Page 130 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

“Or brought one down,” said Gabriel quietly.

She frowned. “How did you find me, Mr. Allon? The truth, this time.”

“Your attempt to recruit Lucien Marchand gave me valuable insight into the way you ran your operation.”

Magdalena took a final pull at the cigarette and with a flick of her long forefinger sent the ember arcing into the darkness. “And how is Françoise these days? Still living in Roussillon? Or has she settled permanently in Lucien’s villa on Saint-Barthélemy?”

“Why did you try to hire him?”

“Phillip wanted to expand our inventory to include Impressionist and postwar works. His forger wasn’t capable of it, so he asked me to find someone who was. I made Lucien a generous offer, which he accepted.”

“Along with one million euros in cash.”

She made no reply.

“Is that why you had him murdered? A lousy million euros?”

“I’m sales and distribution, Mr. Allon. Phillip deals with problems.”

“Why was Lucien a problem?”

“Do I really need to explain that to you?”

“After Lucien and Françoise accepted the money and then reneged on the deal, Phillip was concerned that they posed a threat to you and Masterpiece Art Ventures.”

Magdalena nodded. “Françoise is lucky that Phillip didn’t have her killed, too. She was the real brains behind that network. Lucien was the brush and Toussaint the cash register, but Françoise was the glue that kept it together.” She slowed to a stop before a small shrine to the Virgin Mary, one of several scattered about the estate. “Where in the world are we?”

“The villa was once a monastery. The current owner is quite close to the Vatican.”

“As are you. Or so they say.” She made the sign of the cross and set off again.

“Are you a believer?” asked Gabriel.

“Like ninety percent of my fellow Spaniards, I no longer attend Mass, and it has been more than twenty years since I last set foot in a confessional. But, yes, Mr. Allon. I remain a believer.”

“Do you believe in absolution as well?”

“That depends on how many Hail Marys you intend to make me recite.”

“If you help me take down Phillip Somerset,” said Gabriel, “your sins will be forgiven.”

“All of them?”

“A few years ago, I met a woman who ran a modern art gallery in Saint-Tropez. It was a money-laundering front for her boyfriend’s narcotics empire. I got her out of the situation cleanly. Now she’s a successful dealer in London.”

“Somehow I doubt there’s an art gallery in my future,” said Magdalena. “But what did you have in mind?”

“A final face-to-face meeting with Phillip in New York next week.”

“About the newest member of the team at Masterpiece Art Ventures?”

“Exactly.”

“I imagine he’s quite anxious to have a look at your Gentileschi.”

“Which is why you’re going to overnight it to Chelsea Fine Arts Storage.”

“I hope your front man is covering the shipping costs.”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t included in the hammer price.”

“I guess ten million euros doesn’t go as far as it used to. But how are we going to get the painting through Italian customs?”

“I believe we’re covered on that score.” Gabriel handed her a mobile phone. “This call is being recorded for quality assurance. If you try to pass a message to him, I’ll hand you over to General Ferrari and wave goodbye.”

She dialed the number and raised the phone to her ear. “Hello, Lindsay. It’s Magdalena. I’m sorry to be calling at such a dreadful hour, but I’m afraid it’s rather urgent. I promise not to keep Phillip long.”