Page 162 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

66

Sag Harbor

Lindsay insisted on stopping in downtown Sag Harbor to pick up the food at Lulu. Phillip thought it an act of madness, like the suicide who slips into her wedding gown before swallowing an overdose of sleeping tablets. Now, as he stood at the end of the restaurant’s handsome bar awaiting their order, he was relieved to have a moment to himself.

The din of the room was pleasant and midsummer in volume. Phillip’s present circumstances notwithstanding, it had been a good day on Wall Street. Money had been made. He shook a few of the better hands, rubbed a couple of important shoulders, and acknowledged the discreet nod of a respected collector who had recently purchased a painting from Masterpiece Art Ventures for $4.5 million. In a few hours’ time, the collector would learn that the painting was doubtless a forgery. In an attempt to conceal his embarrassment over being duped, he would assure his closest friends and business associates that he had always known that Phillip Somerset was a con artist and swindler. The collector would likely receive no restitution, as the available assets of Masterpiece Art Ventures would be limited and the line ofclaimants long. The talented Mr. Somerset would be unable to offer assistance to the authorities, for his whereabouts would be unknown. Lulu Kitchen & Bar on Main Street in Sag Harbor would be among the last places anyone would recall laying eyes on him.

He felt a hand on his elbow and, turning, found himself gazing into the terrier-like eyes of Edgar Malone. Edgar lived well on the fortune left to him by his grandfather, a substantial portion of which he had unwisely entrusted to Masterpiece Art Ventures.

“I hear you lost several investors today,” he announced.

“All of whom profited handsomely from their association with my fund.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Do I look worried to you, Edgar?”

“You don’t. That said, I’d like to take some of my money off the table.”

“Sleep on it. Call me in the morning with your decision.”

The hostess informed Phillip that his order was delayed and offered him a glass of complimentary wine as recompense, as he was a valued customer and a prominent member of East End society—at least for a few more hours. He declined the glass of wine but accepted an incoming call to his burner phone.

“Send your helicopter back to Manhattan immediately,” said Leonard Silk.

“Why?”

“To pick up the final member of your traveling party.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Call your crew,” said Silk. “Get that bird back to Manhattan.”

Five minutes later, bags in hand, Phillip stepped from the restaurant’s doorway into the warm evening air. He placed the foodin the back of the Range Rover and settled into the passenger seat. Lindsay reversed out of the space without so much as a glance in the rearview mirror. Tires screeched, a horn blared. Phillip supposed it would one day be a part of the lore surrounding his disappearance—the near-collision on Main Street in Sag Harbor. Much would be made of the fact that Lindsay had been the one behind the wheel.

She jammed the transmission intodrive, and the Range Rover shot forward. “Explain how it worked,” she demanded.

“There isn’t time. Besides, you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Because I’m not smart enough?”

Phillip reached for her, but she recoiled. She was driving dangerously fast.

“Tell me!” she screamed.

“In the beginning, it was a way to generate the extra cash that I needed to show a profit to my investors. But as time went on, buying and selling forgeries became my business model. If I had stopped, the fund would have collapsed.”

“Because your so-called fund was nothing but a glorified Ponzi scheme?”

“No, Lindsay. It was a real Ponzi scheme. And a very lucrative one at that.”

And it would have gone on forever, thought Phillip, if it wasn’t for a Frenchwoman named Valerie Bérrangar. She wrote a letter to Julian Isherwood aboutPortrait of an Unknown Woman. And Isherwood asked none other than the great Gabriel Allon to investigate. Phillip might have been able to outwit the FBI, but Allon was a far more formidable adversary—a gifted art restorer who also happened to be a retired intelligence officer. What were the odds? It had been a mistake to let him leave New York alive.

Lindsay ignored the stop sign at the end of Main Street and swervedonto Route 114. Phillip seized his armrest as they flew across the narrow two-lane bridge separating Sag Harbor from North Haven.

“You really need to slow down.”

“I thought you have a plane to catch.”