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“Mazel tov.”
“Compared to Phillip’s other clients, I’m something of a pauper. He definitely has the Midas touch. That’s why so many people in the art world are invested with him. The fund consistently delivers twenty-five-percent annual returns.”
“How is that possible?”
“A magical proprietary trading strategy that Phillip guards jealously. Unlike other art funds, Masterpiece doesn’t reveal the paintings in its inventory. Its book is entirely opaque. And quite large, apparently. Phillip currently controls one point two billion dollars’ worth of art. He buys and sells paintings constantly and earns enormous profits on the churn.”
“By churn, you mean volume and speed.”
“And arbitrage, of course,” replied Sarah. “Masterpiece operates exactly like a hedge fund. It has a million-dollar minimum for new investors, with a five-year lockup. The fee structure is the industry-standard two-and-twenty. A two percent management fee and a twenty percent cut of the profits.”
“I suppose the firm is domiciled in the Cayman Islands.”
“Aren’t they all?” Sarah rolled her eyes. “I must admit, I do enjoy watching my account balance go up and up each year. But a part of me doesn’t like to think of paintings as a commodity to be bought and sold like soybeans and oil futures.”
“You’ll have to get over that if you’re going to make it as an artdealer. Most of the paintings purchased at auction will never be seen by the public again. They’re locked away in bank vaults or in the Geneva Free Port.”
“Or in a climate-controlled warehouse operated by Chelsea Fine Arts Storage. That’s where Phillip told me to ship the Van Dyck.” Sarah pointed toward the sign for exit 66. “Yaphank.”
The egg-shaped peninsula known as North Haven protrudes into Peconic Bay between Sag Harbor and Shelter Island. Phillip Somerset’s weekend retreat, a thirty-thousand-square-foot acropolis of cedar and glass, stood on the eastern shore. His golden young wife greeted Gabriel and Sarah in the soaring entrance hall, dressed in a sleeveless linen pantsuit belted at her slender waist, her skin so smooth and flawless she looked like a filtered photograph on social media. When Gabriel introduced himself, he received a blank who-are-you stare in return, but Sarah’s name Lindsay Somerset recognized instantly.
“You’re the art dealer from London who sold my husband the Van Gogh.”
“Van Dyck.”
“I get them confused.”
“It’s a common mistake,” Sarah assured her.
Lindsay Somerset turned to greet a new arrival, a prime-time television news anchor and his husband. Several more print and broadcast journalists were gathered in the luminous great room along with an assortment of hedge fund managers, painters, art dealers, fashion designers, models, actors, screenwriters, a renowned director of blockbuster motion pictures, an iconic musician who sang about the plight of Long Island’s working classes, a progressive congresswoman from the Bronx, and a flock of young assistants from a New York publishing house. Evidently, it was a book party to which they had been invited.
“Carl Bernstein,” whispered Sarah. “He was Bob Woodward’s partner at theWashington Postduring the Watergate scandal.”
“Unlike you, Sarah, I was alive when Richard Nixon was president. I know who Carl Bernstein is.”
“Would you like to meet him? He’s right over there.” Sarah snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “And there’s Ina Garten. And that actor whose name I can never remember. The one who just got out of rehab.”
“And there’s a Rothko,” said Gabriel quietly. “And a Basquiat. And a Pollock. And a Lichtenstein, a Diebenkorn, a Hirst, an Adler, a Prince, and a Warhol.”
“You should see his town house on East Seventy-Fourth Street. It’s like the Whitney in there.”
“Not quite,” said a baritone voice from behind them. “But you’re welcome to visit anytime you like.”
The voice belonged to Phillip Somerset. He greeted Sarah first—with a kiss on her cheek and a favorable remark about her appearance—before extending a sun-varnished hand toward Gabriel. He was a tall, physically fit specimen in his mid-fifties, with a boyish head of gray-blond hair and the confident, easy smile that comes naturally to the very rich. Strapped to his wrist was a colossal Richard Mille chronometer, a sporting model worn by wealthy men with pretensions of seamanship. His zippered cashmere sweater was vaguely maritime as well, as were his pale cotton trousers and electric-blue loafers. Indeed, everything about Phillip Somerset suggested that he had just stepped from the deck of a yacht.
Gabriel accepted the proffered hand and introduced himself, first name and last.
Phillip Somerset looked to Sarah for an explanation.
“He’s an old friend,” she said.
“And I thought I was going to spend the afternoon fending off questions about my trading strategy.” Phillip Somerset releasedGabriel’s hand. “What an unexpected surprise, Mr. Allon. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I was hoping to have a look at a painting.”
“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”
“Portrait of an Unknown Woman.”
