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53
Literary Walk
In the spring of 2017,Vanity Fairmagazine published an investigative profile titled “The Great Somerset.” Twelve thousand words in length, the article chronicled its subject’s rise from a working-class town in northeastern Pennsylvania to the pinnacle of Wall Street and the art world. No corner of his personal life escaped scrutiny: the instability of his childhood home, his youthful athletic prowess, his brief but meteoric career at Lehman Brothers, his ugly divorce, his peculiar penchant for secrecy. A source described only as a former friend said he had a dark side. An old colleague went further, suggesting he was a sociopath and a malignant narcissist. Both sources agreed that he was hiding something.
The article was written by Evelyn Buchanan, an award-winning reporter whose work forVanity Fairhad served as the intellectual property for two Hollywood films and a Netflix limited series. At present, she was seated on a bench along Central Park’s Literary Walk. Robert Burns, feather pen in hand, eyes skyward in search of inspiration, loomed over her right shoulder. On the opposite side of the footpath, a sketch artist sat waiting for a subject.
Evelyn Buchanan was waiting, too. Not for a subject but a source.He had called her without warning the previous day—from where he refused to say. No, he had assured her, it was not a practical joke; he was in fact the man he claimed to be. He was coming to New York on an unpublicized visit and wished to meet with her. She was to tell no one that he had been in touch. He promised that she would not be disappointed.
“But national security isn’t my beat,” Evelyn protested.
“The matter I wish to discuss is related to the financial world and the art market.”
“Can you be a bit more specific?”
“The Great Somerset,” he said, and rang off.
It was an intriguing clue, all the more so because of the source. He had attended a book party at Phillip’s showy North Haven estate that spring. Or so claimed Ina Garten, who insisted he’d had a hot little blonde on his arm. Evelyn, who had attended the same party, had found the prospect laughable. Now she had to admit it was possible after all. How else to explain why a man like Gabriel Allon would be interested in a creep like Phillip Somerset?
Evelyn checked the time. It was one minute before five o’clock. One minute before the world’s most famous retired spy had promised to appear. The walkway was crowded with tourists, spandex-clad joggers, and Upper East Side nannies pushing strollers laden with the tycoons of tomorrow. But there was no one who looked as though he might be Gabriel Allon. Indeed, the only possible candidate was a man of medium height and build who was pondering the placard at the foot of the Walter Scott statue.
At the stroke of five o’clock, he crossed the walkway and sat down on Evelyn’s bench. “Please go away,” she said quietly. “My husband will be back any minute, and he has anger-management issues.”
“I thought I made it clear that you were to come alone.”
Evelyn turned with a start. Then, regaining her composure, she stared straight ahead. “Who was the blonde?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The woman you brought to Carl Bernstein’s book party.”
“She used to work at MoMA. Now she’s an art dealer in London. I was helping her with a problem.”
“What sort of problem?”
“The Great Somerset.”
“You obviously read my article,” said Evelyn.
“Several times.”
“Why?”
“As you might imagine, the ability to read between the lines is an essential skill for an intelligence officer. Is the information accurate, or is my adversary trying to deceive me? Is my agent overstating his case, or is he playing it too safe? Has my source, for one reason or another, left critical information out of his report?”
“And when you finished reading my story about Phillip?”
“I had the nagging sense that you knew more about him than you shared with your readers.”
“Much more,” she admitted.
“Why wasn’t the material included in the piece?”
“You first, Mr. Allon. Why Phillip Somerset, of all people?”
“Masterpiece Art Ventures is a fraud. And I’d like you to be the one to break the story.”
“What have you got for me?”
