The Cellist

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by Daniel Silva


  “Tell the driver not to expect me before nine thirty. There’s nothing worse than arriving for a party too early. Wouldn’t you agree, Ricardo?”

  “No, Madame Brenner. Nothing at all.”

  50

  Courchevel, France

  Isabel awoke with a feeling of paralysis, and with no memory of having slept. The bed on which she lay was unfamiliar, as was the darkened room that enclosed her. The alarm on her mobile phone was bleating—curious, for she did not recall setting it. The sound of two men speaking in Russian somewhere nearby only added to her confusion.

  At length, she silenced the phone and raised it to her eyes. Evidently, it was 8:15 p.m. on New Year’s Eve. But where on earth was she? She entered her eight-digit password and tapped the weather icon, and the forecast for the French ski resort of Courchevel appeared on the screen. And then she remembered. She was to attend a party that evening at the home of a Russian oligarch who wanted her to serve as his chief concealer of looted wealth and, if she were amenable, his extramarital sexual partner. At some point during the evening—the precise timing had never been made clear—she would be invited to meet a very important figure from the Kremlin. A speaker of fluent German, he would address Isabel in her native language. She was authorized to wish him a pleasant New Year but was to make no other attempt to engage him in conversation. If she was anxious during the encounter, she was at liberty to tell him so.

  He’s a serial killer. He’s used to people being nervous in his presence . . .

  According to Isabel’s phone, a light snow was falling. Pulling away the blackout curtain from the window, she confirmed this to be true. Then she padded into the suite’s kitchenette and switched on the Nespresso. A double Diavolitto cleared the last cobwebs of sleep from her head but left her feeling jittery and unsettled.

  The sensation abated in the shower. To avoid any last-minute indecision over her clothing, she had packed a single black Max Mara cocktail-length dress, which she accessorized with a diamond bracelet, a double strand of Mikimoto pearls, and her outrageously expensive Jaeger-LeCoultre Rendez-Vous wristwatch. She had brought along a protective face mask—black, to match her dress—but she consigned it to her clutch purse. The party, illegal under France’s strict national lockdown, would undoubtedly turn out to be a superspreader event. Isabel reckoned she would be lucky to survive the night.

  At nine fifteen the phone on her bedside table fluttered and flashed with an incoming call. It was Ricardo, her car had arrived. She remained in the suite for another fifteen minutes, adding a final touch of decadence to her makeup, before heading down to the lobby. Philippe the concierge practically snapped to attention as she stepped from the lift.

  Outside, Thierry the bellman held an umbrella above Isabel’s head as she slipped into the back of the waiting Mercedes. Much to her relief, the driver was a handsome Frenchman called Yannick and not another Russian. As the car rolled from the curb, he switched on the sound system. Haydn’s Cello Concerto in C Major, the beautiful second movement.

  Isabel felt a stab of panic. “Did Monsieur Akimov tell you to play that?” she asked.

  “Who, Madame?”

  “Never mind.”

  Isabel contemplated her reflection in the car window. She had been touched by the magic hand, she reassured herself. She was one of them now. She owned them.

  Isabel’s driver was Yannick Fournier, thirty-three, a married father of two with no criminal record who supported the Olympique Lyonnais football team. His dispatcher had instructed him to remain in the Jardin Alpin section of Courchevel until such time as the client was ready to return to her hotel. While guiding the car along the rue de Bellecôte, he recited the number for his mobile phone, which the client stored in her own device. Eli Lavon, hunched over a computer in the chalet’s makeshift ops center, snapped her photograph with the phone’s camera before she returned it to her clutch purse.

  “She looks nervous,” observed Gabriel.

  “He would find it odd if she wasn’t.”

  “Vladimir Vladimirovich?”

  “Who else?”

  A silence fell between them. There was only the music from the car’s sound system.

  “Why is the driver playing Haydn?” asked Gabriel. “And why a cello concerto?”

  “It’s a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in them, Eli. And neither do you.”

  Lavon tapped a few keys on the laptop, and the icon for an audio file appeared on the screen. He opened it, adjusted the time code, and clicked play.

  “Arkady has placed his hand on you. Soon you will be as rich as an oligarch.”

  Lavon clicked pause. “Don’t lose your nerve now.”

  “Maybe he’s toying with me.”

  Lavon clicked play a second time.

  “Look around you, Isabel. Do you see any other non-Russians here? You’re one of us now. Welcome to the party that never ends.”

  Lavon paused the recording. “The words of Oksana Akimova would suggest your asset is in no danger.”

  “Play the rest of it.”

  Lavon tapped the trackpad.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  The winking blue light on the computer screen indicated that Isabel’s car had arrived at the checkpoint. A moment later came the sound of two men conversing in French. One was Isabel’s driver. The other was an officer of the French Service de la Protection.

  “Name?”

  “Isabel Brenner.”

  “Open the trunk, please.”

  The inspection was brief, ten seconds, no more. Then the lid closed with a thud. Gabriel watched as the winking blue light crept forward, into the temporary Russian zone of Courchevel. In a moment his asset would be at the mercy of the Kremlin’s praetorian guard. They were fanatically devoted to the man they served, he thought. Killers in nice suits.

  51

  Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel

  Two of the Russian bodyguards were at that moment standing like pillars at the entrance of Arkady’s chalet. One was holding a clipboard, the other a portable magnetometer. Evidently, Isabel had been singled out for additional scrutiny; the pat-down she endured at the hands of the one with the magnetometer bordered on sexual assault. When it was finally over, Comrade Clipboard rummaged through her handbag as though searching for something of value to steal. He found nothing of interest other than her phone, which he demanded she unlock in his presence. She entered the eight digits as swiftly as possible, and the home screen appeared. Satisfied, the Russian returned the device and ordered Isabel to enjoy the party.

  Inside, a skinny, mannequin-like girl in stage makeup and a formfitting sequined gown relieved Isabel of her overcoat and then carelessly directed her toward the chalet’s great room. She had expected the decor to match the timbered exterior, but the room was white and modern and hung with large, colorful works of contemporary art. On one side was an open staircase leading to a loft on the second level, where two more expressionless Russian bodyguards stood watch along a balustrade. Beneath them, two hundred or so stylishly attired revelers, drinks in hand, were shouting at one another over the deafening music. Isabel could feel the vibration of the sound waves crawling like insects over her bare arms. Or perhaps, she thought, it was merely particles of coronavirus. She considered pulling on her mask but decided against it. Even the poor French catering staff were absent protection.

  A second mannequin girl, her clothing identical to the first, wordlessly pointed out the cocktail table. Several more women moved like dead souls amid the guests, occasionally alighting on the arm of an unaccompanied male. Isabel supposed they were party favors. One was attached to Mad Maxim Simonov, the nickel king, who was engaged in an intense conversation with the Kremlin press secretary. An unusually accomplished liar, the press secretary owned several luxury homes, including an apartment on Fifth Avenue, and vacationed regularly in hot spots such as Dubai and the Maldives. On his left wrist was a limited-edition Richard Mille watch worth $670,000, more t
han he had earned during his entire career as a humble servant of the Russian people.

  He was not the only example of unexplained riches in the room. There was, for example, the former hot-dog salesman who was now the proud owner of record of several highly valuable Russian firms, including the shadowy Internet company that had meddled in the American presidential election of 2016. And the former judo instructor who now built gas pipelines and electric power stations. And the former director of the Mariinsky Theatre who had somehow amassed a personal fortune in excess of $10 billion.

  And then, of course, there was the former KGB officer who now owned the Geneva-based oil trading firm known as NevaNeft. At present, he was standing next to the bodyguards along the balustrade, no doubt searching for Isabel. Adopting the unseeing gaze of the mannequin girls, she walked over to the nearest cocktail table, where she lent her ear to a wholesome-looking man of around forty.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” he roared in American-accented English.

  “I believe they’re complimentary,” shouted Isabel in reply. She asked the server for a glass of champagne, and the American ordered vodka.

  “You’re not Russian,” he pointed out.

  “You seem disappointed.”

  “I’ve always heard Russian girls are easy.”

  “Especially girls like her.” Isabel nodded toward one of the ambulatory mannequins. “If I had to guess, they were flown in for the occasion.”

  “Like the caviar.”

  Isabel smiled. “Why are you here?”

  “Business,” he bellowed.

  “What do you do?”

  “I work for Goldman Sachs.”

  “My condolences. Where?”

  “London. What about you?”

  “I play the cello.”

  “Nice. How do you know Arkady?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Is that your phone?”

  “What?”

  He pointed toward the bag she was clutching in her left hand. “I think you have a call.”

  Glancing toward the loft, she saw Arkady standing at the balustrade with a phone to his ear. His eyes were searching the crowd, which suggested he had not yet discovered Isabel’s whereabouts. She decided to remain in the company of the wholesome-looking stranger a little longer. Though she was allergic to Americans, this one seemed relatively harmless.

  “Nice bag,” he said when the phone stopped ringing.

  “Bottega Veneta,” explained Isabel.

  “Nice watch, too. How much do cellists make?”

  “My father is one of the richest men in Germany.”

  “Really? Mine is one of the richest in Connecticut. What are you doing for the rest of your life?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t a clue.” The phone started up again. “Will you excuse me?”

  “You forgot this.” He handed her a glass of champagne. “What’s your name?”

  “Isabel.”

  “Isabel what?”

  “Brenner.”

  “I won’t forget you, Isabel Brenner.”

  “Please don’t.”

  She stepped away and engaged in a futile attempt to remove her phone from the clutch while at the same time holding the champagne. Eventually she lifted her gaze toward the balustrade and saw Arkady observing her struggle with obvious amusement. He beckoned to her with one hand and with the other pointed to the base of the staircase. A moment later he greeted her on the landing with a kiss on each cheek. The display of affection did not go unnoticed by Oksana, who was eyeing them from below.

  “I see you met Fletcher Billingsley,” Arkady blared.

  “Who?”

  “The handsome young banker from Goldman Sachs.”

  “Have you been unfaithful, Arkady?”

  “My relationship with Fletcher is entirely legitimate.”

  “What does that make me?”

  He caressed her shoulder. “I assume you now know the name of the man who would like to meet you.”

  “I believe I do. In fact, one of his bodyguards gave me a thorough groping before letting me through your door.”

  “I’m afraid you’re about to get another.”

  He led her through a doorway, into a small sitting room—an anteroom, thought Isabel. The walls were adorned with framed photographs of the man who awaited her on the other side of the next door. Most of the photos depicted him meeting with important people and tending to important matters of state, but in one he was walking along a rocky streambed, his hairless chest exposed to the pale Russian sunlight.

  “Does he come here often?” asked Isabel, but Arkady made no reply other than to lift the lid of yet another decorative signal-blocking box. Automatically, Isabel placed her phone inside.

  Arkady closed the lid and nodded toward the waiting officer of the Russian Presidential Security Service. His pat-down was even more invasive than the one Isabel had received earlier. When it was over, he demanded her purse.

  Arkady placed his hand on the latch of the door. “Ready?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Excited?”

  “A bit nervous, actually.”

  “Don’t worry,” whispered Arkady as he opened the door. “He’s used to it.”

  52

  Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel

  In the rented chalet on the opposite side of the rue de Nogentil, Gabriel and the six other members of his team were at that moment gathered around a single laptop computer, monitoring the encrypted feed from Isabel’s compromised smartphone. For a period of approximately three minutes, the device had been disconnected from the SFR Mobile cellular network, presumably as a result of being placed in a signal-blocking containment vessel. It was now in the hands of an officer of the Russian Presidential Security Service. Having correctly entered the password on his first attempt, he was scrolling through the directory of recent voice calls.

  “Now we know why the boys at the front door ordered her to unlock her phone,” said Eli Lavon.

  “Is there any way they can find our malware?” asked Gabriel.

  “Not unless they attach the phone to a computer. And even then, the technician would have to be damn good to find it.”

  “They are good, Eli. They’re Russians.”

  “But we’re better. And you were meticulous when it came to her communications.”

  “So why did they steal her password?” Gabriel glanced at the computer. “And why is Igor now reading her text messages?”

  “Because Igor’s boss told him to read them. That’s what a Russian gangster does before hiring a non-Russian to launder his money.”

  “Do you think she can handle him?”

  “If she hits her toe marks . . .”

  “What, Eli?”

  “We’ll own him.”

  The decor of the room matched the rest of the chalet, bright and modern, nothing timbered or rustic or suggestive of a ski lodge. For that matter, there seemed to be nothing of Arkady in the room, either. Nothing but the piano, another Bösendorfer. Polished to a high black gloss, it stood forlornly atop a pale gray carpet, unplayed. In one corner of the room sat four men. Two were quite obviously members of the Russian president’s security detail. The other two reeked of bureaucracy; doubtless they were Kremlin apparatchiks. Nearby was a stack of lead-gray electronic components, red and green signal lights winking. It was the hardware, thought Isabel, of a head-of-state-level secure phone. The receiver was wedged between the shoulder and ear of the Russian president.

  He wore a black rollneck sweater rather than a dress shirt, and a costly-looking cashmere sport jacket. His fair hair, carefully parted and combed, covered less of his scalp than was suggested by recent photographs. The expression on his medically pampered face was one of irritation, as though he had been placed on hold. It was the same expression, thought Isabel, that he routinely displayed to Western counterparts before embarking on an hourlong airing of grievances, real and imagined.

  Arkady escorted Isabel to an arrange
ment of contemporary furniture adjacent to the room’s soaring picture window. The view was to the west, toward the darkened slopes of the ski area. As they sat down, the president began to speak, a burst of rapid Russian followed by a long pause. A minute or two later, he spoke a second time, and once again a lengthy silence ensued. Isabel reckoned there was translation involved.

  “It sounds important.”

  “It usually is.”

  “Perhaps I should wait outside.”

  “You told me you don’t speak Russian.”

  “Not a word.”

  “Then please stay where you are.” Arkady was staring out the window, a forefinger resting speculatively along one cheek. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  Isabel looked down at her hands and noticed that her knuckles were white. The Russian president was speaking again, though now it was in English; he was wishing the person at the other end of the call a happy New Year. At the conclusion of the conversation, he handed the phone to an aide and in Russian addressed Arkady from across the room.

  “A minor crisis at home,” Arkady explained to Isabel. “He’d like us to wait outside while he makes another call or two.”

  They rose in unison and, watched by the Russian president, returned to the anteroom. During their brief absence, three additional officers of the Presidential Security Service had arrived. One was Comrade Clipboard, the sentry from the front door.

  Arkady was looking at his phone. “How is your hotel?” he asked.

  “Lovely. I’m only sorry I can’t stay longer.”

  “When are you planning to leave?”

  “Martin’s driver is picking me up at noon.”

  Arkady looked up from the phone abruptly but said nothing.

  “Is something wrong?”

  His smile appeared forced. “I was hoping you might join us for brunch tomorrow.”

  “I really need to be getting back to Geneva.”

  “Numbers to crunch?”

  “Always.”

  Arkady’s phone purred with an incoming call. The conversation was brief and largely one-sided. “It turns out the crisis isn’t so minor, after all,” he said after killing the connection. “I only hope you can forgive me for dragging you all the way to Courchevel for nothing.” He nodded toward Comrade Clipboard. “Gennady will escort you back to the party. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”

 

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