The Cellist by Daniel Silva

16Zurich

Eli Lavon arrived at Zurich’s Kloten Airport late the following afternoon. He wore a cardigan sweater beneath his crumpled tweed jacket and an ascot at his throat. His hair was wispy and unkempt; the features of his face were bland and easily forgotten. The immigration authorities who met his aircraft on the tarmac did not bother to inspect his passport. Nor did they check his two large pieces of aluminum-sided luggage, which were crammed with sophisticated surveillance and communications gear.

An attendant at ExecuJet, one of the airport’s two fixed-base operators, placed the bags into the back of the BMW X5 waiting outside. Lavon slid into the front passenger seat and frowned. “Shouldn’t you have a bodyguard or two?”

“I don’t need bodyguards,” replied Gabriel. “I have Christopher.”

Lavon peered into the empty backseat. “I never knew he was so good.”

Smiling, Gabriel turned onto the access road and followed it along the edge of the airfield. “How was the flight?” he asked as an inbound jetliner passed low overhead.

“Lonely.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Private air travel? I suppose I could get used to it. But what happens when the pandemic is over?”

“The next director-general of the Office won’t be flying El Al.”

“Have you given any thought to which unlucky soul will succeed you?”

“That’s the prime minister’s decision.”

“But surely you have a candidate in mind.”

Gabriel gave Lavon a sideways glance. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about your future, Eli.”

“I’m too old to have a future.” Lavon smiled sadly. “Only a very complicated past.”

Like Gabriel, Eli Lavon was a veteran of Operation Wrath of God. In the Hebrew-based lexicon of the team, he had been an ayin, a tracker and surveillance specialist. When the unit disbanded, he settled in Vienna, where he opened a small investigative bureau called Wartime Claims and Inquiries. Operating on a shoestring budget, he managed to track down millions of dollars’ worth of looted Holocaust assets and played a significant role in prying a multibillion-dollar settlement from the banks of Switzerland. Brilliant and unyielding, Lavon quickly earned the contempt of senior Swiss banking officials. The Neue Züricher Zeitung, in a scathing editorial, had once referred to him as “that tenacious little troll from Vienna.”

He stared gloomily out his window. “Do you mind telling me why I’m back in Switzerland?”

“A problem with a bank.”

“Which one is it this time?”

“The dirtiest bank in the world.”

“RhineBank?”

“How did you guess?”

“Their claim to the title is undisputed.”

“Ever had any dealings with them?”

“No,” said Lavon. “But your mother and grandparents did. You see, the distinguished RhineBank AG of Hamburg financed the construction of Auschwitz and the factory that produced the Zyklon B pellets used in the gas chambers. It also trafficked in dental gold removed from the mouths of the dead and earned enormous fees through the Aryanization of Jewish-owned businesses.”

“It was a profitable venture, was it?”

“Wildly. Hitler was very good for the bank’s bottom line. The relationship went beyond mere expediency. RhineBank was all in.”

“And after the war?”

“The bank trimmed its sails and helped to finance the German economic miracle. Not surprisingly, its senior executives were all staunch anti-Communists. There were rumors that several were on the CIA’s payroll. The director was a guest at Eisenhower’s second inaugural in 1957.”

“All was forgiven?”

“It was as if Auschwitz never happened. RhineBank learned that it could get away with anything, and they’ve tested the proposition time and time again. In 2015, the Americans fined the bank two hundred and fifty million dollars for helping the Iranians to evade international sanctions.” Lavon shook his head slowly. “They’ll do business with anyone.”

“Including a high-profile Russian who’s stashing his ill-gotten money here in the West.”

“Says who?”

“Isabel Brenner. She’s a compliance officer at RhineBank’s Zurich office.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Why?”

“Given the firm’s track record,” said Lavon, “I didn’t think it had any.”

During the drive into central Zurich, Gabriel briefed Eli Lavon on the improbable series of events that had heralded their return to Switzerland. His long-overdue reunion with their old friend Olga Sukhova in Norwich. His exfiltration of Olga’s former colleague Nina Antonova from Amsterdam. The package that had been left at the base of a poplar tree along the bank of the river Aare. Then he outlined the provisions of the unusual accord he had reached with Christoph Bittel, the deputy director of a reasonably friendly though sometimes adversarial foreign intelligence service.

“Leave it to you to convince the Swiss, the most insular people in the world, to let you run an operation on their soil.”

“I didn’t give them much of a choice.”

“And when they figure out that the one additional operative you brought in for the job is the tenacious little troll from the Holocaust accounts scandal?”

“It was a long time ago, Eli.”

“And what about Mr. Marlowe? How many hits did he carry out in Switzerland before joining MI6?”

“He says he can’t remember.”

“Never a good sign.” Lavon ignited a cigarette and then lowered the window to vent the smoke.

“Must you?” pleaded Gabriel.

“It helps me think.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m wondering why the Russians haven’t taken Isabel Brenner out of circulation. And why they didn’t pick up that package of documents she left in Bern.”

“What’s the answer?”

“The only explanation is that she made each of the drops before sending the emails to Nina Antonova. The Russians don’t know her identity.”

“And the package in Bern?”

“They were probably hoping Nina would be the one to collect it so they could kill her. But you can be sure they didn’t fall for that little stunt you and your Swiss friends pulled the other night. They know they have a problem.”

“They do, indeed,” said Gabriel quietly.

“How long do you intend to watch her before you bring her in?”

“Long enough to make certain she isn’t a Russian operative in a clever disguise.”

Gabriel turned onto the Talackerstrasse and eased to the curb along the facade of the Credit Suisse building. On the opposite side of the street, adjacent to the headquarters of UBS, was RhineBank-Zurich.

It was approaching six o’clock; the evening exodus had commenced. At length, Gabriel pointed toward a woman who had just stepped from RhineBank’s doorway.

Dark designer pantsuit, white blouse, a pair of expensive-looking pumps. Private banker chic.

“There’s our girl. Mr. Nobody.”

She was tall and model slender, with long limbs and articulate hands. Her beauty was at once obvious, but partially obscured by the seriousness of her expression. In the half-light of the street, it was impossible to determine the color of her eyes, though one would have been forgiven for assuming they were pale blue. The hair was blond. It swung like the pendulum of a metronome as she walked.

“How old is she?” asked Lavon.

“Her passport says thirty-four.”

“Married?”

“Apparently not.”

“How could that be?”

“It’s different these days, Eli.”

Lavon watched her carefully for a moment. “She doesn’t look like a Russian to me. She doesn’t walk like a Russian, either.”

“You can tell a Russian woman by the way she walks?”

“Can’t you?”

A moment passed in silence. Then Gabriel asked, “What are you thinking now, Eli?”

“I’m wondering why a beautiful young woman like that would risk her career to give a Russian journalist confidential financial documents about an important client.”

“Perhaps she has a conscience.”

“Not possible. RhineBank doesn’t hire anyone whose conscience wasn’t removed at birth.”

She rounded the corner, into the Paradeplatz. Gabriel pulled forward in time to see her board a Number 8 tram. A few seconds later, Christopher entered the same carriage.

“Oaf,” said Lavon. “You’re supposed to get on before the target, not after.”

“You’ll work with him, Eli.”

“I’ve tried,” said Lavon. “He never listens.”