The Cellist by Daniel Silva
6Queen’s Gate Terrace, Kensington
Christopher Keller was a member of an exceedingly small club—the brotherhood of terrorists, assassins, spies, arms dealers, art thieves, and fallen priests who had undertaken to kill Gabriel Allon and were still walking the face of the earth. Christopher’s motives for accepting the challenge had been financial rather than political. He was employed at the time by a certain Don Anton Orsati, leader of a Corsican crime family that specialized in murder for hire. Unlike many of the fools who had gone before him, Christopher was an altogether worthy opponent, a former member of the elite SAS who had served under deep cover in Northern Ireland during one of the nastier periods of the Troubles. Gabriel had survived the contract only because Christopher, out of professional courtesy, declined to pull the trigger when presented with the shot. Some years later Gabriel repaid the favor by convincing Graham Seymour to give Christopher a job at MI6.
As part of his repatriation agreement, Christopher had been allowed to keep the substantial fortune he had amassed while working for Don Orsati. He had invested a portion of the money—eight million pounds, to be precise—in the maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace. When Gabriel last dropped in unannounced, the rooms had been largely unfurnished. Now they were tastefully decorated in patterned silk and chintz, and there was a faint but unmistakable whiff of fresh paint in the air. Clearly, Christopher had given Sarah free rein and unlimited resources. Gabriel had reluctantly blessed their relationship, secure in his belief it would be both brief and disastrous. He had even arranged for Sarah to work at Julian’s gallery despite concerns about her security. He had to admit, the exposure to a Russian nerve agent notwithstanding, she looked happier than she had in many years. If anyone had earned the right to be happy, thought Gabriel, it was Sarah Bancroft.
Barefoot, she was draped across an overstuffed armchair in the upstairs drawing room, wineglass in hand. Her blue eyes were fixed on Christopher, who occupied a matching chair to her right. Gabriel had settled in a distant corner where he was safe from their microbes and they from his. Sarah had greeted him with pleasant surprise but without so much as a kiss on the cheek or a fleeting embrace. Such were the social customs of the brave new Covid world; everyone was an untouchable. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, Sarah was merely trying to keep him at arm’s length. She had never made any secret of the fact she was desperately in love with him, even when asking for his approval of her decision to leave New York and move to London. It seemed that Christopher had finally broken the spell. Gabriel suspected he had intruded on an intimate moment. He had one or two things he wanted to clear up before taking his leave.
“And you’re certain about the attribution?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t have offered it to Viktor if I wasn’t. It wouldn’t have been ethical.”
“Since when do ethics have anything to do with being an art dealer?”
“Or an intelligence officer,” replied Sarah.
“But Italian Old Masters aren’t exactly your area of expertise, are they? In fact, if I recall correctly, you wrote your dissertation at Harvard on the German Expressionists.”
“At the tender age of twenty-eight.” She moved a stray lock of blond hair from her face using only her middle finger. “And before that, as you well know, I earned my MA in art history from the Courtauld Institute here in London.”
“Did you seek a second opinion?”
“Niles Dunham. He offered me eight hundred thousand on the spot.”
“For an Artemisia? Outrageous.”
“I told him so.”
“Still, all things considered, you would have been wise to take it.”
“Trust me, I intend to call him first thing in the morning.”
“Please don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because one never knows when one might need a newly discovered painting by Artemisia Gentileschi.”
“It needs work,” said Sarah.
“Who did you have in mind for the job?”
“Since you weren’t available, I was hoping I could convince David Bull to take it on.”
“I thought he was in New York these days.”
“He is. I had lunch with him before I left. Such a lovely man.”
“Have you discussed it with him?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Who else knew about the sale to Viktor other than Julian?”
“No one.”
“And you didn’t let it slip at Wilton’s?”
“I’m a former intelligence officer and undercover operative. I don’t let things slip.”
“And what about Viktor?” Gabriel persisted. “Did he tell anyone that you were coming to Cheyne Walk last night?”
“With Viktor, I suppose anything’s possible. But why do you ask?”
Christopher answered on Gabriel’s behalf. “He’s wondering whether the Russians were trying to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Viktor and me?”
“You do have a rather long track record when it comes to Russians,” Gabriel pointed out. “It stretches all the way back to our old friend Ivan Kharkov.”
“If Moscow Center had wanted to kill me, they would have made an appointment to see a painting at Isherwood Fine Arts.”
Gabriel directed his gaze toward Christopher. “And you’re sure the contaminated documents were in fact delivered by Nina Antonova?”
“We didn’t see her place the bloody things on Viktor’s desk, if that’s what you’re asking. But someone gave them to Viktor, and Nina is the most likely candidate.”
“Why didn’t Jonathan mention her name this morning outside Number Ten?”
“National pride, for a start. As you can imagine, there were red faces all round when we realized that she’d slipped out of the country even before we started looking for her. The home secretary is planning to make the announcement tomorrow morning.”
“But what if Sarah is right? What if Nina was deceived into delivering those documents? And what if Viktor managed to warn her before he died?”
“She should have called the police instead of fleeing the country.”
“She doesn’t trust the police. You wouldn’t either if you were a Russian journalist.”
Gabriel’s phone pulsed with an incoming message. He had been forced, at long last, to part company with his beloved BlackBerry Key2. His new device was an Israeli-made Solaris, reputedly the world’s most secure mobile phone. Gabriel’s had been customized to his unique specifications. Larger and heavier than a typical smartphone, it was capable of fending off remote attacks from the world’s most sophisticated hackers, including the American NSA and Russia’s Special Communications Service, or Spetssviaz.
Christopher eyed Gabriel’s device enviously. “Is it as secure as they say?”
“I could send an email from the middle of the Doughnut with complete confidence that HMG would never be able to read it.” The Doughnut was how employees of Britain’s GCHQ referred to their circular headquarters in Cheltenham.
“May I at least hold it?” asked Christopher.
“In the age of Covid? Don’t even think about it.” Gabriel entered his fourteen-character hard password, and the text message appeared on the screen. He frowned as he read it.
“Something wrong?”
“Graham has asked me to come to dinner. Apparently, Helen is making couscous.”
“My condolences. I’m only sorry I won’t be joining you.”
“You are, actually.”
“Tell Graham I’ll take a raincheck.”
“He’s the director-general of your service.”
“I realize that,” said Christopher, staring at the beautiful woman draped across the overstuffed chair. “But I’m afraid I have a much better offer.”