The Westerkerk is the largest church in Amsterdam and the most important Protestant house of worship in the city. It was built between 1619 and 1631. Its design, with the dramatic high ceilings, the cross-style layout, and the steep exterior roofing, represented the later stages of Gothic architecture.
She gazed up at the white walls that stretched high into matching domes supported by huge cylindrical columns. One feature Adriana noted almost immediately was the lack of ornate decoration carved into the walls or placed along the side aisle. Most of the cathedrals she’d visited contained all manner of reliefs, carvings, and sculptures. The church’s sides were, by comparison, quite bare.
Rows of wooden chairs sat between long strips of deep red carpet. Initially, Adriana thought the burial area was in the main sanctuary of the church, but upon arriving she asked one of the kind people working at the information desk where it could be found. The man with the thick glasses and a brown rim of hair surrounding his bald head explained that the burial area was in a place called the Baptist Chapel. He was happy to point her in the right direction.
Early afternoon in the middle of the week proved to be a low-traffic time for the church. Almost all of the people coming and going were there to sightsee. Only three or four came in to pray or speak to one of the church elders. Adriana made her way down to the end of the aisle and turned the corner, heading for the corridor that led into the chapel.
Pushing through a heavy door, she entered a much more modest hallway, traversed it, and then pulled the next door open. The smell of aged wood and stone filled her senses, mingling with the old musty smell of the main church.
She’d told Allyson to wait a few minutes before entering the building, lest anyone see them together. Plausible deniability was always a good thing to have in your back pocket. The plan was to reconnoiter the premises separately and then return in the evening when the church was closed.
Adriana admired the wooden beams and ceiling overhead. The stone tiles adorned the floor from the very back wall all the way to the altar. Some of them had names and dates carved into the surface. Others were blank, which meant either no remains were buried underneath, or the person buried there was too poor to afford such a luxury.
She recalibrated her location in the building and figured that the wall to the right was north. The room was mostly empty except for an elderly couple taking pictures at a memorial plaque that hung from a wall nearby. Adriana skirted past them, appearing as though she was just another visitor from a foreign country there to take in the sights. When she reached the corner, her eyes shifted to the first stone in the row against the wall, a large rectangular piece about a foot wide and two feet long. While all the stone tiles weren’t uniform, they were within a certain size range to fit the dimensions well enough. Some were cut more roughly, the product of a lack of time rather than patience.
Adriana stepped left, moving along the wall and counting the stones as she went. She kept her head up, giving the appearance that she was looking at the windows and wall or perhaps the front of the chapel where the altar stood. About a third of the way to the front, she stopped at the fourteenth tile and hovered over it. It was blank, as she’d suspected. Historians had spent a great amount of time trying to figure out where in the church Rembrandt was buried. So far, no one had been successful, even with the genetic testing a group did in the late 1980s and early ’90s. Adriana found a chair a few feet away and eased into it. She let her eyes drift around the room as if taking in the architecture and then a moment later brought her focus back to the floor.
The fourteenth stone didn’t appear any different to the others, but that didn’t mean something wasn’t off. She examined the edges of the tile carefully, her eyes darting back and forth between the tiles next to it to compare the differences. What she discovered was miniscule, barely noticeable, but to her discerning eye, proof enough that the stone had been moved at least once in the past. A small chip was missing in the middle of the right end. She leaned back, turned her head to see that the elderly couple had moved on and left the room, and then quickly got down on her hands and knees to get a closer look. There were tiny, faint scrape marks against the side of the stone. Someone had used a metal tool to pry it up.
Adriana swallowed hard. It must have been Greta Klugen. Based on the faded marks, seventy plus years ago would be about right. She took a deep breath and climbed back into the chair. Another minute later, she heard the door open in the back and stole another look at the entrance. Allyson strolled casually into the room and made her way over to where Adriana waited.
“Did you find it?” she asked as she arrived, her eyes shifting around uneasily. “I don’t like coming in here in broad daylight, you know. Too many people around.”
Adriana ignored the complaint. It was the only time they could check out the grounds and determine what they would need to get the job done. “It’s that stone, the one your right toe is on.”
Allyson’s eyes widened, and she pulled the foot back. She stared at the tile. “You sure?”
Adriana nodded. “Without a doubt. Check the scratch marks and the chip missing from the stone. Someone moved it. And they didn’t do it recently.”
Allyson took a paranoid glance back to the entryway and then knelt down. She pressed her hands against the cool surface and hunched over close, only a few inches from the tile. “You’re right. It’s definitely been moved. You think it was Klugen?”
“Only one way to find out. Let’s just hope that no one else has moved it since she was here. If they did, the painting will be gone, and we’ll have no way of finding it.”
16
The two thieves spent the next eight hours planning their heist. It was a simple enough plan, in theory. They would return after dark with a few additional pieces of equipment, the most important being a pair of compact crowbars they purchased at a local hardware shop. The women had reserved a room for the night in a quaint hotel five blocks away. It was there that they made their plans, discussed exit and entry points, and what they would do if there were trouble.
Adriana presented a rendezvous point, about a mile from the church, in a pub she figured would be crowded enough that the two of them could blend in. Of course, if things went haywire and Allyson was the one holding the painting, she figured the blonde would disappear. Adriana did not intend to let that happen.
At ten o'clock local time, the two women changed into their dark leggings and jackets, slung their bags over their shoulders, and made their way down the canal to Westerkerk.
The night was lively in spite of the chill of autumn filling the air. They walked casually but swiftly, giving the appearance of two young travelers looking for a place to party for the night.
Up ahead, the church bell tower loomed over the canal, illuminated by bright floodlights from the ground. The clock gave them an unnecessary reminder of what time it was. Keeping to the far side of the walkway, the women passed bars full of happy revelers toasting with glasses and green bottles of Heineken. There were a few other people on the sidewalk, mostly couples walking hand in hand. One couple in particular seemed especially fond of each other, kissing each other passionately every two or three steps.
Allyson rolled her eyes as they passed by. “Jeez, get a room,” she said under her breath.
Adriana couldn’t wait to get this charade over with and return to her life. Once her father was safe, she would implement new measures to make sure no one knew who they were. She’d have to change his identity and possibly hers as well. It would be time consuming and expensive, but worth it. The last three weeks had provided enough danger and excitement to last her a while.