The Cellist by Daniel Silva
18Römerhofplatz, Zurich
A blond-haired man with bright blue eyes and a permanent suntan followed them from the tram at Isabel’s usual stop in the Römerhofplatz. As they were crossing the street, he nudged her toward a waiting BMW X5. Nina joined them in the backseat. The man behind the wheel looked like a dealer of rare books. He eased into the sparse evening traffic as though he feared there were small children about and headed south on the Asylstrasse.
The man next to Isabel was now typing something on his mobile phone. “Who do you work for?” she asked.
“A very dull department of the British Foreign Office.”
“MI6?”
“If you say so.”
“What’s your name?”
“The Swiss seem to think it’s Peter Marlowe.”
“Is it?”
“Not even close.”
Isabel looked at the man behind the wheel. “What about him?”
“If we put our heads together, I’m sure we’ll think of something.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re in good hands, Isabel. You have absolutely nothing to fear.”
“Unless you’re both from Russian intelligence.”
“We hate the bloody Russians.” He smiled at Nina. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“How did you find me?”
“We got a nice picture of you when you left that package in Bern the other night. Several, in fact.”
“You had no right to hack my phone.”
“I couldn’t agree more. But I’m afraid we had no choice.”
“Discover anything interesting?”
“The passwords to your favorite online retailers, every website you’ve ever visited, and every person you’ve ever stalked on social media. You’ve checked Nina’s Twitter feed more than four hundred times in the past six months.”
“Is that all?”
“We also found more than a dozen email accounts. You have six addresses at ProtonMail alone. You send most of your text messages using the one encrypted service we haven’t been able to penetrate.”
“That’s why we use it.”
“We?”
“Employees of RhineBank. Senior management encourages us to conduct sensitive communication using our personal encrypted accounts rather than corporate email addresses.”
“Why?”
“To keep our deliberations hidden from regulators. Why else?”
“Do you like Haydn?” he asked suddenly.
“I’m sorry?”
“The composer.”
“I know who he is.”
“You searched his name several times the week of Viktor Orlov’s murder. I was wondering if you had a particular affinity for Haydn’s music.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I’ve always preferred Mozart.”
“Mozart adored Haydn.”
“You also searched for something called the Haydn Group,” he informed her. “For some reason, you capitalized the letter G.”
“You have good software.”
“Are they a string quartet? A trio?”
She shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.” They passed the Zurich offices of the Russian Commercial Bank and, a few seconds later, Gazprombank. “Enemy territory,” remarked the Englishman.
“Not as far as RhineBank is concerned. We do a brisk business with both institutions.”
“What about MosBank?”
“Most reputable banks avoid it. But as you know from reading my emails, MosBank is our most important Russian partner.” Isabel paused, then asked, “Was that a test?”
He looked down at his phone without answering. They had entered the suburb of Zollikon. The Seestrasse bore them along the lakeshore to the town of Küsnacht and then Erlenbach. There the smallish man behind the wheel turned ponderously through the gates of a walled villa. It was turreted and unwelcoming. Several dark sedans lined the drive. Security men patrolled the lawn.
The smallish man eased to a stop and switched off the engine, as though relieved to have arrived at his destination without incident. At once, a second car drew up behind them. Evidently, they had been followed.
“Come inside, Isabel,” said the Englishman amiably. “Meet the others.”
The door of the villa was open to receive them. They followed a half-lit central gallery to a large drawing room with soaring windows that gazed westward across the lake. The furniture was brocade-covered, the rugs were oriental and faded. Several oil paintings adorned the walls, landscapes and still lifes, nothing too adventurous. From somewhere came the sound of Haydn’s Piano Trio in E Major. Isabel looked at the Englishman, who was once again smiling.
“We chose it specially for you.”
Two men were seated in armchairs near one of the windows. One wore the inscrutable expression of a Swiss banker, though the cut and quality of his suit suggested he worked for the government rather than the private sector. The second man looked like a character in an English country-house mystery—villain or protagonist, Isabel could not decide.
Neither appeared to have noticed her arrival. The same was true of the man standing before a still life of fruit and freshly cut flowers, a hand pressed to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. His eyes were an unnatural shade of green. Like jade, thought Isabel. She tried to guess his age, but could not settle on a number. When at last he spoke, it was in German, with the distinct accent of someone who had been raised in Berlin.
“Do you like paintings, Isabel?”
“Good paintings. But not second-rate junk like that.”
“It’s not so bad. It’s just very dirty.” He paused. “Like the bank for which you work. Fortunately, the painting can be restored. I’m not sure the same can be said for your employer.”
“Who do you work for?” she asked. “BaFin or one of the German intelligence services?”
“None of the above. In fact, I’m not even German.”
“You certainly speak like one.”
“I was taught to speak German by my mother. She was born in the Mitte district of Berlin. I, however, was born in Israel. Once upon a time, I would have given you a pseudonym rather than my real name, which is Gabriel Allon. A simple Internet search would reveal that I am the director-general of Israel’s secret intelligence service, but please resist the temptation to type my name in the little white box. There is no such thing as private browsing.”
The two men seated near the window were each staring into a private space, like extras in a stage production. “What about them?” asked Isabel. “Are they Israeli, too?”
“Unfortunately, no. The handsome gray-haired gentleman is Graham Seymour, my counterpart at MI6.”
“And the other one?”
“A senior Swiss intelligence officer. He would prefer to remain anonymous for now. Think of him as a numbered account.”
“They’re rather passé.”
“What’s that?”
“Numbered accounts. Especially for people with real money to hide.”
He approached her slowly. “I must admit, we enjoyed listening to your performance a few nights ago. Bach’s Cello Suite in D Minor. All six movements. And not a single mistake.”
“I made several, actually. I just covered them up well.”
“You’re good at hiding your missteps?”
“Most of the time.”
“We didn’t hear the rustle of sheet music.”
“I don’t need any.”
“You have a good memory?”
“Most musicians do. I’m also rather good at math, which is how I ended up at RhineBank.”
“But why did you stay?”
“For the same reason ninety thousand other people do.”
He returned to the painting and placed his hand to his chin. “And if you had a chance to do it over again?”
“I’m afraid life doesn’t work that way.”
He licked the tip of his forefinger and rubbed it against the dirty canvas. “Wherever did you get an idea like that?”