Page 12 of The Cellist

Transport left a Vauxhall sedan in Pembridge Square, a key taped beneath the rear bumper, a Beretta 9mm concealed in the glove box. Gabriel collected it at half past nine the following morning and drove to Knightsbridge. Sarah was drinking a cappuccino at Caffè Concerto in the Brompton Road, a mask dangling from one ear. Laughing, she slid into the passenger seat.

“A Vauxhall? What happened? They couldn’t find you a Passat?”

“Evidently, there were none available in the whole of the United Kingdom.”

“We should have taken Christopher’s Bentley.”

“Intelligence officers don’t drive cars like that unless they’re moonlighting for the Russians.”

“Says the man who has his own airplane.”

“It belongs to the state of Israel.”

“Whatever you say, darling.” Sarah glanced at the facade of Harrods. Quietly, she said, “The bricks are in the wall.”

Gabriel gave an involuntary start.

Sarah placed a hand on his arm. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Obviously, you and Christopher have been engaging in a little pillow talk about past operations.”

“We were locked in the maisonette together for three months with nothing to do but watch the pandemic on television and share our deepest, darkest secrets. Christopher told me all about the Eamon Quinn affair and the real story behind the bombing of Harrods. He also mentioned something about a woman he fell in love with while he was working undercover in Belfast.”

“I assume you reciprocated with a tragic tale of your own.”

“Quite a few, actually.”

“Did my name come up?”

“I might have mentioned that I was once desperately in love with you.”

“Why on earth would you tell him that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“But you’re not in love with me anymore?”

“Not even a little.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Youarestill a handsome devil, though.”

“For a man of advancing years.”

“You don’t look a day over—”

“Careful, Sarah.”

“I was going to say fifty.”

“How generous of you.”

“What’s your secret?”

“I’m young at heart.”

She gave a dismissive laugh. “You’re the oldest soul I’ve ever met, Gabriel Allon. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”

He followed the Strand to the Kingsway, then headed through the northeastern boroughs of London to the M11. The traffic was pandemic sparse, mainly lorries and essential workers. They reached Cambridge before noon and an hour later were approaching Norwich, the unofficial capital of East Anglia.

Gabriel left the Vauxhall in a car park near the twelfth-century cathedral and led Sarah on an hour-long walking tour of the city’s ancient center. After performing a series of time-tested countersurveillance maneuvers, they made their way to Bishopsgate. A terrace of redbrick cottages overlooked the deserted sporting grounds of the Norwich Middle School. Gabriel thumbed the bell push of Number 34 and then turned his back to the camera mounted above the door.