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23
Gallery 617
Early the following morning, Sarah rang her man at HSBC in London and instructed him to wire one million euros into the Credit Suisse account of the world’s most famous violinist. Then she dialed Ronald Sumner-Lloyd, Julian’s Berkeley Square solicitor, and together they drafted a letter shielding Isherwood Fine Arts against any and all future claims related to the sale ofPortrait of an Unknown Womanby the Flemish Baroque painter Anthony van Dyck. Shortly before 9:00 a.m., she emailed the finished document to Phillip Somerset. He phoned her a few minutes later from his Sikorsky executive helicopter, which was bound from East Hampton to Manhattan.
“The language is rather aggressive, don’t you think? Especially the clause regarding confidentiality.”
“I have to look after our interests, Phillip. And if your sale goes sideways, I don’t ever want to read the words Isherwood Fine Arts in theNew York Times.”
“I thought I made it clear that you have nothing to worry about.”
“You also once assured me that you were interested in a long-term relationship.”
“You’re not still angry over that, are you?”
“I never was,” lied Sarah. “Now do me a favor and sign the waiver.”
“On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell me how you know Gabriel Allon.”
“We met when I was working in Washington.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “Lovely Lindsay must have been in elementary school at the time.”
“She says you were rude to her.”
“She doesn’t know the difference between a Van Gogh and a Van Dyck.”
“Once upon a time, neither did I,” said Phillip before ringing off. “But look at me now.”
The document appeared in Sarah’s in-box five minutes later, electronically signed and dated. She added her own signature and forwarded it to Julian and Ronnie in London. Then, after confirming two reservations for that evening’s seven thirty British Airways flight to Heathrow, she rang Gabriel and told him that Isherwood Fine Arts was now legally and ethically in the clear.
“Which means that Julian and I get to keep our reputations, not to mention our six and a half million pounds. All in all,” she said, “a rather fortunate turn of events.”
“What are your plans for the rest of the morning?”
“First I’m going to pack my suitcase. Then I’m going to stare at my phone and wait for Aiden Gallagher of Equus Analytics to tell me that you needlessly spent a million euros of my money onA River Scene with Distant Windmills.”
“How about a nice long walk instead?”
“A much better idea.”
It was a perfect spring morning, bright and cloudless, with a mischievous wind blowing from the Hudson. They walked along West Fifty-Ninth Street to Fifth Avenue, then turned uptown.
“Where are you taking me?”
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
“Why?”
“Its collection includes several important paintings by Anthony van Dyck.” Gabriel smiled. “Real ones.”
Sarah rang a friend who worked in the Met’s publicity department and requested two complimentary admission tickets. They were waiting at the information desk in the Great Hall. Upstairs, they made their way to Gallery 617, a room dedicated to Baroque portraiture. It contained four works by Van Dyck, including his iconic portrait of Henrietta Maria, wife of King Charles I. Gabriel snapped a photograph of the queen consort’s face and showed it to Sarah.
