Coincidence Theory Page 14

As soon as the plane landed in Amsterdam, Louisa watched as Lieutenant Patrick put his plan into action. As it turned out, if you were flying on a private jet you were granted certain privileges passengers flying carriage were not. Avoidance of face-to-face passport controls and a lack of stringent manifesto checks being just some of the many advantages their plan relied upon..

  Once off the plane, Lieutenant Patrick’s organisation became nothing short of exceptional. Inside five minutes of disembarking, they were handed keys to a car and a reservation for a hotel in the city.

  The drive from the airport was pleasant enough, and allowed Louisa to take in the view. As they turned off the Einsteinweg into the centre of Amsterdam, the traffic became busier and their pace of travel slowed.

  Louisa relaxed as she watched the late evening sun crash through the bows of the trees lining the beautiful Rembrandt Park, flashing green and gold in her eyes.

  Everywhere were brazenly dressed youths and conservatively attired dilettantes. Every sound that wafted through the open window bore a feeling of freedom. From the open conversations on every corner, the laid-back beats playing within the parks, to the sounds of the thousands of bicycle bells twinkling in the evening air, each one playing out its piece to aid the crescendo of contented admiration for life that washed through the city. She had never been to Amsterdam until today, yet she was already hooked.

  As they turned on to the Overtoom and down toward Amsterdam’s famous Museumplein, the traffic was practically at a crawl.

  Louisa leant out of the passenger window and allowed the evening breeze to blow over her. She heard tell of Amsterdam being a male-oriented stag venue for northern England, but being driven through its streets she simply could not see beyond its beauty.

  “Is this where we’ve been booked into?” asked Justin, a little awestruck by the three massive mansions converted to create the hotel they were pulling alongside.

  “Yeah, not a bad choice is it?” said Chris, as he spotted an empty bay and parked up. “We’re gonna have to move it along folks.” he said, as he strode to the check-in desk. “Let’s just drop anything we don’t need and get going, it’s already half seven.”

  Louisa was hurried upstairs to her room, the hotel’s opulence barely registering. As she unlocked the door and strode inside, she realised just how expensive staying here could be.

  The room’s floor was polished marble, and a finely covered chaise-longue sat underneath an imposing bay window. Giddy, she strode into the bathroom and nearly feinted. Golden taps dangled into a kidney-shaped porcelain tub that must have been at least six feet long and four wide.

  Grabbing a complimentary hairbrush from the side of the sink, she neatened herself as best she could and washed her hands and face. She still felt dirty. She knew she had to rush, but she so wanted a bath.

  Louisa realised, psychologically speaking, seeing a friend die imparted a sense of grubbiness that could not be removed by soap and water. That fact did not stop her brain telling her repeatedly it was what she needed. As soon as they had met this Carl, it would be the first thing she would do.

  A knock at the door roused her from her vanity and she opened it to find Justin waving her out with their cargo stored in a lone duffel slung over his shoulder.

  As they walked down the stairs, she took in the sights of the hotel. It was magnificent. Porticos were placed at corridor ends, archways crossed every intersection, and rich carpets covered thick marble steps. The entire building was a joy to behold.

  “So which of the museums does your military buddy work at?” asked Dave, as they walked out of the massive lobby and into the late evening air of Amsterdam.

  “At the moment he works for the Rijksmuseum. I’m not sure what he’s doing there, but I’m almost certain I won’t understand it.”

  The group crossed the busy road, and took the walkway between the Van Gogh and the Stedelijk Museum, heading toward the plaza to their rear.

  Louisa had never seen the Museumplein before and the first sight of it astounded her. Its clean, crisp, open-plan layout allowed visitors to see the Museums sat at its outskirts without visual clutter. The façades of the buildings facing the plaza were grander than the ones pointing into the city. Even the bland front of the Van Gogh Museum burst into life when viewed through the evening haze and serenity of the park’s interior. Running through its centre, a busy walkway led directly to the Rijksmuseum. Lined with benches and areas for young and old thinkers alike to ponder the delights witnessed, it was neat, organised and yet tinged with a subtle hint of insanity. In was an environment tuned to cognitive thought, which massaged the mind and soothed away the tensions of the day.

  As they reached the far side and rounded the fountain before the museum, Chris worked at the mobile in his pocket. Almost instantly, a response came buzzing back. Without pause, he walked purposefully up to the ticket booth and leant over to the assistant.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman behind the counter said, in a soft, Dutch accent, “but the museum is due to close in half of an hour. We are not accepting any more visitors today. Please feel free to come again in the morning.”

  “I’m not here for a tour. I’m here to see Carl Walters. I believe he’s expecting me. My name is James Smith.”

  “Ah, Doctor Smith. I did not realise an assembly was arriving. Please, come in.”

  Louisa followed Chris through the entrance and into the museum. Behind the kiosk, areas of the corridor were enclosed behind wooden panels.

  “The main building is undergoing extensive renovations at present. You will find Doctor Walters in the Philips Wing.” the lady said, motioning to her left.

  “Thank you very much.” said Chris, leading the way at a healthy pace.

  The museum was as magnificent as it was extravagant. The building’s arched ceiling lines and contrasting colours were refined and elegant. The deep orange and red shadows that drew through the vast windows magnified the effect of size and left the viewer in a state of contemplative reverence.

  “It’s an impressive building.” said Justin, echoing Louisa’s thoughts.

  “It’s one of the finest examples of a purpose built museum in Europe.” said Dave. “Pierre Cuypers won a contest, of all things, to design a new museum in eighteen seventy-six. The strange thing is he came second in a contest to redesign the building thirteen years earlier, but none of the entrants was of a high enough standard to be accepted. I think it’s a pair of Spaniards, Cruz and Ortiz, who have done the redesign this time.”

  “How come you know so much about this building?” asked Louisa.

  “An appreciation of the finer works I suppose.” said Dave, with a shrug. “The Rijksmuseum contains one of the greatest collections of European religious masterpieces on the planet.”

  The contrast from the baroque, imperial looking corridors near the entrance, to the modern, steel and glass rooms of the Philips Wing could not be more striking. Gone were the sweeping lines and flowing architecture, and in were angular relief and modern, low-reflective cabinets. The rooms open in the wing all appeared busy and a hushed murmur of appreciative chatter ran through them.

  The first thing that struck Louisa, other than the stark splendour of these magnificent viewing rooms, were the disparity of groups present. If she went to a museum in any British city, it would be filled with a selection of forty-something’s or high-browed academia. Yet here, most were in their late teens or early twenties. These were not however, simply students and artists. The museum was a meeting place for these people, a melting pot of stimuli that cared not for age.

  “Anyone know where anything is in here?” Chris asked. “I’ve got one word to go on, Fowl.”

  “Ah! Follow me.” said Dave. “I believe that’s a reference to the work of Melchior d’Hondecoeter, a Dutch artist of the seventeenth century. Classed by many as one of the finest bird painters Holland has ever produced.” He walked through a few areas before coming to a wall marked ‘Masterpieces’. “H
ere we are. Second gallery to our right.”

  They moved through the works of Rembrandt and his pupils and arrived at an empty room.

  “This is where he said he’d be, isn’t it?” said Justin, puzzled.

  “It is.” said Chris, bemused. “I suppose we’d better just take a look at the pretty pictures and wait.”

  Louisa was not the museum type. Art, unless derived from an intent to portray a captured moment in all its aesthetic beauty, was just too artsy to be of any use in her life. She wished she had the time to stare at a picture for hours, noting the subtleties and nuances hidden in every line and curve, but her vocation never allowed such personal indulgencies.

  She glanced across at Chris. He looked like he was in a DIY store, weighing up what timber to buy for an extension. It was clear he thought the same way about art she did. As she watched, Dave sidled up beside him.

  “I take it you are not a fan of fine art, colonel?” asked Dave, crossing his arms and staring at the painting in front of them.

  “No, not really.”

  “That’s quite a shame. Art is one of the only things that separate us from the animals.”

  “That and heavy weaponry.”

  “And what do you know about heavy weaponry?” an American voice said. “The James Smith I know doesn’t like weapons.”

  No more than three feet behind Chris was a tall, good looking, and well-presented man. His accent was confident and reassuringly deep, a voice trained to be calming. He stood at roughly the same height as Chris and his finely tailored suit projected his heavy, muscular build.

  “Oh, and people who spend all their time digging through old manuscripts in museums do Carl?” Chris said, as a huge smile spread across his face.

  Louisa’s jaw dropped, as Dave blurted something out that was astoundingly un-PC.

  “He’s black.”

  The glowing grins Chris and Carl were sharing disappeared in an instant, both turning to stare at Dave.

  “Yessir! But not to worry there boss, this is just a hobby. I really work at the cotton farm and my wife picks watermelons.” said Carl, sarcastically, as he turned and glared at Chris. “Who’s the bigot?”

  “That’s Professor Edwards.”

  Carl’s eyes widened and the calm presence he exuded seemed to vanish. “The Professor Edwards?”

  “You know him?” said Chris, worriedly.

  “Professor David Edwards, a one-time dean of comparative religious ideologies at Oxford University, who is now a freelance religious archaeologist servicing the major governments of the world. Know him? I absolutely hate him!” said Carl, the edge of his top lip curled into a snarl.

  “I know you too.” said Dave, putting a name to the face before him. “Carl Walters. Excommunicated by the pope for publicly expressing views of a dissenting nature. How did you end up being allowed to work here?”

  “The Dutch value intelligence and integrity above ignorance. They’d kick your ass from here to Baghdad if they knew you’d come to visit.”

  “I’m glad you brought me here to get insulted, colonel.”

  “You didn’t have to come here to be insulted, Dave. I would have happily insulted you from distance if you’d given me your number.” said Carl, moving toward Dave with menace.

  “Guys! We’re here on serious business. We don’t have time to be getting involved in petty arguments!” said Chris, attempting to break the men up.

  “I’m sorry colonel.” said Carl, straightening his jacket and trying to calm down. “I was caught off guard by your militant entourage. I know you wouldn’t have contacted me in the manner you did unless it was life or death.”

  “I’m just glad you’re here Carl. Is there anywhere private we can continue this discussion?”

  “I have an office out in the main part of the building. We can go talk there.”

  As the group made their way back out of the gallery and into the offices at the rear of the museum, Louisa sighed. The last thing she needed right now was two academics at each other’s throats. She was flustered, tired, her day so far had been awful, and she still had not had the bath she so desperately wanted. Hopefully, Chris could coerce them into talking like gentlemen. If he could not, she was not sure she could continue to hold her desire for peace and cleanliness long.

  Chapter 15