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70
Downtown
On the twenty-fifth floor of One World Trade Center, in a conference room overlooking New York Harbor, war had been declared. The combatants were five in number and were broken into three opposing camps. Two were senior editors, two were lawyers, and the last was a reporter with an impeccable track record for accuracy and click-generating copy. The piece under deliberation contained allegations of financial impropriety by a prominent figure in the New York art world. Complicating matters was the fact that the prominent figure’s hired henchmen had deleted the only existing draft of the story. Furthermore, it appeared that the prominent figure was at that very moment attempting to flee the country.
Nevertheless, insisted the lawyers, certain legal and editorial standards had to be met. Otherwise, the prominent art world figure, whose name was Phillip Somerset, would have grounds to file a lawsuit, as would his investors.
“Not to mention his lenders at JPMorgan Chase and Bank of America. In short, it has all the makings of a legal clusterfuck for the ages.”
“My source is a freelance employee of Masterpiece Art Ventures.”
“With a rather dubious personal history.”
“I have recordings.”
“Provided to you by a former Israeli intelligence officer who was using a highly controversial cell phone hacking malware.”
“New York is a one-party consent state. She knew she was being recorded when she met with Phillip.”
“But neither Phillip nor Ellis Gray of JPMorgan Chase consented to being recorded. Therefore, their conversation regarding the art-backed loan is inadmissible, as it were.”
“What about the paintings in the warehouse?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
With that, a temporary truce was declared, and work commenced. The reporter wrote, the editors edited, the lawyers lawyered—one paragraph at a time, at a pace more akin to an old-fashioned wire service than a storied cultural-and-current affairs monthly. But such were the exigencies of magazine publishing in the digital age. Even the staidNew Yorkerhad been compelled to offer its subscribers daily content. The world had changed, and not necessarily for the better. Phillip Somerset was proof of that.
At half past nine they had a draft in hand. It was limited in scope but devasting in impact. The story appeared onVanity Fair’s website at 9:32 p.m., and within minutes it was trending on social media. In the aftermath, much would be made of its final line. Phillip Somerset, it read, could not be reached for comment.
When the first text messages detonated on Lindsay’s phone, she assumed they were from Phillip and ignored them. There was a brief pause, followed by a second barrage. Then all hell broke loose.
Reluctantly Lindsay reached for the device and saw a stream of venom and threats, all sent by some of her closest friends. Attached to each of the texts was the same article fromVanity Fair. The headline readthe fake: inside phillip somerset’s masterpiece of a ponzi scheme. Lindsay clicked on the link. Three paragraphs was all she could take.
She opened herrecents,found the number for Phillip’s burner, and dialed. The background whir of the Sikorsky’s turboshaft engines told her that he had not yet departed East Hampton Airport.
“Have you read the article?” she asked.
“I’m reading it now.”
“I can’t face this alone.”
“What are you saying?”
“Don’t leave without me,” said Lindsay, and snatched her car keys from the kitchen counter.
The chartered Bell 407 was over the waters of Long Island Sound when Evelyn Buchanan’s article popped onto Gabriel’s phone. He skimmed it quickly and was relieved to find that neither his name nor Sarah’s appeared in the text. Neither, for that matter, did Magdalena’s. Her allegations were attributed to an unnamed freelance employee of Masterpiece Art Ventures. There was no mention of her gender or nationality. For the moment, at least, she was in the clear. Phillip Somerset, however, was finished.
Voice calls were prohibited onboard the helicopter, so Gabriel shot a text message to Yuval Gershon and requested an update on Phillip’s position. Yuval’s reply appeared a minute later. Phillip was still on the tarmac at East Hampton Airport.
“Why hasn’t he left yet?” asked Sarah over the drone of the Bell’s engines.
“It seems Lindsay has had a change of heart. She called him two minutes ago and told him not to leave until she arrived.”
“Perhaps it’s time you had that chat with the FBI.”
“I’m afraid there’s a complicating factor.”
“Only one?”
“Magdalena is there, too.”
The helicopter remained over Long Island Sound until they reached the old Horton Point Light, where a turn to starboard carried them over the town of Southold and the waters of Peconic Bay. A ferry was crossing the narrow channel separating Shelter Island and North Haven. On the eastern shore of the peninsula, Phillip’s now-abandoned estate was ablaze with light.
“It looks as though Lindsay left in a hurry,” said Sarah.
They passed over Sag Harbor and commenced their descent toward East Hampton Airport. Directly beneath them, a white Range Rover was headed toward the airfield along Daniels Hole Road. It was Lindsay Somerset, thought Gabriel. And she was definitely in a hurry.
She made the final turn into the airport with deliberate care. Hand-over-hand on the steering wheel, a gentle acceleration mid-arc. Just the way her father had taught her when she was a girl of fourteen. The gate at the edge of the tarmac was open. The guard waved her through. Magdalena stood next to the Sikorsky; Phillip, at the open rear door of his Range Rover. He hoisted an arm in greeting, as though waving from the deck of his sailboat. Lindsay switched off the headlights, put her foot to the floor, and closed her eyes.
