The Cellist

by Daniel Silva

  In another lifetime, before the Wall fell and the West lost its way, Miss Coventry might well have been hunched over a reel-to-reel tape machine in the next room, a pencil in her fist. Now everything was done digitally, even the transcriptions. All it took was a flip of a switch. But that was Mr. Parish’s province, she thought as she filled the kitchen basin with water. Not hers.

  13

  Wormwood Cottage, Dartmoor

  Parish had flipped the switch in question at seven that evening. Nevertheless, owing to a technical glitch brought about by the nimble fingers of Nigel Whitcombe, no audio recording or written transcript of the evening’s proceedings would ever find its way into the official record of the affair. Had such a document existed, it would have revealed that the debriefing of Nina Antonova, lone suspect in the murder of Viktor Orlov, began with the email she received in late February. Like many investigative journalists, she publicized her address on her Twitter feed. It was hosted by ProtonMail, the encrypted email service founded in Geneva by scientists working at the CERN research facility. ProtonMail utilized client-side end-to-end encryption, which encoded the message before it reached the firm’s servers. Both were located in Switzerland, beyond the jurisdictional reach of the United States and the European Union.

  “How do you access the account?” asked Graham.

  “Only on my computer.”

  “Never by mobile device?”

  “Never.”

  “Where’s the computer?”

  “My apartment in Zurich. I live in District Three. Wiedikon, to be precise.”

  “You work from home, I take it?”

  “Don’t we all these days?”

  She was seated primly before the unlit fire, a cup and saucer balanced on her knee. Graham had settled in the chair opposite, but Gabriel was slowly pacing the perimeter of the room, as though wrestling with a guilty conscience. From beyond the closed door came the murmur of voices. Outside, the wind prowled in the eaves.

  “I assume the Russians know your address?” probed Graham.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if I was on the embassy mailing list,” replied Nina.

  “You’re careful with your Wi-Fi network?”

  “I take all the usual precautions. But I am also well aware of the fact that it is virtually impossible to fully shield one’s communications from the various agencies of state surveillance, including Britain’s GCHQ. Besides, the Russians aren’t terribly discreet. They sometimes post a team outside my apartment, just to let me know they’re always watching. They also leave threatening messages on my voice mail.”

  “Have you ever played them for the Swiss police?”

  “And give them an excuse to revoke my coveted residence permit?” She shook her head. “Zurich is an excellent place from which to monitor the flow of dirty money out of Russia. It’s also a rather pleasant place to live.”

  “And the email?” asked Graham. “Who was it from?”

  “Mr. Nobody.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s how he referred to himself. Mr. Nobody.”

  “Language?”

  English, she answered, with two examples of British spelling. Mr. Nobody said he had left a package of documents for Nina in an athletics field not far from her apartment. Wary of a Kremlin trap, she asked Mr. Nobody to email her the documents instead. But when twenty-four hours passed without a reply, she donned a protective mask and a pair of rubber gloves and ventured into the dystopian void. The athletics field had a red artificial running track, around which four unmasked Zurichers were spewing their droplets. Trees lined the perimeter. At the base of one, she discovered a rectangular parcel wrapped in thick black plastic and sealed with clear packing tape.

  She waited until she returned home before cautiously opening it. Inside were about a hundred pages of financial records regarding wire transfers, stock trades, and other investments such as large purchases of commercial and residential property. One corporate entity appeared frequently, a Swiss-registered shell company called Omega Holdings. All of the documents were from the same institution.

  “Which one?”

  “RhineBank AG. Financial insiders commonly refer to RhineBank as the world’s dirtiest bank. Not surprisingly, it has numerous Russian clients.”

  “What did you do with the documents?”

  “I photographed the first ten pages and emailed them to a well-known expert in Kremlin corruption.”

  “Viktor Orlov?”

  She nodded. “He called a few minutes later, practically breathless. ‘Where did you get these, Nina Petrovna?’ When I explained, he told me to delete the photographs from my phone at once.”

  “Why?”

  “He said the documents were far too dangerous to transmit electronically.”

  He flew to Zurich the next day on his private jet. Nina met him in the lounge of the FBO at Kloten Airport. His left eye twitched as he leafed through the documents, an affliction that surfaced whenever he was anxious or excited.

  “I take it Viktor was excited?”

  “He said the documents concerned the personal finances of a very high-profile Russian. Someone close to the president. Someone from his inner circle.”

  “Did he tell you who it was?”

  “He said it was better if I didn’t know the man’s name. Then he instructed me to deliver the next batch of documents to him without opening the parcel.”

  Gabriel ceased his slow journey round the perimeter of the room. “How did he know there was going to be a next time?”

  “He said the first set of documents were only the tip of the iceberg. He said there had to be more.”

  “How did you react?”

  “I told Viktor that Mr. Nobody was my source. Then I reminded him of the promise he made after acquiring the Gazeta.”

  “What promise was that?”

  “That he would never interfere in editorial matters or use the Gazeta to settle political scores with the Kremlin.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Viktor asked me the exact same question.”

  The next drop, she continued, took place in the second week of March, at a marina on the western shore of the Zürichsee. The third drop was in early April in the town of Winterthur; the fourth, in Zug. There was a lull in May, but June was a busy month, with drops in Basel, Thun, and Lucerne. Nina grudgingly delivered all the parcels to Viktor at Kloten Airport.

  “And he always opened the packages in your presence?” asked Graham.

  She nodded.

  “Did he ever feel ill afterward? A sudden headache? Nausea?”

  “Never.”

  “What about you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And the package you brought to London on Wednesday evening?” asked Graham. “Where did Mr. Nobody leave it?”

  “A little village called Bargen near the German border. He said it would be his last drop. He said the material would be comprehensive and unambiguous.”

  “Why didn’t Viktor collect the documents in Zurich?”

  “He said he had a prior commitment.”

  “What was it?”

  “A woman, of course. With Viktor, it was always a woman.”

  “Did he happen to mention her name?”

  “Yes,” answered Nina. “Her name was Artemisia.”

  Ordinarily, Viktor was tight-fisted when it came to travel expenses, but he allowed Nina to fly to London first class. She placed the documents in her carry-on bag, and the bag in the overhead bin. Her seatmate was a prosperous-looking English-speaker whose bespoke protective face mask matched his silken necktie. She engaged him in a few minutes of muffled small talk, if only to establish that he was not an officer of the FSB, the SVR, or any other division of Russian intelligence.

  “Who was he?” asked Graham.

  “A banker from the City. Lloyds, if I remember correctly.” She gave him a false smile. “But then, you already knew that, didn’t you, Mr. Seymour?”

 
She cleared passport control with no delay—which Mr. Seymour surely knew as well—and rode in a taxi to Cheyne Walk. Viktor had just removed the cork from a bottle of Château Pétrus. He didn’t offer Nina a glass.

  “That’s not like Viktor,” said Graham. “I’ve always known him to be an extremely generous host.”

  “He was expecting another visitor. I suppose it was Artemisia. Whoever she was, she saved my life. Viktor was in such a rush he didn’t open the package in my presence.”

  “You left at six thirty-five p.m.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Is there some reason you walked to the hotel instead of taking a taxi?”

  “I’ve always enjoyed walking in London.”

  “But you had a suitcase.”

  “It has wheels.”

  “Did you notice anyone following you?”

  “No. Did you?”

  Graham ignored the question. “And when you arrived at the hotel?”

  “I poured myself a vodka from the minibar. Viktor rang a few minutes later. The instant I heard his voice, I knew something was wrong.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Surely you’ve listened to the recording.”

  “There isn’t one.”

  She gave Graham a skeptical look before answering. “He said he had just vomited and was having trouble breathing. He was convinced he’d been poisoned.”

  “Did he accuse you of trying to kill him?”

  “Viktor?” She shook her head. “He asked if I was feeling sick, too. When I said that I was fine, he told me to leave Britain as quickly as possible.”

  “He was afraid the Russians would try to kill you, too?”

  “Or that they would try to implicate me in the plot against him,” she answered. “As you know, Mr. Seymour, the organs of Russian state security rarely murder someone without a plan to cast the blame on someone else.”

  “Which is why you should have phoned the police. You implicated yourself when you fled the country.”

  “Viktor told me not to call the police. He said he would do it himself. It wasn’t until my plane landed in Amsterdam that I learned he was dead. Obviously, I blame myself for what happened. If I had never collected that first parcel of documents from Mr. Nobody, Viktor would still be alive. Moscow Center has been plotting to kill him for years. And they used me to place the murder weapon in his hands.”

  Graham was silent.

  “Please, Mr. Seymour. You must believe me. I had nothing to do with Viktor’s death.”

  “He does believe you,” said Gabriel from across the room. “But he’d like to see the emails from Mr. Nobody, including the one about the package he left in the Swiss village of Bargen. You did save them, didn’t you, Nina?”

  “Of course. I only hope Moscow Center or the Spetssviaz hasn’t hacked into my account and deleted them.”

  “When was the last time you checked?”

  “The morning of Viktor’s murder.”

  “That was three days ago.”

  “I was afraid they would be able to pinpoint my location if I accessed the account.”

  “You have nothing to fear here, Nina.” Gabriel looked at Graham. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Seymour?”

  “I’ll withhold judgment until I see those emails.”

  Nina looked around the dated room. “Is there a computer in this place?”

  It was located in the converted barn, in Parish’s office. Company were strictly forbidden to lay hands upon it, as it was linked securely to Vauxhall Cross. The chief asked Parish to wait outside in the corridor with Nigel Whitcombe while the black-and-blue-haired woman checked her ProtonMail account, an indignity Parish suffered with poorly disguised outrage.

  “But she’s a bloody Russian!” he said sotto voce.

  “One of the good ones,” drawled Whitcombe in reply.

  “I didn’t realize there were any.” From the opposite side of the door came a burst of firm, confident typing. “She’s a journalist, is she?”

  “Not bad, Parish.”

  When the typing ceased, a silence followed. It was a tense silence, thought Parish—like the silence that hangs ominously in a room after an accusation of infidelity or treachery. Finally, the door was flung open and the chief emerged, along with the black-and-blue-haired Russian woman and the gentleman from Israel. They all three clambered down the stairs, with Nigel Whitcombe in hot pursuit. Mr. Marlowe joined them in the courtyard. A few words were exchanged. Then Mr. Marlowe and the Israeli gentleman plunged headlong into the back of a service van, and the van raced hell-for-leather toward the gate.

  Parish returned to his office. The computer was aglow. On the screen was an open email. According to the time code, it had arrived in the woman’s in-box earlier that evening, as she was sitting down to Miss Coventry’s dinner. Parish quickly closed it, but not before his eyes passed involuntarily over the text. It was addressed to a Ms. Antonova and was three sentences in length. The language was English, the punctuation proper and businesslike. There were no needless exclamation points or ellipses in the place of a full stop. The subject matter was surprisingly mundane given the reaction it provoked, something about a package that had been left in the Old City of Bern. Indeed, the only thing Parish found remotely interesting was the name of the person who had sent it.

  Mr. Nobody . . .

  14

  Bern

  The drop site was located a few paces from the edge of a leafy footpath stretching along the bank of the river Aare. The possibility of Russian involvement required Gabriel to assume the worst, that the contents of the parcel, whatever they might be, were contaminated with the same nerve agent that had killed Viktor Orlov. If that were the case, it had to be removed immediately by a CBRN team, lest an innocent passerby or a curious child open it by mistake. Which left Gabriel no choice but to bring the Swiss into the picture.

  Protocol and good manners dictated that he contact his counterpart at the NDB, Switzerland’s internal security and foreign intelligence service. Instead, he telephoned Christoph Bittel, who ran the domestic side. They had once crossed swords over an interrogation table. Now they were something like allies. Bittel nevertheless answered his phone warily. A call from Gabriel rarely brought good news, especially when it arrived after midnight.

  “What is it now?”

  “I need you to pick up a package for me.”

  “Is there any chance it can wait until morning?”

  “None.”

  “Where is it?”

  Gabriel explained.

  “Contents?”

  “It’s possible they might be sensitive financial documents. To be on the safe side, you should assume they’re contaminated with ultrafine Novichok powder.”

  “Novichok?” asked Bittel, alarmed.

  “Do I have your attention now?”

  “Does this have something to do with Viktor Orlov’s assassination?”

  “I’ll explain when I get there.”

  “You’re not actually thinking about getting on an airplane, are you?”

  “A private one.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about the package?”

  “I have a feeling the Russians might be watching it. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like you to scare them off before you send in the CBRN team.”

  “And how might I do that?”

  “Make some noise, Bittel. How else?”

  Ninety minutes later, at 1:47 a.m. local time, units of the Swiss Federal Police established a cordon around the normally tranquil Old City of Bern. They offered no explanation, though subsequent news reports would suggest the Swiss intelligence service had received a credible tip about a bomb hidden along a popular market street. The source of the warning was never reliably identified, and despite a prolonged and robust search of the elegant quarter, no explosive device was ever found. Hardly surprising, for no such device ever existed.

  The true target of the early-morning police activity was a benign
-looking parcel resting at the base of a poplar tree near the bank of the Aare. Rectangular in shape, it was wrapped in heavy plastic and sealed with clear packing tape. A CBRN team removed the object shortly before four a.m. and transported it to the Federal Institute for NBC-Protection in the nearby town of Spiez. There it underwent a battery of tests for biological, radiological, or chemical contaminants, including the deadly Russian nerve agent known as Novichok. All the tests were negative.

  At which point the contents of the package, having been removed from their original plastic wrapper, were placed in an aluminum-sided attaché case for the journey to NDB headquarters in Bern. Gabriel and Christopher arrived there a few minutes after eight a.m., in the back of an Israeli Embassy car. Bittel received them in his top-floor office. Tall and bald, he had the stern countenance of a Calvinist minister and the pallor of a man with little time for outdoor pursuits. Gabriel introduced his traveling companion as an MI6 officer named Peter Marlowe and then delivered the promised briefing on the connection between the package of documents and the murder of Viktor Orlov. Bittel, with some justification, believed about every other word of it.

  “And the journalist from the Gazeta?” he asked. “Where is she now?”

  “Somewhere the Russians will never find her.”

  The phone on Bittel’s desk purred softly. He lifted the receiver and spoke a few words in Swiss German before hanging up. A moment later a young NDB officer appeared in his doorway, attaché case in hand. Gabriel and Christopher reflexively leaned away as Bittel removed the contents, a stack of paper about five centimeters thick. He displayed the first page. It was blank, as were the next twenty-five.

  “It looks as though the Russians were having a bit of fun at your expense.”

  “That would imply they have a sense of humor.”

  Bittel leafed through another twenty pages, then stopped.

  “Well?” asked Gabriel.

  Bittel slid the page across the desktop. Six words, sans serif typeface, approximately twenty-point in scale.