Gabriel fired the email into the ether and stared at the screen. The waiting, he thought. Always the waiting.
Olga fetched a bottle of wine from the fridge and switched on some music on the MacBook. The wine was a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand, crisp and delicious. The music was Rachmaninoff’s remarkable collection of preludes in all twenty-four major and minor keys. When lives were at stake, Olga declared, only a Russian soundtrack would do.
When an hour passed with no response, she grew anxious. To distract herself, she spoke of Russia, which only darkened her mood. The Russian president, she lamented, was now truly a tsar in everything but name. A recent sham referendum had given him the constitutional authority to remain in power until 2036. All peaceful means of dissent had been eliminated, and the Kremlin-authorized opposition parties were a farce.
“They are a Potemkin village to create the illusion of democracy. They are useful idiots.”
When another half hour had passed without a reply, Olga suggested they order something to eat. Gabriel rang an Indian takeaway on Wensum Street and twenty minutes later collected the food curbside. On the way back to Bishopsgate, he saw no sign of surveillance, British or Russian. Entering the garden, he found Olga seated before the open laptop, with Sarah peering over her shoulder.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Still in Amsterdam,” replied Olga. “She wants to know the identity of the friend who’d like to help her.”
“Does she know that I was the one who brought you out of Russia?”
Olga hesitated, then nodded.
“Go ahead.”
Olga typed the message and clickedsend. Three minutes later the MacBook pinged with Nina’s reply. “She’ll meet you at the Van Gogh Museum tomorrow afternoon at two.”
“Perhaps she could be a bit more specific.”
Olga posed the question. The reply arrived at once. Gabriel smiled as he read it.
Sunflowers...
10
London City Airport–Amsterdam
“The adorable couple,” said Christopher Keller. “Imagine meeting the two of you here, of all places.”
He was rummaging through a cabinet in the forward galley of Gabriel’s Gulfstream G550, which was parked on the floodlit tarmac of London City Airport. Gabriel and Sarah had driven there directly from Norwich. The night manager at the FBO had neglected to mention that a business consultant who went by the name Peter Marlowe had already boarded the aircraft, doubtless because Mr. Marlowe had indicated he worked for the secretive firm based in the large office building at the foot of Vauxhall Bridge.
He opened another cabinet. “I remember when you had to rely on the kindness of strangers when you needed a privateplane. Though one wonders how you possibly manage without cabin staff.”
“Looking for something?” asked Gabriel.
“A bit of whisky to take the edge off my day. It needn’t be anything premium, mind you. Monsieur Walker will do nicely. Black Label, if you have it.”
“I don’t. But there’s wine in the fridge.”
“French, I hope.”
“Israeli, actually.”
Christopher sighed. He was dressed for the office in a dark suit and tie. His Burberry overcoat lay on a seat in the passenger compartment, along with a smart-looking Prada overnight bag.
“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?” asked Gabriel.
“The Secret Intelligence Service and our brethren from across the river routinely monitor the status of private aircraft used by visiting foreign dignitaries and assorted international troublemakers. Therefore, we were understandably intrigued when your crew filed a flight plan and reserved a departure slot for ten thirty p.m.” Christopher opened the refrigerator and withdrew an open bottle of Israeli sauvignon blanc. “Why Amsterdam?”
“I’m fond of cities with canals.”
Christopher removed the cork and sniffed. “Try again.”
“I’m bringing Nina Antonova in from the cold.”
