Page 21 of The Cellist

“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.”

12

Wormwood Cottage, Dartmoor

Wormwood Cottage was set upon a swell in the moorland and fashioned of Devon stone that had darkened with age. Behind it, across a broken courtyard, was a converted barn with offices and living quarters for the staff. The caretaker was a former MI6 fieldhand called Parish. As was often the case, he was given only a few hours’ warning of the pending arrival. It was Nigel Whitcombe—the chief’s boyish acolyte, notetaker, food taster, henchman, and primary runner of off-the-record errands—who made the call. Parish took it on the secure line in his office. His tone was that of a maître d’ from a restaurant where tables were impossible to come by.

“And the size of the party?” he wondered.

“Seven, myself included.”

“No Covid, I take it.”

“Not a speck.”

“I assume the chief will be joining us?”

Whitcombe mumbled something in the affirmative.

“Arrival time?”

“Early evening, I should think.”

“Shall I ask Miss Coventry to prepare dinner?”

“If she wouldn’t mind.”