The Cellist

by Daniel Silva

  “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Isn’t that what the good book says?”

  “Not our book. In fact, we were the ones who pioneered the technique.”

  “It’s not all a lie,” said Martin. “I really do want to make the world a better place.”

  “We have that in common, you and I. As the inhabitant of a small country with limited water and arable land, I share your concerns about the changing climate. I also appreciate the work you’ve done in Africa, as uncontrolled migratory flows are inherently destabilizing. For proof, one needs to look no further than Western Europe, where the anti-immigrant extreme right is ascendant.”

  “They’re racist cretins. Not to mention authoritarians. I fear for the future of democracy.”

  “Which is why you’re going to announce a new One World initiative to promote freedom and human rights, especially in Hungary, Poland, the former republics of the Soviet Union, and Russia itself.”

  “George Soros cornered that market long ago. By the way, he’s a friend, too.”

  “In that case, I’m sure he won’t mind if you join his crusade.”

  “It’s a fool’s errand, Allon. Russia will never be a democracy.”

  “Not anytime soon. But your initiative will nevertheless infuriate Arkady Akimov and his good friend the Russian president.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Which is why Arkady will want to go into business with you.”

  “Explain,” said Martin.

  “Arkady doesn’t form business relationships with prominent Westerners out of the goodness of his heart. He uses Russian money as a stealth weapon to rot the West from within. You are an ideal target, a saintly liberal activist who harbors a dark secret. Arkady will use you and compromise you at the same time. And once you’ve taken the bait, you will be a wholly owned subsidiary of Kremlin Incorporated. At least in their eyes.”

  “Which is why I never do business with Russians. They’re too corrupt, even for me. And far too violent. Mind you, I do business with plenty of gangsters, including the Italians. They’re quite reasonable, actually. They take their cut, I take mine, and everybody lives. But chaps like Boris and Igor are quick to resort to violence if they think they’ve been cheated. Besides,” added Martin, “I was under the impression Arkady took his dirty laundry to RhineBank.”

  “He does. But he will soon find himself in need of a new cleaning service.”

  “And if he approaches me?”

  “You will play very hard to get. But once you agree to take his money, you will violate as many laws as possible, including in Great Britain and the United States.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Arkady goes down. You, however, will emerge with your glittering reputation intact, just like after the Iran operation.”

  “And when Boris and Igor come calling?”

  “You’ll have a roof over your head.”

  “You?”

  “And the Swiss,” said Gabriel.

  Martin made a show of thought. “I suppose I have no choice but to say yes.”

  Gabriel was silent.

  “And who’s going to pay for this democracy project of yours?” asked Martin.

  “You are. You’re also going to purchase a painting.”

  “How much will it cost me?”

  “A fraction of what you paid for that Lucian Freud of yours. What was it? Fifty million?”

  “Fifty-six.” Martin hesitated, then asked, “Is that all?”

  “No,” said Gabriel. “There’s one more thing.”

  28

  Talackerstrasse, Zurich

  At three fifteen that afternoon, Isabel heard a knock on the door of her windowless office. The tenor and tone suggested it was Lothar Brandt, head washer boy at the Russian Laundromat. Therefore, she allowed an interval of twenty seconds to elapse before inviting him to enter. Lothar closed the door behind him, never a good sign, and placed a stack of documents on Isabel’s desk.

  “What have you got for me today?” she asked.

  He opened the first document to the final page and pointed to the signature line for the compliance officer, which was flagged with a red tab. As was his custom, he volunteered no information as to the nature of the trade or transaction or the parties involved. Isabel nonetheless signed her name.

  They fell into an easy rhythm: place, point, sign. Isabel Brenner . . . To alleviate the tedium, and perhaps to distract Isabel from the fact that she was committing serious infractions of numerous banking regulations, Lothar recounted the details of his weekend. He and a friend—male or female, he did not specify—had spent it hiking in the Bernese Oberland. Isabel murmured something encouraging. Privately, she could think of no worse fate than to be trapped in the Alps alone with Lothar. Like Isabel, Lothar was German. He was not unintelligent, only unimaginative. Isabel had once been forced to sit next to him at a company dinner. It was all she could do not to slash her wrists with the butter knife.

  “What about you?” he asked suddenly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your weekend. Anything special?”

  She described a dull two days spent sheltering from the coronavirus. Lothar was apoplectic. He believed the virus to be a hoax fabricated by social democrats and environmentalists to slow global economic growth. Exactly where he had stumbled on this theory was unclear.

  When Isabel had finished signing the first batch of documents, Lothar returned with a second, then a third. European markets were closing as she rendered her name for the final time. RhineBank had suffered yet another drubbing, falling by more than two percent. It was no matter, thought Isabel. The bad boys on the derivatives desk in London had probably made a killing betting against the firm’s stock.

  Upstairs, the mood on the trading floor was funereal. Herr Zimmer was sealed in his fishbowl of an office, nearly invisible in a fog of cigar smoke—disabled smoke detectors being one of the most sought-after perquisites of RhineBank senior executives. Seated at his desk, he was engaged in an animated conversation with his speakerphone. Based on his defensive posture, the person at the other end of the line was sitting on the top floor of RhineBank’s headquarters in Hamburg.

  Isabel saw to a few routine matters of compliance, and at half past six, after bidding farewell to the girls at reception and the security guards in the lobby, she went into the Talackerstrasse. The ruggedly handsome Englishman who called himself Peter Marlowe joined her aboard a Number 8. In the Römerhofplatz they slid into the backseat of a BMW X5. The crumpled little Israeli eased slowly away from the curb and headed south toward Erlenbach.

  “I was beginning to think I’d never see you again,” she said.

  “That’s the point, luv.” He smiled. “How was your day?”

  “A thrill a minute.”

  “It’s about to get a good deal more interesting.”

  “Thank goodness.” Isabel looked at the little Israeli behind the wheel. “Is there any way he can drive a bit faster?”

  “I’ve tried,” said the Englishman despairingly. “He never listens.”

  Isabel laid the fingers of her left hand upon her right arm and played the cello portion of Beethoven’s Triple Concerto as they made their way along the lakeshore. She was nearing the end of the second movement when they arrived at the villa. Gabriel was waiting inside, along with several people who had not been present during her last visit. She counted at least eight new arrivals. One was a beautiful woman who might or might not have been an Arab. The man seated next to her had skin like porcelain and colorless eyes. A fleshy woman with brownish-blond hair was eyeing Isabel with what appeared to be mild contempt. Or perhaps, she thought, it was merely her natural expression.

  Isabel turned to Gabriel. “Friends of yours?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Are they all Israeli?”

  “Would that be a problem?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because many Europeans do not believe the state of Israel has a right to exist.�
��

  “I’m not one of them.”

  “Does that mean you would be willing to work with us?”

  “I suppose that depends on what you want me to do.”

  “I would like you to finish the job you started when you gave those documents to Nina Antonova.”

  “How?”

  “By helping me to destroy Arkady Akimov and the Haydn Group. It’s a private intelligence service,” Gabriel explained. “And it’s waging war on Western democracy from the sixth floor of Arkady’s office in Geneva.”

  “That would explain all the former SVR and GRU officers on the payroll.”

  “It would indeed.” Smiling, Gabriel set out on a slow tour of the sitting room. “You’re not the only one here tonight with hidden talent, Isabel.” He stopped next to a tall, balding man who looked like one of her professors from the London School of Economics. “Yossi was a gifted Shakespearean actor when he was at Oxford. He also plays a bit of cello. Not like you, of course.” He pointed toward the Arab-looking woman. “And Natalie was one of Israel’s top physicians before I sent her to Raqqa to become a terrorist for the Islamic State.”

  “Do you want me to become a terrorist, too?”

  “No,” replied Gabriel. “A money launderer.”

  “I already am.”

  “Which is why Global Vision Investments of Geneva would like to hire you.”

  “Isn’t that Martin Landesmann’s shop?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Saint Martin? Who hasn’t?”

  “You’ll soon discover that Martin isn’t the saint he makes himself out to be.”

  “Are you forgetting I already have a job?”

  “Not for long. In fact, I’m confident that in a few short days your position at RhineBank will be quite untenable. In the meantime, I would like you to copy as many incriminating documents from the Russian Laundromat as you can safely lay your hands on. I would also like you to continue to practice the cello.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Is Rachmaninoff’s ‘Vocalise’ part of your repertoire?”

  “It’s one of my favorite pieces.”

  “You have that in common with one of RhineBank’s biggest clients.”

  “Really? Who?”

  He smiled. “Arkady Akimov.”

  29

  Kensington, London

  Such was the unrelenting pace of the news cycle that the death of Viktor Orlov had all but receded from the collective memory of the British press. Therefore, it came as something of a surprise when the Crown Prosecution Service accused the well-known Russian journalist Nina Antonova of complicity in Orlov’s assassination and issued domestic and European warrants for her arrest. The murder weapon, the authorities alleged, was a parcel of Novichok-contaminated documents delivered to Orlov’s Cheyne Walk mansion on the night of his death. CCTV images documented the reporter’s arrival and departure from the residence, her brief stay at the Cadogan Hotel, and her passage through Heathrow Airport, where she boarded a late-night flight to Amsterdam. According to Dutch authorities, she spent the night in a popular youth hostel in the city’s notorious Red Light District and likely left the Netherlands the next day on a false passport supplied by her handlers in Russian intelligence.

  Absent from the charging statement was any mention of Sarah Bancroft, the beautiful former CIA officer turned London art dealer who had stumbled upon Viktor Orlov’s body. She, too, was caught off guard by the announcement, for no one, not even the MI6 officer whose Kensington maisonette she shared, had bothered to warn her it was coming. She had not seen Christopher since the night of Nina’s interrogation at Wormwood Cottage. Nor had she had any meaningful communication with him, only the odd text message rendered in the manner of Peter Marlowe, his cover identity. It seemed his stay in Switzerland would be longer than anticipated. A visit by Sarah was not possible—not in the short term, at least. He would try to get back to London soon, perhaps at the next weekend.

  To make matters worse, Sarah’s friend the prime minister had imposed new coronavirus restrictions. There was no point in trying to sneak across the West End to the gallery; business had once again slipped into a coma. Instead, Sarah sheltered in place in Kensington and promptly put on five additional pounds of unwanted weight.

  Fortunately, the new rules contained an exception for exercise. In black leggings and a new pair of trainers, Sarah bounded along the deserted pavements of Queen’s Gate to the entrance of Hyde Park. After pausing briefly to stretch her calves, she set out along a footpath into Kensington Gardens, then headed up Broad Walk to the park’s northern boundary. Her stride was smooth and relaxed as she flowed toward Marble Arch, but by the time she arrived at Speakers’ Corner, her breath was ragged and her mouth tasted of rust.

  It had been her ambition to circle the park twice, but it was out of the question; the pandemic had taken a terrible toll on her fitness. She managed one final burst of good form along Rotten Row and then walk-jogged back to Queen’s Gate Terrace. There she found the lower door of the maisonette slightly ajar. In the kitchen, Gabriel was pouring bottled water into the Russell Hobbs electric kettle.

  “How was your run?” he asked.

  “Depressing.”

  “Maybe you should stop smoking Christopher’s cigarettes.”

  “Is there any chance I can have him back?”

  “Not anytime soon.”

  “You sound pleased by the prospect.”

  “I told you not to get involved with him.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have much say in the matter.” She settled atop a stool at the granite island. “I assume Nina won’t be taken into custody anytime soon.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Was there really no other way?”

  “It’s for her own good,” answered Gabriel. “And the good of my operation.”

  “Do you have any need of a washed-up field agent with a pretty face?”

  “You have a gallery to run.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t heard, but business isn’t exactly booming.”

  “You wouldn’t have an Artemisia lying around, would you?”

  “A nice one, actually.”

  “How much do you want for it?”

  “Who’s paying?”

  “Martin Landesmann.”

  “Viktor was going to give me five,” said Sarah. “But if Saint Martin is picking up the tab, I think fifteen sounds about right.”

  “Fifteen it is. But I’d feel better if we put some distance between my client and your gallery.”

  “How?”

  “By running the sale through an intermediary. It would have to be someone discreet. Someone utterly without morals or scruples. Do you happen to know anyone who matches that description?”

  Smiling, Sarah reached for her phone and dialed Oliver Dimbleby.

  He answered on the first ring, as though he were waiting next to the phone in anticipation of Sarah’s call. She asked whether he had a few minutes to spare to discuss a matter of some delicacy. Oliver replied that, where Sarah was concerned, he had all the time in the world.

  “How about six o’clock?” she wondered.

  Six was fine. But where? The bar at Wilton’s was a no-go zone. Bloody virus.

  “Why don’t you pop over to Mason’s Yard? I’ll put a bottle of shampoo on ice.”

  “Be still, my beating heart.”

  “Steady on, Ollie.”

  “Will Julian be joining us?”

  “He’s sealed himself in a germ-free chamber. I don’t expect to see him again until next summer.”

  “What about that boyfriend of yours? The one with the flashy Bentley and the made-up name?”

  “Out of the country, I’m afraid.”

  Which was music to Oliver’s ears. He arrived at Isherwood Fine Arts a few minutes after six and laid a sausage-like forefinger on the call button of the intercom.

  “You’re late,” came the metallic reply. “Hurry, Ollie. The champagne�
�s getting warm.”

  The buzzer howled, the deadbolts thumped. Oliver climbed the newly carpeted stairs to the office Sarah shared with Julian and, finding it deserted, rode the lift up to the gallery’s glorious glass-roofed exhibition room. Sarah, in a black suit and pumps, her blond hair falling across half her face, was removing the cork from a bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvée. Oliver was so entranced by the sight of her that it took him a moment to notice the frameless canvas propped upon Julian’s old baize-covered pedestal—The Lute Player, oil on canvas, approximately 152 by 134 centimeters, perhaps early Baroque, quite damaged and dirty.

  Crestfallen, Oliver asked, “Is this the matter of some delicacy to which you were referring?”

  Sarah handed him a flute of champagne and raised her own in salutation. “Cheers, Ollie.”

  He returned the toast and then appraised the painting. “Where did you find her?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “Buried in Julian’s storeroom?”

  She nodded.

  “Current attribution?”

  “Circle of Orazio Gentileschi.”

  “Pish posh.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Have you got a second opinion?”

  “Niles Dunham.”

  “Good enough for me. But how’s the provenance?”

  “Airtight.” Sarah raised her glass to her crimson lips. “Interested?”

  Oliver allowed his eyes to wander over her form. “Definitely.”

  “In the painting, Oliver.”

  “That depends on the price.”

  “Fourteen.”

  “The record for an Artemisia is four-point-eight.”

  “Records are made to be broken.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have fourteen lying around at the moment,” said Oliver. “But I might have five. Six in a pinch.”

  “Five or six won’t do. You see, I’m quite confident you’ll unload it in short order.” Sarah lowered her voice. “Next day, I imagine.”

  “How much will I get for it?”

  “Fifteen.”

  He frowned. “You’re not up to something illegal, are you?”