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“No,” she said after a moment. “I do not.”
A silence fell between them.
“Forgive me,” said Isabella, and started toward the door.
“Wait,” he called out.
She stopped and turned slowly to face him. The greenness of his eyes was unsettling. “Yes, Signore Allon?”
“You never told me what you thought of the painting.”
“It’s quite extraordinary. But who is she?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“When will you know?”
“Soon, I hope.” He took up his palette and brush, and opened the laptop.
“What’s it called?” asked Isabella.
“Portrait of an Unknown Woman.”
“Not the painting. The program about Oliver and Cordelia.”
He looked up suddenly.
“You’ve been playing it quite loudly. The sound carries well in the countryside.”
“I hope it didn’t disturb you.”
“Not at all,” said Isabella, and turned to go.
“Your phone,” he said suddenly.
She stopped. “What about it?”
“Please leave it behind. And bring me your laptop and the keys to your car. Tell Carlos to bring me his devices as well. No phone calls or emails until further notice. And no leaving the estate.”
Isabella switched off her phone and laid it on the table, next to the open laptop. As she slipped from the villa, she heard roguish Oliver tell someone named Nicky that his client would have to increase his offer to £30 million if he wanted the Veronese. Nicky called Oliver a thief, then asked whether he was free for a drink that evening. Oliver said he wasn’t.
“What’s her name?”
“Magdalena Navarro.”
“Spanish?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What does she look like?”
“A bit like Penélope Cruz, but prettier.”
