“I have to say, she’s not the monster you made her out to be. In fact, she’s really quite charming.”

Gabriel killed the connection and, annoyed, cleaned his brushes and palette. Surely, he told himself, she had been referring to a different Anna Rolfe.

20

Venice–Zurich

For much of the following week, Gabriel remained a prisoner of his studio. His face was unshaven, his mood was brittle, never more so than when he was working on his Van Gogh, a pastiche of the blue-green olive trees that Vincent painted while living at the Saint-Paul Asylum in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. When the work was finished, Gabriel added a signature to the bottom right corner, underlined and at a downward angle, and sent a photo to Naomi Wallach in Paris. She replied an hour later with a fake provenance. The salutation to her email read “Bravo, Vincent!”

He painted his Modigliani, a seated nude, in a single afternoon, but required three days to produce a suitable Renoir and another two until he was satisfied with his pastiche of Monet’s Low Tide at Pourville. The Toulouse-Lautrec he saved for last, choosing for his subject matter the female form, which the artist had studied at length during his frequent visits to a brothel on the rue d’Amboise. An alcoholic with an adult torso mounted atop deformed child-sized legs, Toulouse-Lautrec often worked while under the influence of a concoction he called the Earthquake Cocktail, a potent mixture of absinthe and cognac. Gabriel made do with Cortese di Gavi and Debussy and used Chiara as the model for his prostitute. Naomi Wallach, upon receipt of the photograph and dimensions, declared it the finest Toulouse-Lautrec she had ever seen.

He secured the six paintings to their new frames and shipped them to Anna’s villa on the Costa de Prata. A week later, with the help of Carlos and Maria, her longtime caretaker and housekeeper, he hung them in her music room. He met with Nicholas Lovegrove at his office in Cork Street the following afternoon, once again with no staff present. Lovegrove examined the photos in silence for several minutes before rendering his verdict.

“You are a truly dangerous man with a paintbrush in your hand, Allon. These really do look authentic. The question is, how much scientific scrutiny can they withstand?”

“Very little,” Gabriel admitted. “But Ricard will be inclined to accept them as genuine because of the source.”

“Anna’s father?”

Gabriel nodded. “A well-known collector with a taste for looted art.”

Lovegrove turned his attention to the six provenances. “They’re full of holes. No reputable dealer would ever touch them.”

“But you’re not offering them to a reputable dealer. You’re offering them to Edmond Ricard.”

Lovegrove reached for his phone and dialed. “Bonjour, Monsieur Ricard. Listen, I have a very special client with six incredible paintings to sell, and yours is the first name that popped into my mind. Is there any chance we can stop by the gallery Thursday afternoon? . . . Two o’clock? See you then.”

Lovegrove rang off and looked at Gabriel. “When do I get to meet this very special client of mine?”

“You’re having dinner with her Wednesday evening at her home in Zurich. But don’t worry, I’ll be joining you.”

“Is she as difficult as they say?”

“Anna?” Gabriel frowned. “Evidently not.”

*  *  *

Next morning Nicholas Lovegrove received an email from Anna Rolfe’s personal assistant, a certain Ingrid Johansen, with an itinerary for his trip to Switzerland. She had taken the liberty, she explained, of booking his air travel—first class, of course—and hotel accommodations at Zurich’s exclusive Dolder Grand. Ground transportation would be handled by Anna’s longtime personal chauffeur. “If there’s anything else you require,” she wrote in conclusion, “please feel free to contact me.”

The chauffeur, as promised, was waiting in the arrivals hall of Zurich’s Kloten Airport when Lovegrove’s flight arrived late Wednesday afternoon. It was a drive of twenty minutes to the Rolfe family’s imposing granite-colored villa, which stood atop the wooded hill known as the Zürichberg. Lovegrove climbed the steep front steps to the portico, where a startlingly pretty woman in her mid-thirties waited to receive him.

“You must be Ms. Johansen.”

“I must be,” she said with an enchanting smile.

Lovegrove stepped into the soaring entrance hall. From somewhere deep within the grand house came the liquid sound of a violin. “Is that really her?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, of course.” The woman relieved Lovegrove of his overcoat. “Mr. Allon arrived a few moments ago. He’s anxious to see you.”

Lovegrove followed the woman into a formally furnished drawing room. The paintings adorning the walls included an arresting portrait of a handsome young Florentine nobleman. Gabriel was standing before the canvas, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.

“Manner of Raphael?” asked Lovegrove.

“No,” replied Gabriel. “Raphael Raphael.”

Lovegrove indicated the painting hanging next to it. “Rembrandt?”

Gabriel nodded. “Her Frans Hals is in the next room, along with a Rubens and a couple of pictures by Lucas Cranach the Elder.”

Lovegrove lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. “I can’t believe that’s actually her,” he said, sotto voce.

“You don’t have to whisper, Nicky. She can’t hear a thing when she’s practicing.”

“So I’ve read. But is it really true that her mother—”

“Yes,” interjected Gabriel.

“In this very house?”

Gabriel nodded toward a row of French doors. “Outside in the garden. Anna was the one who found her.”

“And her father?” asked Lovegrove.

“You’re standing on the spot where it happened.”

Lovegrove took two steps to the left and listened to the silken sound of Anna’s violin. “You never told me how you know her.”

“Julian arranged for me to clean a painting for her father.”

“Which one?”

Gabriel pointed toward the Raphael. “That one.”

*  *  *

Anna insisted on preparing dinner, so they gathered around her in the kitchen and held their collective breath while she attacked a large yellow onion with a razor-sharp knife.

“What are we having?” asked Gabriel warily.

“Boeuf bourguignon. It’s a French country stew beloved by peasants like you.”

“Perhaps I should handle the parts involving Swiss-made weaponry.”

“Absolutely not!” She looked him straight in the eye as the knife reduced a carrot to perfect orange disks. “A man of your talent should never handle sharp objects.”

“Anna, please.”

“Shit!” she whispered and thrust her left forefinger into her mouth. “Look what you’ve done.”