The Cellist by Daniel Silva
29Kensington, London
Such was the unrelenting pace of the news cycle that the death of Viktor Orlov had all but receded from the collective memory of the British press. Therefore, it came as something of a surprise when the Crown Prosecution Service accused the well-known Russian journalist Nina Antonova of complicity in Orlov’s assassination and issued domestic and European warrants for her arrest. The murder weapon, the authorities alleged, was a parcel of Novichok-contaminated documents delivered to Orlov’s Cheyne Walk mansion on the night of his death. CCTV images documented the reporter’s arrival and departure from the residence, her brief stay at the Cadogan Hotel, and her passage through Heathrow Airport, where she boarded a late-night flight to Amsterdam. According to Dutch authorities, she spent the night in a popular youth hostel in the city’s notorious Red Light District and likely left the Netherlands the next day on a false passport supplied by her handlers in Russian intelligence.
Absent from the charging statement was any mention of Sarah Bancroft, the beautiful former CIA officer turned London art dealer who had stumbled upon Viktor Orlov’s body. She, too, was caught off guard by the announcement, for no one, not even the MI6 officer whose Kensington maisonette she shared, had bothered to warn her it was coming. She had not seen Christopher since the night of Nina’s interrogation at Wormwood Cottage. Nor had she had any meaningful communication with him, only the odd text message rendered in the manner of Peter Marlowe, his cover identity. It seemed his stay in Switzerland would be longer than anticipated. A visit by Sarah was not possible—not in the short term, at least. He would try to get back to London soon, perhaps at the next weekend.
To make matters worse, Sarah’s friend the prime minister had imposed new coronavirus restrictions. There was no point in trying to sneak across the West End to the gallery; business had once again slipped into a coma. Instead, Sarah sheltered in place in Kensington and promptly put on five additional pounds of unwanted weight.
Fortunately, the new rules contained an exception for exercise. In black leggings and a new pair of trainers, Sarah bounded along the deserted pavements of Queen’s Gate to the entrance of Hyde Park. After pausing briefly to stretch her calves, she set out along a footpath into Kensington Gardens, then headed up Broad Walk to the park’s northern boundary. Her stride was smooth and relaxed as she flowed toward Marble Arch, but by the time she arrived at Speakers’ Corner, her breath was ragged and her mouth tasted of rust.
It had been her ambition to circle the park twice, but it was out of the question; the pandemic had taken a terrible toll on her fitness. She managed one final burst of good form along Rotten Row and then walk-jogged back to Queen’s Gate Terrace. There she found the lower door of the maisonette slightly ajar. In the kitchen, Gabriel was pouring bottled water into the Russell Hobbs electric kettle.
“How was your run?” he asked.
“Depressing.”
“Maybe you should stop smoking Christopher’s cigarettes.”
“Is there any chance I can have him back?”
“Not anytime soon.”
“You sound pleased by the prospect.”
“I told you not to get involved with him.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t have much say in the matter.” She settled atop a stool at the granite island. “I assume Nina won’t be taken into custody anytime soon.”
“Unlikely.”
“Was there really no other way?”
“It’s for her own good,” answered Gabriel. “And the good of my operation.”
“Do you have any need of a washed-up field agent with a pretty face?”
“You have a gallery to run.”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard, but business isn’t exactly booming.”
“You wouldn’t have an Artemisia lying around, would you?”
“A nice one, actually.”
“How much do you want for it?”
“Who’s paying?”
“Martin Landesmann.”
“Viktor was going to give me five,” said Sarah. “But if Saint Martin is picking up the tab, I think fifteen sounds about right.”
“Fifteen it is. But I’d feel better if we put some distance between my client and your gallery.”
“How?”
“By running the sale through an intermediary. It would have to be someone discreet. Someone utterly without morals or scruples. Do you happen to know anyone who matches that description?”
Smiling, Sarah reached for her phone and dialed Oliver Dimbleby.
He answered on the first ring, as though he were waiting next to the phone in anticipation of Sarah’s call. She asked whether he had a few minutes to spare to discuss a matter of some delicacy. Oliver replied that, where Sarah was concerned, he had all the time in the world.
“How about six o’clock?” she wondered.
Six was fine. But where? The bar at Wilton’s was a no-go zone. Bloody virus.
“Why don’t you pop over to Mason’s Yard? I’ll put a bottle of shampoo on ice.”
“Be still, my beating heart.”
“Steady on, Ollie.”
“Will Julian be joining us?”
“He’s sealed himself in a germ-free chamber. I don’t expect to see him again until next summer.”
“What about that boyfriend of yours? The one with the flashy Bentley and the made-up name?”
“Out of the country, I’m afraid.”
Which was music to Oliver’s ears. He arrived at Isherwood Fine Arts a few minutes after six and laid a sausage-like forefinger on the call button of the intercom.
“You’re late,” came the metallic reply. “Hurry, Ollie. The champagne’s getting warm.”
The buzzer howled, the deadbolts thumped. Oliver climbed the newly carpeted stairs to the office Sarah shared with Julian and, finding it deserted, rode the lift up to the gallery’s glorious glass-roofed exhibition room. Sarah, in a black suit and pumps, her blond hair falling across half her face, was removing the cork from a bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvée. Oliver was so entranced by the sight of her that it took him a moment to notice the frameless canvas propped upon Julian’s old baize-covered pedestal—The Lute Player, oil on canvas, approximately 152 by 134 centimeters, perhaps early Baroque, quite damaged and dirty.
Crestfallen, Oliver asked, “Is this the matter of some delicacy to which you were referring?”
Sarah handed him a flute of champagne and raised her own in salutation. “Cheers, Ollie.”
He returned the toast and then appraised the painting. “Where did you find her?”
“Where do you think?”
“Buried in Julian’s storeroom?”
She nodded.
“Current attribution?”
“Circle of Orazio Gentileschi.”
“Pish posh.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Have you got a second opinion?”
“Niles Dunham.”
“Good enough for me. But how’s the provenance?”
“Airtight.” Sarah raised her glass to her crimson lips. “Interested?”
Oliver allowed his eyes to wander over her form. “Definitely.”
“In the painting, Oliver.”
“That depends on the price.”
“Fourteen.”
“The record for an Artemisia is four-point-eight.”
“Records are made to be broken.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have fourteen lying around at the moment,” said Oliver. “But I might have five. Six in a pinch.”
“Five or six won’t do. You see, I’m quite confident you’ll unload it in short order.” Sarah lowered her voice. “Next day, I imagine.”
“How much will I get for it?”
“Fifteen.”
He frowned. “You’re not up to something illegal, are you?”
“Naughty,” said Sarah. “But not illegal.”
“There’s nothing I love more than naughty. But I’m afraid we’ll need to adjust the terms of the deal.”
“Name your price, Oliver. You have me over a barrel.”
“If only.” He lifted his gaze toward the skylight and with the tip of his forefinger tapped his damp lips. At length, he said, “Ten for you, five for me.”
“For a day’s work? I should think a cut of three million is more than sufficient.”
“Ten and five. Hurry, Sarah. The gavel’s about to fall.”
“All right, Oliver. You win.” She touched her champagne flute to his. “I’ll send over the contract in the morning.”
“What about the restoration?”
“The buyer has someone in mind. Apparently, he’s quite good.”
“I certainly hope so. Because our lute player needs a great deal of work.”
“Don’t we all,” sighed Sarah. “I nearly had a heart attack in Hyde Park today.”
“What were you doing?”
“Jogging.”
“How positively American of you.” Oliver refilled his glass. “Is that boyfriend of yours really out of the country?”
“Behave, Oliver.”
“Why on earth would I want to do that? It’s so bloody boring.”