Page 49 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

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.”

Where he had earned a PhD in art history and an MA in art conservation. While working on the restoration staff at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, he specialized in provenance research and, later, scientific detection of forgeries. He resigned from the Met in 2005 and founded Equus Analytics. TheArt Newspaperhad recently christened him “a rock star” with no equal in the field. Thus the new BMW 7 Series parked outside his office door.

He directed his gaze toward the painting. “Where was it acquired?”

“Gallery Georges Fleury in Paris,” answered Gabriel.

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Gallagher looked up abruptly. “And you already suspect there’s a problem?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “Iknowthere’s a problem. The painting is a forgery.”

“And how did you arrive at this conclusion?” asked Gallagher dubiously.

“Instinct.”

“I’m afraid instinct isn’t good enough, Mr. Allon.” Gallagher contemplated the painting again. “How’s the provenance?”

“A joke.”

“And the condition report?”

“It’s a real work of art.”

Gabriel fished both documents from his briefcase and laid them on the table. Aiden Gallagher began his review with the provenance and ended with the three photos. The painting in its present form.The painting under ultraviolet light. And the painting with the losses exposed.

“If it’s a fake, the forger certainly knew what he was doing.” Gallagher doused the overhead lights and examined the painting with an ultraviolet torch. The archipelago of black blotches corresponded with those in the photograph. “So far, so good.” He switched on the overhead lights again and looked at Gabriel. “I assume you’re familiar with Cuyp’s work?”

“Very.”

“Then you know his oeuvre has been plagued by confusion and misattribution for hundreds of years. He borrowed heavily from Jan van Goyen, and his followers borrowed heavily from him. One was Abraham van Calraet. Like Cuyp, he was from the Dutch town of Dordrecht. Because they shared the same initials, it can be difficult to tell the work of one from the other.”

“Which is why a forger would choose a painter like Cuyp in the first place. Good forgers shrewdly select artists whose work has been subject to misattribution in the past. That way, when a new painting miraculously reemerges from a dusty European collection, the so-called art experts are more inclined to accept it as genuine.”

“And if I conclude that the painting is the work of Aelbert Cuyp?”

“I’m confident you won’t.”