The Cellist

by Daniel Silva

“An opportunity, actually. But I’m afraid it will require you to travel to Paris this afternoon.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Not to worry. I promise to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”

  “How long will I be away?”

  “Probably one night, but you should pack for two, just to be on the safe side. I’ll tell you the rest when you arrive.”

  With that, the call went dead. Isabel finished showering, then checked the weather forecast for Paris. It was nearly identical to Geneva’s, chilly and gray but no chance of rain. She packed accordingly and slipped her passport into her handbag. Her clothing for the day, a tailored pantsuit, hung from the back of her bedroom door. Dressed, she ordered an Uber and headed downstairs to the Place du Bourg-de-Four.

  There was no sign of the vagrant, but two male employees of the Haydn Group were breakfasting at one of the cafés. One of the men, the darker-haired of the two, followed Isabel to the rue de l’Hôtel-de-Ville, where her car was waiting. When she arrived at GVI headquarters, Martin was gaveling the morning meeting to order. Nearly one hour in duration, it included no discussion of a lucrative offer by the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov to launder and conceal eleven and a half billion dollars’ worth of looted Russian state assets in the West.

  At the conclusion of the meeting, Martin summoned Isabel to his office to explain why she would soon be leaving for Paris. A breakfast meeting at the Hôtel Crillon with an innovative French entrepreneur—or so Martin claimed. He gave Isabel some materials to review on the train and a key to an apartment. The address was handwritten on a notecard bearing his initials, as was the eight-digit passcode for the street-level entrance. Isabel memorized the information and then fed the notecard into Martin’s shredder.

  Her train departed the Gare de Cornavin at half past two. The dark-haired operative from the Haydn Group, having followed her on foot to the station, accompanied her on the three-hour journey to the Gare de Lyon. A waiting car delivered her to 21 Quai de Bourbon, an elegant residential street on the northern flank of the Île Saint-Louis.

  The apartment was on the uppermost floor, the fifth. With Martin’s key in hand, she stepped from the lift, only to find the door ajar. Gabriel waited in the entrance hall, a forefinger pressed to his lips.

  He relieved Isabel of her bag and drew her inside. “Forgive me for deceiving you,” he said, closing the door without a sound. “But I’m afraid there was no other way.”

  The sitting room was in darkness. He threw a wall switch, and a constellation of overhead recessed lighting extinguished the gloom. The decor surprised Isabel. She had expected grandeur, a miniature Versailles. Instead, she found herself in a showplace of affected casual elegance. It was no one’s primary residence—or even secondary, she thought. It was a comfortable crash pad for those occasions when its very rich owner found himself in Paris for a few days.

  “Yours?” she asked.

  “Martin’s, actually.”

  “Does he let all of his employees use it?”

  “Only those with whom he’s romantically involved.”

  Her scandalized expression was contrived. “Martin and me?”

  “These things happen.”

  “Poor Monique.”

  “Fortunately, she’ll never know.” He dimmed the lights. “I would like you to make a brief appearance in the window.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that is what a young woman does when she arrives at her lover’s grand apartment on the Seine.”

  Isabel started toward the windows.

  “Remove your coat, please.”

  She did as he asked and tossed it carelessly over the back of an armchair. Then she slipped between a pair of ivory-colored curtains and opened the room’s center casement window. The evening wind took her hair. And five floors beneath her, an employee of the private intelligence company known as the Haydn Group took her photograph.

  She closed the window and emerged from behind the curtains to find Gabriel rearranging her coat. “You don’t like things out of place, do you?”

  “You’ve noticed?”

  “It’s rather hard to miss. Everything is always just so. Paintings, violinists, Swiss financiers, disgruntled employees of the world’s dirtiest bank. And you seem to have a cover story for every occasion.”

  “It is an essential part of our operating doctrine. We call it the small lie to cover the big lie.”

  “What’s the small lie?”

  “That you are having an affair with Martin Landesmann.”

  “And the big lie?”

  “That you are here with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it wasn’t safe for us to meet in Geneva.” He paused. “And because I have a difficult decision to make.”

  “Lunch at Arkady’s on Saturday?”

  He nodded.

  “Is there any chance he didn’t know that Martin was going to be in Warsaw this weekend?”

  “None whatsoever. It was a clever ploy on his part. He wanted to invite you all along to test our bona fides. If you don’t attend, he will suspect there’s a problem.”

  “And if I agree?”

  “You will be observed closely by several current and former Russian intelligence officers for any signs of discomfort or deception. You will also face seemingly benign questions about your past, especially your time at RhineBank. If you somehow manage to pass this examination, Arkady will in all likelihood go forward with the deal.”

  “And if I fail?”

  “If we’re lucky, Arkady will send you on your way, and we’ll never hear from him again. If we are unlucky, he will subject you to a far different kind of questioning. And you will tell him everything, because that is what one does when a loaded Russian gun is pointed at one’s head.” He lowered his voice. “Which is why I’m inclined to cash out my chips and call it a night.”

  “Do I get a say in the matter?”

  “No, Isabel. You do not. I asked you to lend your professional expertise to Martin Landesmann and to make an introduction at a crowded reception where you were in absolutely no danger. But I never prepared you to enter Arkady’s world alone.”

  “It’s only lunch.”

  “It’s never only lunch. Arkady will begin testing you the second you walk through his door. He will assume that you are not who you claim to be. Once he has guided you through your usual repertoire, he will take away your sheet music and force you to improvise. The recital will not end until he is satisfied that you are not a threat.”

  “I’m capable of improvisation.”

  He regarded her doubtfully. “I must say, I’ve never heard ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’ played on the cello before. Your tone was quite lovely, but otherwise the performance was less than convincing.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to do another take.”

  “There are no second takes, Isabel. Not where Russians are concerned.”

  “But in a few hours’ time, Arkady will be under the impression I’m Martin’s lover—isn’t that correct?”

  “That is my hope.”

  “So why on earth would Martin Landesmann allow his beautiful young girlfriend to attend a luncheon at Arkady’s villa if he didn’t think it was safe?”

  Gabriel smiled. “Was that an improvisation on your part?”

  She nodded. “What do you think?”

  Before he could answer, his phone pulsed with an incoming message. “Your lover’s plane just landed at Le Bourget.”

  “What are our plans?”

  “A quiet dinner at a bistro around the corner.”

  “And then?”

  “The small lie to cover the big lie.”

  “What’s the small lie?”

  “That you are spending the night making love to Martin.”

  “And the big one?”

  “You’ll be spending it with me.”

  38

  Île Saint-Louis, Paris

  Martin and Isabel walked hand in hand a
long the lamplit Quai de Bourbon to a brasserie at the foot of the Pont Saint-Louis. On the opposite side of the narrow channel loomed Notre-Dame, its flying buttresses concealed by scaffolding, its spire missing. The Russian who had followed Isabel from Geneva dined at an adjacent restaurant; Yossi Gavish and Eli Lavon, at an establishment across the street. Halfway through his meal, Yossi suddenly declared his coq au vin inedible, provoking a heated confrontation with the outraged chef that soon spilled on to the pavement. Lavon managed to defuse the situation, and the two combatants made their apologies and pledged eternal friendship, much to the delight of the spectators in the surrounding eateries. Gabriel, who monitored the incident via Isabel’s phone, was only sorry he had not witnessed the performance, for it was one of the better pieces of operational street theater he had heard in some time.

  He had instructed Martin to ply Isabel with a glass or two of wine over dinner. They drank Sancerre with their appetizers and with their main course a rather good Burgundy. As they walked back to the apartment, Isabel’s step was languorous, her laughter brighter in the night. The Russian saw them to their door, then made his way across the Pont Marie to a floating café bar on the opposite embankment. His table offered an unobstructed view of Martin’s bedroom window, where Isabel appeared shortly before midnight, wearing only a men’s dress shirt. The Russian snapped several photos with his smartphone—hardly ideal but, when combined with his firsthand visual observations, more than sufficient.

  Martin appeared in the window briefly, shirtless, and drew Isabel inside. The Russian at the floating café would have been forgiven for assuming the couple returned to bed. In truth, they made their way to Martin’s splendid dining room, where Gabriel waited in the half-light, his hands resting on the tabletop. He instructed Isabel to sit down in the chair opposite and refused her request to put on additional clothing. Her seminudity made her uncomfortable. It had the same effect on Gabriel. He averted his eyes slightly as he posed his first question.

  “What is your name?”

  “Isabel Brenner.”

  “Your real name.”

  “That is my real name.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “In Trier.”

  “When did you receive your first cello?”

  “When I was eight.”

  “Your father gave it to you?”

  “My mother.”

  “You competed in the ARD International Music Competition when you were nineteen?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “You won a second prize for your performance of Brahms’s Cello Sonata in E Minor?”

  “Third prize. And it was the F Major.”

  “How long have you been working for Israeli intelligence?”

  “I don’t work for Israeli intelligence. I work for Martin Landesmann.”

  “Is Martin working for Israeli intelligence?”

  “No.”

  “Are you involved in a sexual relationship with Landesmann?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in love with Landesmann?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he in love with you?”

  “You would have to ask him.”

  Gabriel’s questions ceased.

  “How did I do?”

  “If your wish is to die on Saturday afternoon, you did just fine. If, however, you wish to survive your lunch at Arkady’s villa, we have a great deal of work to do. Now tell me your name.”

  “It’s Isabel.”

  “Why did you give those documents to Nina Antonova?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “How long have you been working for Gabriel Allon?”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “You’re lying, Isabel. And now you’re dead.”

  The next mock interrogation was worse than the first, and the one after that was the equivalent of a signed confession. But by four that morning—with a few valuable insights from a criminal who had managed to convince the world he was a saint—Isabel lied with the ease and confidence of a highly trained intelligence officer. Even Gabriel, who was looking for any excuse to press the kill switch, had to admit she was more than capable of answering a few questions at a luncheon party. He was under no illusions, however, about her ability to stand up under sustained KGB-style pressure. If Arkady and his thugs strapped her to a chair, she was to immediately revert to her first fallback, that she had been coerced into working for British intelligence while she was working for RhineBank in London. And if that didn’t work, she was to offer them Gabriel’s name.

  By then, it was approaching five a.m. Isabel managed to sleep for a few hours and at nine fifteen crawled into the back of a taxi for the drive to the Gare de Lyon. Martin departed for Le Bourget a short time later, but Gabriel remained in the apartment until late afternoon, when Eli Lavon determined it was no longer under surveillance by the Haydn Group. Together they made their way to the Israeli Embassy in the first arrondissement and headed downstairs to the secure communications vault. In the lexicon of the Office, it was known as the Holy of Holies.

  On the video screen was a feed from GVI headquarters. Martin, looking none the worse for wear after a sleepless night, was presiding over the afternoon staff meeting. At its conclusion, Isabel gathered up her papers and returned to her office, where she rang Ludmilla Sorova at NevaNeft. Ludmilla placed Isabel on hold, and a moment later Arkady came on the line.

  “I was beginning to think I’d never hear from you.”

  “Hello, Mr. Akimov.”

  “Please, Isabel. You must call me Arkady.”

  “I’m still working on that.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “Do I? It’s been a busy day.”

  “I hope it was on my account.”

  “It was, actually.”

  “I take it Martin is interested in my offer?”

  “We’re working on the prospectus as we speak. He asked me to deliver it to Féchy on Saturday afternoon.”

  “You’re staying for lunch, I hope.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. What time should I arrive?”

  “Around one. But don’t worry about arranging a car. I’ll send one.”

  “That’s not necessary, Mr. Akimov.”

  “I insist. Where should he meet you?”

  Isabel recited the name of a prominent Geneva landmark rather than the address of her apartment building. Then, after a final exchange of pleasantries, the connection went dead. In the Holy of Holies, the silence was absolute.

  At length, Eli Lavon said, “Maybe classical musicians can’t improvise, after all.”

  “And what should she have said differently?”

  “She should have told Arkady that she was more than capable of finding her way to Féchy on her own.”

  “I’m quite sure she did. In fact, we can listen to the recording if you like.”

  “She didn’t push hard enough.”

  “And when Arkady threatened to take his business elsewhere?” Receiving no reply, Gabriel reset the time code and clicked the play icon. “Does she sound tired to you?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “So why did Arkady say that?”

  “Because he knows where she spent last night. And he wants Isabel and Martin to know that he knows.”

  “Why?”

  “Kompromat.”

  “And what will Arkady do with this juicy piece of kompromat we’ve so generously placed before him?”

  “He’ll use it to keep Martin in line. Who knows? He might even use it to sweeten the deal if he thinks Martin’s taking too big a cut.”

  “So we’ve got him? Is that what you’re saying, Eli?”

  Lavon hesitated, then nodded.

  Gabriel raised the volume on the feed from Isabel’s compromised mobile phone. “What’s she humming?”

  “Elgar, you rube.”

  “Why Elgar?”

  “Perhaps she’s trying to tell you that she’d rather not have lunch with a Moscow Center–trained hood.�
��

  “There’s no way he’ll kill her in Switzerland—right, Eli?”

  “Absolutely not. He’ll drive her across the border to France,” said Lavon. “Then he’ll kill her.”

  39

  Féchy, Canton Vaud

  Saturday dawned overcast and gray, but by late morning the sun shone brightly upon the pavements of the rue du Purgatoire. Isabel waited on the steps of the dun-colored Temple de la Madeleine, one of the oldest churches in Geneva. Her clothing, all newly purchased, was appropriate for a lakeside luncheon with a crowd of grotesquely rich Russians—Max Mara trousers, Ferragamo pumps, cashmere sweater and jacket by Givenchy, a Louis Vuitton tote bag. Inside was a detailed proposal to launder and conceal eleven and a half billion dollars in looted Russian state assets. She and Martin had put the finishing touches on the document late the previous evening during a marathon session at GVI headquarters.

  She checked the time on her wristwatch—a Jaeger-LeCoultre Rendez-Vous, diamond accent, a gift from Martin—and saw that it was noon precisely. Looking up, she spotted a sleek Mercedes S-Class sedan approaching along the narrow street. The driver stopped at the base of the steps and lowered the passenger-side window.

  “Madame Brenner?”

  She settled in the backseat for the thirty-minute drive to Féchy, a wealthy wine-producing village in Canton Vaud, on the northern shore of Lake Geneva. Not surprisingly, Arkady’s villa was the largest in the municipality. The garish entrance hall was a replica of the Andreyevsky Hall of the Grand Kremlin Palace, smaller in scale, but no less ornate.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Words fail me,” said Isabel truthfully.

  “Wait until you see the rest of the place.”

  They passed through a pair of golden doors and entered a reproduction of the Alexandrovskiy Hall. Next came a series of formal drawing rooms, each with a distinct motif. Here a country house, here a palace by the sea, here the book-lined study of a great Russian intellectual. Only one of the rooms was inhabited, a luminous parlor where three long-limbed young girls were posed as if for a fashion shoot. They eyed Isabel with obvious envy.

  Eventually they emerged onto a large terrace where a hundred Russians sipped champagne in the chill autumn sunlight. Isabel had to raise her voice to be heard over the music.