The Cellist

by Daniel Silva

  “I was expecting a small luncheon.”

  “I don’t do small.”

  “Who are all these people?”

  Arkady directed his gaze toward a well-fed man with his arm around the waist of an impossibly pretty young woman. “I assume you recognize him.”

  “Of course.”

  The man was Oleg Zhirinovsky, chairman of the Russian state energy giant Gazprom. The young woman he was pawing was wife number four. Getting rid of number three had cost him several hundred million pounds in a London courtroom.

  Arkady pointed out another guest. “What about him?”

  “Good heavens.” It was Mad Maxim Simonov, the nickel king of Russia.

  “Or him?”

  “Is that—”

  “Oleg Lebedev, otherwise known as Mr. Aluminum.”

  “Is it true he’s the richest man in Russia?”

  “Second richest.” Arkady plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and gave one to Isabel. “I trust the drive from Geneva was comfortable?”

  “Very.”

  “And you brought the proposal?”

  Isabel patted the Vuitton bag.

  “Perhaps we should review it now. That way we can relax and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”

  Inside, they scaled a grand stairway and entered Arkady’s private office suite. It lacked the gold-plated tsarist vulgarity of the rest of the villa. Holding her champagne glass aloft, Isabel laid her right hand on the keys of a Bösendorfer piano and played the opening passage of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” asked Arkady.

  “I can’t play the rest of this sonata. Not anymore, at least.”

  “I rather doubt that.” He led her to a seating area near the windows and opened a decorative box on the lacquered coffee table. “Place your mobile phone inside, please.”

  Isabel did as she was told. Then she removed the prospectus from her bag and handed it to Arkady.

  “Is this the only copy?”

  “Except for the original file. It’s on an air-gapped computer in my office.”

  He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and turned slowly through the pages. “There’s a great deal of British and American commercial real estate.”

  “That’s because the pandemic has created a glut of available properties. We believe these assets can be acquired at favorable prices and that they will appreciate in value once the American economy regains its pre-pandemic footing.”

  “How long will I have to retain possession to see a profit?”

  “Three to five years, to be on the safe side.”

  He looked down again. “Fifty million dollars for an organic food company in Portland?”

  “We believe it’s undervalued and primed for future growth.”

  “One hundred million for a maker of solar panels?” He turned another page. “Two hundred million for a company that manufactures wind-driven turbines?” He peered at Isabel over his reading glasses. “Have you forgotten that I’m in the oil business?”

  “Owning these companies will allow you to atone for your carbon sins.”

  Smiling, he looked down again. “Three hundred million for an aftermarket aircraft parts distributor in Salina, Kansas?”

  “If you purchase the firm’s main competitor, you’ll be the dominant player in the American market.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  “We’re hearing rumors.”

  He returned to the real estate section of the document. “The tallest office building in London’s Canary Wharf?”

  “A not-to-be-missed opportunity.”

  “A commercial-and-residential tower on Brickell Avenue in downtown Miami?”

  “It’s a steal at six hundred million. What’s more, you’ll be able to process tens of millions of dollars through the resale of the luxury condominiums on the upper floors.”

  “Process?”

  Isabel smiled. “Launder is such an ugly word.”

  “Which brings us to your fee.” Arkady flipped to the back of the document. “One and a half billion dollars in consulting and other fees, payable to a limited-liability shell corporation registered in the Channel Islands.” He looked up. “Rather steep, don’t you think?”

  “You’re paying for Martin’s good name. It doesn’t come cheap.”

  “Neither, it seems, does currency conversion.”

  Isabel made no reply.

  “I assume you have someone in mind for the job?”

  “The London office of RhineBank. They’re the best in the business.”

  “And you would know. After all, that’s where you began your career. You were recruited by RhineBank after you finished your graduate degree at the London School of Economics.”

  “You’ve obviously looked into my background.”

  “Did you expect otherwise?”

  Isabel ignored the question. “Find anything interesting?”

  “You weren’t fired from RhineBank-Zurich because you got caught with your hand in the till. You were fired because you worked for the so-called Russian Laundromat. Most of your colleagues are still looking for work, but you managed to land on your feet at Global Vision Investments of Geneva.” Arkady lowered his voice. “And now you are sitting in my private study, offering to process more than eleven and a half billion dollars of my money.”

  “I’m here, Mr. Akimov, because for some reason you insisted that I come.”

  “I assure you, my intentions were honorable.”

  “Were they?”

  “I was merely hoping to get to know you better.”

  “In that case, where would you like me to begin?”

  “By playing the rest of the Moonlight Sonata.”

  “I told you, I can’t remember it.”

  “I heard you the first time, Isabel. But I don’t believe you.”

  40

  Féchy, Canton Vaud

  “Mechanical and passionless,” Arkady declared at the conclusion of the first movement. “But it’s obvious you could play it quite well if you chose to.”

  “How about this?” Isabel played the opening passage of “When I Fall in Love.”

  “Have you ever?” asked Arkady.

  “Fallen in love? Once or twice.”

  “And are you in love now?”

  Isabel rose from the piano without answering and reclaimed her seat. “Where were we?”

  “RhineBank,” answered Arkady.

  “Founded in 1892 in the Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg, which, as you know, is located on the river Elbe rather than the Rhine. Currently the world’s fourth-largest bank, with approximately twenty-seven billion in revenue and one-point-six trillion in assets.”

  Arkady regarded her without expression. “Tell me about your work there.”

  “I signed a nondisclosure agreement as part of my settlement package. I’m not at liberty to discuss anything I did for RhineBank.”

  “Did you ever handle transactions related to a company called Omega Holdings?”

  “Arkady, please.”

  “Finally!” His smile appeared almost genuine.

  “I didn’t know the identity of any of the clients,” explained Isabel. “I just signed off on the transactions.”

  “Then why on earth were you fired?”

  “I was part of the Laundromat. We all had to go.”

  “Were you the person who leaked the documents to the newspapers?”

  “Yes, Arkady. I was the one who did it.”

  “I’m glad we cleared that up.” Another smile. “Now tell me how you ended up working for Martin Landesmann.”

  “The usual way. He offered me a job.”

  “Why you?”

  “I suppose he wanted my expertise.”

  “Expertise?”

  “I know how to process funds without getting caught.”

  “And when did you begin sleeping with him?”

  Isabel deliberately allowed a false note to c
reep into her denial. “Martin is a happily married man.”

  “As am I,” replied Arkady. “And it is quite obvious that the two of you are involved in a passionate affair. I only hope that for Martin’s sake it never becomes public. His sterling reputation would suffer.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  “Does it?”

  “What are you so worried about?” asked Isabel. “Martin and I are the ones who are required to abide by the rules of the Anti–Money Laundering Act. And we’re the ones who will be fined or even prosecuted for our actions if we’re caught. You, as the customer, face no such risk.”

  “My concerns are geopolitical, not legal. But please continue.”

  “You were the one who came to us, Arkady. Remember?”

  “I remember that you performed one of my favorite compositions by my favorite composer at a reception that cost me twenty million Swiss francs to attend. And I remember that when I expressed interest in doing business with Martin, you both played hard to get.”

  “We played hard to get because we didn’t think it was a good idea to go into business with Russians.” She slipped the prospectus into her bag and rose. “For reasons that are now all too obvious.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Back to Geneva.”

  “Why?”

  “Sorry, Arkady. The deal’s off.”

  “Don’t you think you should consult with Martin before walking away from a billion-dollar payday?”

  “Martin will do whatever I tell him.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Isabel opened the lid of the decorative signal-blocking box, but Arkady closed it with a sharp crack before she could remove her phone. “Please sit down.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “How do you intend to get back to Geneva?”

  “I’ll call an Uber.” She managed a smile. “They’re all the rage.”

  “That won’t be easy without your phone, will it?” His hand was still resting on the lid of the box. “Besides, you haven’t had lunch.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.” Isabel fished the prospectus from her bag and dropped it on the table. “What’s it going to be, Arkady?”

  “I need a few days to think it over.”

  Isabel looked at her wristwatch. “You have one minute.”

  Arkady’s voice was the first Gabriel and his team heard when Isabel’s phone, after an absence of twenty-seven minutes, reconnected with the Swisscom cellular network. Curiously, the Russian oligarch was gently chastising her for having rushed through an important passage of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The phone’s geolocation and altitude data indicated they were still in his office, as did the video images captured by its camera. It focused briefly on Isabel’s face as she checked her text messages. There was nothing in her expression to suggest she was under duress, though it was evident from the unstable quality of the shot that her hand was trembling slightly.

  She dropped the phone into the darkened void of her Vuitton handbag and followed Arkady downstairs to the villa’s terrace, where they circulated through the all-Russian crowd. Arkady introduced Isabel as “an associate,” a description that covered all manner of sins. The Gazprom chairman Oleg Zhirinovsky was delighted; Mad Maxim Simonov, the nickel king, clearly smitten. He invited Isabel to join him aboard his yacht, the appropriately named Mischief, for his annual summer cruise of the Mediterranean. Isabel wisely declined.

  At three fifteen she informed Arkady that she had numbers to crunch—a legitimate investment opportunity in a Norwegian e-commerce firm—and needed to be getting back to Geneva. Reluctantly, he saw her to her car. The driver dropped her at the Temple de la Madeleine and, followed by two operatives of the Haydn Group, she walked to the Place du Bourg-de-Four. Upstairs in her apartment, she performed Bach’s Cello Suite in D Minor. All six movements. No sheet music. Not a single mistake.

  Part Three

  Adagio Cantabile

  41

  Geneva–London

  Three days after the luncheon at Arkady Akimov’s palace in Féchy, the inhabitants of the ancient lakeside city of Geneva held their collective breath as America went to the polls. The Republican incumbent seized what appeared to be a commanding early advantage in the key battleground states of Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania, only to see his lead evaporate as early votes and mail-in ballots were tabulated. Visibly shaken, he appeared before supporters in the White House East Room early Wednesday morning and, astonishingly, demanded that state election officials cease counting ballots. The counting nevertheless continued, and on Saturday the television networks declared the Democrat the victor. Millions of Americans poured into the streets in a spontaneous eruption of joy and utter relief. To Isabel, it looked as though they were celebrating the fall of a tyrant.

  On Monday, life in Geneva resumed largely as normal, though with a new government-imposed mask mandate owing to a sudden spike in coronavirus cases. Isabel worked from her apartment in the Old Town until late morning and then flew to London aboard Martin’s Gulfstream, the smaller of his two private jets. Upon arrival at London City Airport, she endured a cursory check of her German passport before settling into the back of a waiting limousine. It bore her westward to the Fleet Street offices of RhineBank-London, her former place of employment.

  Directly opposite the building was a café where Isabel had often taken her lunch. Masked, she took a table on the pavement and ordered coffee. At half past four, she checked the FTSE 100 index and saw that London share prices had closed down nearly two percent. Consequently, she waited until 4:45 before ringing Anil Kandar.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “I’m well, Anil. How are you?”

  “Have you seen our stock price lately?”

  “I believe it’s just under ten. Hold on, I’ll check.”

  “What’s on your mind, Isabel?”

  “Money, Anil. Lots of money.”

  “You have my attention.”

  “It’s not something I can discuss on the phone.”

  “My favorite kind of deal. Where are you?”

  “Across the street.”

  “Twenty minutes,” said Anil, and rang off.

  It was nearly half past five when he finally emerged from RhineBank’s entrance. As usual, he was dressed entirely in black, a style he had adopted while still in New York, where he had earned a reputation as one of RhineBank’s most reckless traders. For his reward, he was given control of the global markets division, a position that had allowed him to amass a nine-figure personal fortune. He lived in a vast Victorian mansion in a posh London suburb and commuted to work each morning in a chauffeur-driven Bentley. Born in Northern Virginia, educated at Yale and the Wharton School, he now spoke English with a pronounced British accent. Like his coal-black attire, it was something he put on first thing in the morning.

  He sat down at Isabel’s table and ordered an Earl Grey tea. The smell of cologne, hair tonic, and tobacco was overwhelming. It was the smell, Isabel remembered, of RhineBank-London.

  He removed the lid from his drink and popped a fresh piece of Nicorette. “You look good, Isabel.”

  “Thanks, Anil.” She smiled. “You look like shit.”

  “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “You did. You were horrible to me when I worked here.”

  “It wasn’t personal. You were a pain in the ass.”

  “I was only trying to do my job.”

  “So was I.” Anil blew on the surface of his tea. “But I hear you got with the program after you moved to the Zurich office. Lothar Brandt told me that you signed every scrap of paper he placed in front of you.”

  “And look what that got me,” she murmured.

  “A job with Saint Martin Landesmann.”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Especially when everyone else who was fired is still seeking gainful employment. Fortunately, we were able to contain the damage to the Zurich office.”r />
  Anil was fond of using the word we when referring to senior management. It was his ambition to one day become a member of the Council of Ten, perhaps even the firm’s chief executive officer. American by birth, Indian by ancestry, he would have to pay for the privilege. Thus his reckless trading habits. Anil was utterly bereft of personal or professional morality. In short, he was the model RhineBank employee.

  “How’s your trading book these days?” asked Isabel.

  “Not as interesting as it once was. The Council of Ten presented us with a cease-and-desist order after the Zurich massacre. No more dicey Russian trades until the dust settles.”

  “Has it?”

  “I’ve done a few test runs. Small stuff, mainly. Twenty million here, forty million there. Nickel-and-kopek.”

  “And?”

  “Smooth as silk. Not a peep from the British regulators or the Americans.”

  “Does the Council of Ten know what you’re up to?”

  “You know the old saying, Isabel. What Hamburg doesn’t know . . .” Anil peeled the wrapper from another piece of Nicorette. “I’m about to go into withdrawal, and I’m afraid it won’t be pretty. So why don’t you tell me what this is all about.”

  “Global Vision Investments would like to retain the services of RhineBank’s global markets division. In return for these services, we are prepared to be very generous.”

  “What kind of services?”

  Isabel smiled. “Mirror, mirror on the wall.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “Not nickel-and-kopek, Anil. Not even close.”

  Anil inhaled his first Dunhill before they reached Victoria Embankment. By then, Isabel had outlined the basic parameters of the deal. Now, as they walked along the Thames toward the Houses of Parliament, she went into greater detail—mainly for the sake of her listening audience, which was monitoring the conversation via the phone in her handbag. Representatives of her client, she explained, would purchase blocks of blue-chip stocks from RhineBank-Moscow in rubles. Simultaneously, Anil would purchase identical amounts of the same blue-chip stocks from representatives of Isabel’s client in Cyprus, the Channel Islands, the Bahamas, or the Cayman Islands. All told, four hundred billion rubles were to be converted and transferred from Russia to the West. Given the extraordinary size of the project, it would necessarily have to be accomplished piecemeal—five billion here, ten billion there, a trade or two a day, more if there was no regulatory reaction. Eventually the money would make its way into accounts at Meissner PrivatBank of Liechtenstein, a fact she did not divulge to Anil. Nor did she tell him the name of her mysterious Russian client, only the amount of money they were prepared to pay RhineBank-London in fees and other service charges.