The Cellist by Daniel Silva

11Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

Dakota Maxwell, twenty-four years old, a recent graduate of a small but highly regarded liberal arts college in New England, had come to Amsterdam for love and stayed for the weed. Her parents, who lived grandly on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, had been pleading with her to come home, but Dakota was determined to remain abroad, like the characters in her favorite Fitzgerald novel. An aspiring writer, she hoped to find a suitable lodging where she might begin work on her first manuscript, which had a title but no plot and only the first stirrings of a story. At present, she was a resident of the Tiny Dancer, a hostel located in the Red Light District. Her room had six beds, three to a stack. On any given night they were filled with an interchangeable cast of twentysomethings whose alcohol-and-cannabis-induced musings filled several of Dakota’s notebooks.

The woman who arrived late Wednesday evening was different. Older, professionally attired, sober. Over coffee the following morning, she told Dakota that her name was Renata, that she was Polish, and that she lived in London. Her unemployed husband, a plumber, had threatened to kill her in a drunken rage. She was staying at the Tiny Dancer because it accepted cash and he had canceled her credit cards. She asked Dakota to change the color of her blond-brown hair. In the hostel’s communal bathroom, with supplies purchased from the pharmacy across the street, Dakota dyed the woman’s hair the same color as hers, black with streaks of royal blue. It looked better on the Polish woman. She had cheekbones to die for.

With the exception of a single trip to Vodafone, where she purchased a new burner device, the woman remained locked away at the Tiny Dancer. But at eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, she had awakened Dakota and quite unexpectedly asked whether she would like to visit the Van Gogh Museum. Dakota, who was hungover and still a little stoned, declined. She relented, however, when the woman explained the real reason why she wanted Dakota’s company.

Renata wasn’t Polish, didn’t live in London, and had never been married. Her name was Nina and she was a Russian investigative journalist who was hiding from the Kremlin. A man would be waiting in front of the museum’s most famous painting at two p.m. to take her into protective custody. He was a friend of a friend. Nina wanted Dakota to make contact with this man on her behalf.

“Will I be in danger?”

“No, Dakota. I’m the one they want to kill.”

“What’s his name?”

“It’s not important.”

“What does he look like?”

Nina showed Dakota a photograph on her Vodafone.

“But how will I recognize him with a mask?”

“His eyes,” said Nina.

Which explained why, at 1:58 p.m. on the first day of August, Dakota Maxwell, an aspiring novelist living in self-imposed exile in Amsterdam, was contemplating a self-portrait of Vincent in the Paris room of the Van Gogh Museum. At the stroke of two, she moved into the Arles room, where four patrons waited in an orderly, Covid-safe queue in front of Sunflowers. The man standing directly before the canvas was of medium height and build, hardly the superhero type. His hair was short and dark and very gray at the temples. His right hand rested thoughtfully against his chin. His head was tilted slightly to one side.

Dakota sidestepped the queue, eliciting multilingual murmurs of protest from the other patrons, and joined the man in front of the canvas. He glared at her with the greenest eyes she had ever seen. There was no mistaking him for anyone else.

“You have to wait your turn like everyone else,” he scolded her in French.

“I didn’t come here to see the painting,” she replied in the same language.

“Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of—”

“Where is she?” he asked, cutting her off.

“Le Tambourin.”

“Has she changed her appearance?”

“A little,” answered Dakota.

“What does she look like?”

“Me.”

Le Tambourin, the museum’s stylish café, was one level down, on the ground floor. A single customer, a woman sitting alone at a table overlooking the Museumplein, had ink-black hair streaked with royal blue. Gabriel sat down uninvited and removed his mask. She regarded him with apprehension, followed by profound relief.

“It must be difficult for you,” she remarked.

“What’s that?”

“To have so famous a face.”

“Fortunately, it’s a recent phenomenon.” He looked down at her tea. “You’re not actually drinking that, are you?”

“I thought it would be safe.”

“Viktor obviously thought the same thing.” He moved the teacup to the adjacent table. “Using that American girl upstairs was a lovely piece of tradecraft. If the roles were reversed, I would have done it the same way.”

“To survive as a Russian journalist, one must operate by a certain set of rules.”

“In our business they’re known as the Moscow Rules.”

“I can recite them from memory,” said Nina.

“Which is your favorite?”

“Assume that everyone is under opposition control.”

“Are you?” asked Gabriel.

“Is that what you think?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

She smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”

“How so?”

“Given your exploits, I imagined you’d be taller.”

“I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“Quite the opposite. In fact, this is the first time I’ve felt safe in a very long time.”

“I’ll feel better when you’re on board my plane.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“The British would like to clear up a few details of your visit to Viktor’s home on the night of his death.”

“I’m sure they would. But what happens if they conclude that I was under the control of the opposition?”

“They won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I won’t let them.”

“You have influence over the British?”

“You’d be surprised.” Gabriel looked at her phone. “Disposable?”

She nodded.

“Leave it behind. A colleague of mine is waiting outside. Try to walk at a normal pace. And whatever you do, don’t look back.”

“Moscow Rules,” said Nina.

By 2:05 p.m., Sarah was beginning to grow worried. Having operated against the Russians on numerous occasions, she was well aware of their enormous capabilities and, more important, their utter ruthlessness. Alone in the car, her hand wrapped around the grip of the Walther pistol, she conjured an image of a crowd gathered around a dying man lying at the foot of a Van Gogh masterpiece.

Finally, her phone pulsed.

On our way.

She left the car park and turned into the busy Van Baerlestraat. There was a single lane reserved for cars and absolutely nowhere to park, even for a moment or two. Sarah nevertheless pulled to the curb and switched on her hazard lamps. She looked to her right and glimpsed Gabriel and a woman who might have been Nina Antonova walking arm in arm across the Museumplein. Christopher was a few paces behind them, his hand in his coat pocket.

Just then, a car horn sounded, followed by another. Sarah glanced into her rearview mirror and saw an annoyed-looking policeman approaching on foot. The officer froze when Gabriel opened the rear passenger-side door and helped the woman into the backseat.

Christopher dropped into the front passenger seat and switched off the hazard lamps. “Drive.”

Sarah slipped the car into gear and pressed the accelerator.

“Next left,” said Christopher.

“I know.”

She made the turn without slowing and sped along a street lined with shops and gabled brick houses. Christopher plucked the Walther from her coat pocket and returned the Beretta to Gabriel. Nina Antonova was staring out her window, her face awash with tears.

“So much for jumping to conclusions,” said Sarah.

“Is there anything I can do to redeem myself?”

She smiled wickedly. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”