The Cellist by Daniel Silva

10London City Airport–Amsterdam

“The adorable couple,” said Christopher Keller. “Imagine meeting the two of you here, of all places.”

He was rummaging through a cabinet in the forward galley of Gabriel’s Gulfstream G550, which was parked on the floodlit tarmac of London City Airport. Gabriel and Sarah had driven there directly from Norwich. The night manager at the FBO had neglected to mention that a business consultant who went by the name Peter Marlowe had already boarded the aircraft, doubtless because Mr. Marlowe had indicated he worked for the secretive firm based in the large office building at the foot of Vauxhall Bridge.

He opened another cabinet. “I remember when you had to rely on the kindness of strangers when you needed a private plane. Though one wonders how you possibly manage without cabin staff.”

“Looking for something?” asked Gabriel.

“A bit of whisky to take the edge off my day. It needn’t be anything premium, mind you. Monsieur Walker will do nicely. Black Label, if you have it.”

“I don’t. But there’s wine in the fridge.”

“French, I hope.”

“Israeli, actually.”

Christopher sighed. He was dressed for the office in a dark suit and tie. His Burberry overcoat lay on a seat in the passenger compartment, along with a smart-looking Prada overnight bag.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?” asked Gabriel.

“The Secret Intelligence Service and our brethren from across the river routinely monitor the status of private aircraft used by visiting foreign dignitaries and assorted international troublemakers. Therefore, we were understandably intrigued when your crew filed a flight plan and reserved a departure slot for ten thirty p.m.” Christopher opened the refrigerator and withdrew an open bottle of Israeli sauvignon blanc. “Why Amsterdam?”

“I’m fond of cities with canals.”

Christopher removed the cork and sniffed. “Try again.”

“I’m bringing Nina Antonova in from the cold.”

“And what exactly are you planning to do with her?”

“That depends entirely on what she has to say.”

“Graham would like to be present for her debriefing.”

“Would he?”

“He’d also like it to take place on British soil.”

“I was the one who found her.”

“With the help of an exiled Russian journalist residing in Britain under our protection. Not to mention my live-in partner and companion.” He poured a glass of the wine and handed it to Sarah. “And unless your fancy new aircraft is given clearance to take off, you’re not going anywhere.”

“I think I liked you better when you were a contract killer.”

“I’d be careful if I were you. I have a feeling you’re going to need someone like me before this is over.”

“I can look after myself.”

Christopher glanced around the interior of the luxuriously appointed cabin. “I’ll say.”

They spent the night in separate rooms in the De L’Europe Amsterdam and in the morning took coffee and pastries like three socially distant strangers downstairs on the terrace. Afterward, Christopher departed the hotel alone and walked to the Van Gogh Museum, home of the world’s largest collection of Vincent’s paintings and drawings.

Ordinarily, the museum could accommodate six thousand patrons daily, but coronavirus restrictions had reduced the number to just 750. Christopher purchased two tickets, slipped one into his pocket, and handed the other to the attendant at the door.

In the foyer a uniformed security guard directed him toward an airport-style magnetometer. Having left his weapon at the hotel, he passed through the contraption without objection. The modern glass lobby was eerily quiet. He drank a coffee at the espresso bar, then headed upstairs to an exhibition room devoted to Vincent’s work in the French town of Arles, where he lived from February 1888 to May 1889.

The room’s most popular attraction was the iconic Sunflowers, oil on canvas, 95 by 73 centimeters. The painting’s information placard made no mention of the fact that several years earlier it had been stolen by a pair of professional thieves in what Amsterdam’s police chief described as the finest example of a smash-and-grab heist he had ever seen. The thieves turned the painting over to an operative of Israeli intelligence, who produced a perfect copy in an apartment overlooking the Seine in Paris—a copy that Christopher, posing as an underworld figure named Reg Bartholomew, sold to a Syrian middleman for twenty-five million euros. The original was discovered in an Amsterdam hotel room four months after its disappearance. Curiously, it was in better condition than when it was pinched.

Christopher stepped to his left and pondered the neighboring canvas, a dour portrait of a seated Madame Roulin. Then he turned and examined the room itself. It was about fifteen meters by ten, with a well-worn wooden floor and a square bench. There were four ways in and out. Two of the passages led to neighboring rooms dedicated to Vincent’s work in Saint-Rémy and Paris. The other two led to the museum’s central staircase. It was far from perfect, thought Christopher, but it would do.

He spent the next thirty minutes wandering the remarkable collection—The Langlois Bridge, The Bedroom, Irises, Wheatfield with Crows—and then headed downstairs to the lobby. It was a walk of approximately a hundred and fifty meters across the Museumplein to Van Baerlestraat, a busy thoroughfare with bike lanes and a streetcar line. Using the stopwatch function of his MI6 phone, Christopher timed it at ninety-four seconds.

The walk back to the De L’Europe was twenty-three minutes. Gabriel was upstairs in his room.

“How was Sunflowers?” he asked.

“To be honest, I always preferred your version to Vincent’s.”

“Any problems?”

“I’m not crazy about the magnetometers. There’s no way you can bring a gun into the museum.”

“But you’ll be waiting outside. And you’ll be carrying this.” Gabriel held up Christopher’s Walther PPK. “Perhaps you’d like to use my Beretta instead.”

“What’s wrong with my gun?”

“It’s rather small, Mr. Bond.”

“But it’s easy to conceal, and it packs quite a punch.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “A brick through a plateglass window.”

Gabriel rang the valet at one fifteen and requested his car. A metallic-gray Mercedes sedan, it was waiting in the street when he and Christopher stepped from the hotel. Sarah was already behind the wheel. She drove to the Museum Quarter and parked near the Concertgebouw, Amsterdam’s neo-Renaissance classical music hall.

Christopher handed her the Walther. “Do you remember how to use it?”

“Disengage the safety and pull the trigger.”

“It helps if you aim the bloody thing first.”

Sarah slipped the weapon into her handbag as Christopher and Gabriel climbed out of the car and started across Van Baerlestraat. Once again, Christopher timed the walk. Ninety-two seconds. At the entrance of the museum, he gave Gabriel the second ticket he had purchased earlier that morning.

“Steal me something nice while you’re in there.”

“I intend to,” said Gabriel, and went inside.

After passing unmolested through the magnetometer, he climbed the stairs to the Arles exhibition room. Eight masked patrons waited in a Covid-safe queue in front of Sunflowers. Another half dozen were contemplating the room’s other iconic works. Not one appeared to be the fugitive Russian journalist wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Viktor Orlov.

Gabriel searched the Paris and Saint-Rémy rooms, but saw no sign of her there, either. Returning to the Arles room, he joined the queue for Sunflowers. He checked the time on his phone: 1:52 . . . Suddenly, he felt a twinge in his lower back. It was nothing, he assured himself. Only the empty spot where his gun should be.