Suddenly he recalled that the painting had been on show beyond The Feast. He remembered he had decided not to spend much time on that one so he could get to her as soon as possible.
He saw a man from Conservation whom he recognised. He was nervously attaching a label round the neck of Paula Kircher, the Angel from Jacob Wrestling with the Angel. Paula was wearing a huge pair of wings in a gleaming pearl-grey colour, fixed on her back like a monstrous, useless parachute. Another assistant had run over to protect her priceless ochre nakedness in a robe, but it was impossible to put on without removing her wings, so Paula just wrapped herself in it like a towel. People milling round her knocked against her feathers with their heads or shoulders: a fireman tore one out with his helmet. It was Paula who replied to Bosch's desperate question: she seemed a good deal calmer than the man trying to put her labels on. 'She's with the Christ.'
She pointed towards a side exit. But there was no vehicle there. 'My God, where is she? Has she already been evacuated?' He ran wildly over to the exit. A female security agent from the inside team was consoling a woman who, probably, was a person rather than a painting. Bosch decided this because she was not painted. Next to him was a figure who was a painting: maroon clothing and a face like a cardinal by Velazquez: perhaps one of the characters from The Night Watch. Bosch interrupted the agent with his hasty question.
'I don't know, Mr Bosch. She might have been evacuated already, but I can't be sure. Why don't you call up control on your radio?' ‘I haven't got one.' 'Use mine.'
The girl unhooked the microphone and passed it to him. As he was putting the headpiece on, Bosch realised there was a piano tune coming from his chest. It was his mobile phone ringing in his inside pocket. Bosch had no idea when it had started. Then all at once it fell silent. He decided not to worry about the call for now. He would track it down later. Calm, stay calm. First things first.
The radio operator sounded in his ear with a marvellously clear voice. Like the voice of an angel in the midst of disaster, thought Bosch. He asked to speak to Nikki Hartel, in Portakabin A. The operator seemed more than happy to comply, but first she needed the code that Bosch himself, on Miss Wood's instructions, had insisted everyone must have in order to talk by phone or radio to the people in charge. Shit! He closed his eyes and concentrated, while the operator hung on. For security reasons he had not written it down anywhere: he had learnt it by heart, but that was in another century, in another era, in a time when the universe and its laws were different, before order was abolished by chaos and Rembrandt and his works had taken Amsterdam by storm. But he usually had a good memory. He remembered the code. The operator confirmed it. When he heard Nikki's voice, he almost felt like crying. Nikki sounded even worse.
'Where did you get to?' he heard her energetic, youthful voice in his earpiece. 'Everyone here was…'
'Listen, Nikki…' Bosch interrupted her. Then he paused for a second before going on. Above all, it's important to speak calmly.
‘I guess you've got a lot to tell me,' he said. 'But first of all, there's something I need to know… Where is Nielle? Where is my niece?'
Nikki's reply was immediate, as if she had been expecting his question right from the start. Yet again, Bosch was thankful for her immense efficiency.
'She's safe, in an evacuation vehicle. Don't worry. Everything's under control. The thing is, Young Girl Leaning on a Windoivsill is a painting with only one free-standing figure, like Titus and Bethsabe, and so Van Hoore's team evacuated her before the other more complicated works.'
Bosch understood her explanation perfectly, and for a second the relief he felt kept him from saying anything else. But then he realised something.
'But most of the works are still here. They're even getting out of the vans again. I don't understand.' 'The evacuation was suspended five minutes ago, Lothar.'
'What? That's absurd!… The earthquake could happen again at any moment… And perhaps the curtains wouldn't withstand…' Nikki butted in.
'It wasn't an earthquake. And it wasn't a fault in the Tunnel construction, as we thought at first. Hoffmann has just phoned. It was something Art dreamed up without telling any of us, not even Conservation or most of the people in Art either… something to do with the Christ painting, which apparently was an interactive performance piece with special effects that no one knew about.'
'But the Tunnel shook from top to bottom, Nikki! It was about to collapse!'
"Yes, here in the Portakabin we thought the same because all our screens vibrated, but it seems it would never have fallen. It was all staged. At least, that's what Hoffmann says. He says everything is under control, that there is no damage to any of the paintings, and that he doesn't really understand why there was such a wave of panic. He insists the Tunnel's shaking wasn't that violent, and that it should have been obvious it was an artistic detail because it happened just after the Christ "died" on the Cross with a shout.. ‘
As she spoke, Bosch remembered that everything had begun when he heard a shout.
'Well,' said Nikki, 'here we didn't understand a thing, of course, but it's modern art, so we're not supposed to try to understand it, are we?… Ah, and nobody can find Stein or the Maestro. And Benoit's climbing the walls…'
In spite of the double feeling of relief Bosch felt at knowing that not only was Danielle safe and sound but that the apparent catastrophe had been less serious than he had thought, he felt a growing sense of irritation. As the day drew to its end, he looked round at the flashing lights and the crush of policemen on the other side of the barriers. He could hear ambulance sirens wailing. He could sense the confusion on the faces of the paintings, conservation experts, security agents, technicians and guests: the bewilderment and fear in the eyes of all those he had shared those anxious minutes with. A trick staged by Art? An artistic detail? And there was no damage to the paintings? What about the public, Hoffmann? You're forgetting the public. There might well have been people badly hurt.. . He couldn't understand it.
'Lothar?' 'Yes, Nikki, what is it?' replied Bosch, still indignant.
'Lothar, before I forget: Miss Wood has phoned at least a hundred times. She wants to know, and I quote: "Where on earth you've got to, and why you don't answer your phone"… We've tried to explain what happened, but you know what the boss is like when she's angry. She started to insult us all. She couldn't have given a damn if the whole world had crumbled with you underneath it, she insisted she had to talk to you, only to you, to nobody else but you. Urgently. Right now. Have you got her number?'
'Yes, I think so.' 'If you press the recall button it's bound to be her. Good luck.' Thanks, Nikki.'
As he was phoning April Wood, Bosch looked at his watch: twelve minutes past nine. A sudden breeze that brought with it the smell of oil paint lifted the flaps of his jacket and cooled his sweating back, giving him some thankful relief. He noticed that the Art technicians were taking the paindngs out of the central square. They must be intending to get them together in the Portakabins. Almost all of them were wearing their robes. The Angel's wings shone in the crowd.
He wondered what April Wood had to tell him that was so important.
He raised the phone to his ear and waited.
21.12.
Danielle was inside the dark evacuation vehicle. It had stopped somewhere, but she had no idea why. She thought perhaps the driver was waidng for someone to arrive. He did not speak to her or explain anything. He simply sat in silence at the wheel in the darkness, his silhouette only dimly lit by the glow through the windscreen. Strapped into her seat by four safety belts, Danielle was breathing deeply, trying to stay calm. She was still dressed in the long white shift for Young Girl Leaning on a Windoivsill, and was painted in the four layers of oil paint her figure required. When she felt the earthquake, she was sure one of the layers must have fallen off, but now she could tell it had not. She had started to think of her parents. Once she had got over her fear, she wanted to talk to them, and also to Uncle Lothar, to tell them she was fine. In fact, nothing had happened to her: seconds before the Tunnel had started to tremble, this friendly man had appeared and shown her out, lighting her way with his torch. Then he had strapped her into the back seat of the van and made his way out of the Museumplein. Danielle had no idea what route he had taken. Now he had parked in the darkness and was waiting.