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49
Villa dei Fiori
The first time Magdalena heard Valerie Bérrangar’s name, she was in her usual suite at the Pierre Hotel in New York. It was a cold and rainy afternoon in mid-March. A frustrated Phillip was lying next to her, annoyed that she had interrupted their lovemaking to take a phone call. It was from Georges Fleury in Paris.
“What were you doing in New York?” asked Gabriel.
“I pop over at least once a month to discuss the sort of things that can’t be put in an email or encrypted text.”
“Do you and Phillip always end up in bed?”
“That part of our relationship has never changed. Even during his brief infatuation with your friend Sarah Bancroft, Phillip was sleeping with me on the side.”
“Does his wife know about the two of you?”
“Lindsay doesn’t have a clue. About much of anything.”
With General Ferrari’s approval, Rossetti had removed the restraints from her wrists. Her long hands were folded atop her right leg, which was crossed over her left. Her dark eyes tracked Gabriel as he slowly paced the perimeter of the room.
“I imagine Monsieur Fleury was rather nervous that afternoon in mid-March,” he said.
“Panic stricken. A French policeman named Jacques Ménard had come to the gallery unannounced to question Fleury aboutPortrait of an Unknown Woman. He was afraid the entire house of cards was about to collapse.”
“Why did he contact you and not Phillip?”
“I’m in charge of sales and distribution. Phillip owns the galleries, but he keeps the dealers at arm’s length. Unless there’s a problem, of course.”
“Like Valerie Bérrangar?”
“Yes.”
“What did Phillip do?”
“He made a phone call.”
“To whom?”
“A man who makes his problems go away.”
“Does this man have a name?”
“If he does, I’m not aware of it.”
“Is he American?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Whatdoyou know?”
“That he is a former intelligence officer who has a network of skilled professionals at his disposal. They hacked into Madame Bérrangar’s mobile phone and laptop, and broke into her villa in Saint-André-du-Bois. That’s when they discovered the entry in her desk calendar. And the painting, of course.”
“Portrait of an Unknown Woman, oil on canvas, one hundred and fifteen by ninety-two centimeters, attributed to a follower of the Flemish Baroque painter Anthony van Dyck.”
“It was a dreadful mistake on Fleury’s part,” said Magdalena. “He should have told me that he had handled the original version of the painting. The truth is, it was so long ago it slipped his mind.”
“How did the forger produce his copy?”
“Apparently, he used a photograph he found in an old exhibition catalogue. It was a minor picture produced by a nameless artist working in Van Dyck’s style. The forger simply executed a more skillful version of it and, voilà, a lost Van Dyck suddenly reappeared after centuries in hiding.”
