me beg.”

“Match the Getty’s offer, and it’s yours.”

“Is that a promise?”

“You have my solemn word.”

Which is how the first day of viewings ended, with one final untruth. Oliver showed the Ontario delegation out of the gallery and collected the newest telephone messages from Cordelia’s desk.

Magdalena Navarro had called at four fifteen.

“She sounded rather annoyed,” said Cordelia.

“With good reason.”

“Who do you suppose she represents?”

“Someone with enough money to put her up at the Lanesborough.”

Cordelia collected her belongings and went out. Alone, Oliver reached for the telephone and dialed Sarah.

“How was your afternoon?” she asked.

“I have a bidding war on my hands for a painting I can’t sell. Otherwise, nothing much happened.”

“How many times did she call?”

“Only once.”

“Perhaps she’s losing interest.”

“All the more reason I should call her and get it over with.”

“Let’s discuss it at Wiltons. I feel a martini coming on.”

Oliver hung up the phone and engaged in the familiar ritual of putting his gallery to bed for the night. He lowered the internal security screens over the windows. He engaged the alarm. He placed a baize-cloth cover overSusanna in the Bath, oil on canvas, 194 by 194 centimeters, by Gabriel Allon.

Outside, Oliver triple-locked his door and set off along Bury Street. It should have been a triumphal march. He was, after all, the toast of the art world, the dealer who had stumbled upon a long-hidden collection of lost masters. Never mind that all of the paintings were forgeries. Oliver assured himself that his actions were in service of a noble cause. If nothing else, it would make for a good story one day.

Crossing Ryder Street, he became conscious of the fact that someone was walking behind him. Someone wearing a pair of well-made pumps, he thought, with stiletto heels. He paused outside the Colnaghi gallery and cast a leftward glance along the pavement.

Tall, slender, expensively attired, lustrous black hair hanging over the front of one shoulder.

Dangerously attractive.

Much to Oliver’s surprise, the woman joined him and fixed her wide dark eyes on the Old Master painting displayed in the window. “Bartolomeo Cavarozzi,” she said in faintly accented English. “He was an early follower of Caravaggio who spent two years working in Spain, where he was much admired. If I’m not mistaken, he painted this picture after his return to Rome in 1619.”

“Who in the worldareyou?” asked Oliver.

The woman turned to him and smiled. “I’m Magdalena Navarro, Mr. Dimbleby. And I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”