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Just then the bedroom door opened and Magdalena emerged, wearing white stretch trousers, a loose-fitting blouse, and stiletto-heeled pumps.
Gabriel handed over her phone. “Keep it with you at all times. And whatever you do—”
“Where would I go without a passport, Mr. Allon? Staten Island?”
She dropped the phone into her handbag and went out. Her intoxicating scent lingered in the room after she had gone.
“Does she ever wear a bra?” asked Evelyn.
“Evidently, she forgot to pack one.”
Gabriel switched the feed on the Proteus software from Phillip’s device to Magdalena’s. Then he rang Sarah, who was downstairs in the rented Nissan SUV.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”
Two minutes later Sarah watched as Magdalena emerged from the East Sixty-First Street door of the Pierre and slid into the back of Phillip’s waiting Mercedes S-Class limousine. The driver made three consecutive left turns and headed uptown on Madison Avenue. Sarah followed directly behind it—a violation of basic vehicle surveillance techniques, but a necessary one. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper, and Sarah had no backup other than the phone in Magdalena’s handbag.
The traffic thinned at East Sixty-Sixth Street, and the Mercedes accelerated. Sarah was forced to run a pair of red lights to keep from losing it, but at East Seventy-Fifth Street she had no choice but to stop. When at last the light changed to green, the Mercedes was nowhere in sight. Two more left turns brought Sarah to the door of Phillip’s town house on East Seventy-Fourth Street.
No Mercedes.
No sign of Magdalena.
Sarah drove to the end of the block and found a spot along the curb. Then she snatched up her phone and dialed Gabriel at the Pierre. “Please tell me she’s inside that house.”
“She’s on her way upstairs.”
Sarah killed the connection and smiled. Enjoy it while you can, she thought.
Tyler Briggshad instructed Magdalena to proceed directly to Phillip’s fourth-floor office. Instead, she had taken a detour to the gallery.The Gentileschi was propped on a display easel. Magdalena snapped a photograph of the work with her mobile phone. Then she took two wide-angle shots that left little doubt as to the painting’s current location—a room that had been described in great detail in an unflatteringVanity Fairprofile written by the woman who was at that moment sitting in Magdalena’s suite at the Pierre.
She realized suddenly that Tyler was watching her from the gallery’s doorway. He must have spotted her on one of the security cameras. She reacted with the studied calm of a drug dealer.
“Extraordinary, isn’t it?”
“If you say so, Ms. Navarro.”
“You don’t appreciate art, Tyler?”
“To be honest, I don’t know much about it.”
“Has Mr. Somerset seen it yet?”
“You would have to ask Mr. Somerset. In fact, he’s probably wondering where you are.”
Magdalena made her way upstairs. The door to Phillip’s office was open. He was sitting at his desk with a phone to his ear and a palm pressed to his forehead.
“You’re making a big mistake,” he snapped, then killed the call.
A frigid silence settled over the room.
“Who’s making a mistake?” asked Magdalena.
“Warren Ridgefield. He’s one of our investors. Unfortunately, several others are making the same mistake.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Phillip took her by the hand and smiled.
