The Cellist by Daniel Silva
33Kunsthaus, Zurich
To reach the entrance of the Kunsthaus museum, repository of Switzerland’s largest and most important collection of paintings and other objets d’art dating to the thirteenth century, one did not traverse a historic square or scale monumental steps of stone. One merely crossed a small esplanade off the Heimplatz, which at eight o’clock on Saturday evening was ablaze with television lights and the logo of the One World Global Alliance for Democracy. The museum’s director had implored attendees of the gala to utilize public transportation so as to reduce the event’s carbon footprint. With the exception of four young women who alighted from a Number 5 streetcar, none complied. Most hovered for a moment outside the museum’s portico to allow their photographs to be taken by the press. And a few, including the CEO of Credit Suisse, consented to brief interviews. Martin held forth for nearly ten minutes while Monique dazzled in a gown by Dior Haute Couture. Not surprisingly, it was the dress, with its dramatic neckline, that was soon trending on social media.
Christopher Keller, in a dark suit and tie, clipboard in hand, observed the parade of money and temporary beauty from his post in the lobby. The laminated badge affixed to his lapel identified him as Nicolas Carnot and his place of employment as Global Vision Investments. It was Monsieur Carnot, at half past four that afternoon, much later than the museum’s director would have preferred, who had delivered The Lute Player to its new home. At present, the painting was under armed guard in a room near the event hall. In an adjacent room, also under armed guard, was Anna Rolfe. Monsieur Carnot had left strict instructions with the museum’s staff that under no circumstances—save perhaps the outbreak of nuclear war—was she to be disturbed before the performance.
Christopher’s phone pulsed with an incoming message. It concerned the whereabouts of the evening’s secret guest of honor, the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov. Having traveled to Zurich from his home on Lake Geneva by executive helicopter, Mr. Akimov was now approaching the Kunsthaus in a fleet of hired limousines. Through his representative, a certain Ludmilla Sorova, he had requested two additional tickets to the gala for his security detail. His request had been denied, and it had been made clear to Mr. Akimov that bodyguards were not considered appropriate to the occasion.
Another prosperous-looking couple entered the lobby—the Basel-based pharmaceutical magnate Gerhard Müller and his underfed wife, Ursula. Christopher placed a proper schoolboy tick mark next to their names on his list and, looking up again, spotted a procession of three matching Mercedes S-Class sedans drawing up outside in the Heimplatz. From the first and third cars emerged a sextet of bodyguards. All veterans of elite spetsnaz units, all with blood on their hands. And all armed, thought Christopher, who was not. He had only his clipboard and his pen and a laminated badge that identified him as Nicolas Carnot, a name he had dredged up from his complicated past.
He had his ironic half smile, too, which he donned like body armor as Arkady Akimov and his wife, Oksana, alighted from the second Mercedes. The phalanx of bodyguards escorted them across the esplanade to the entrance of the museum. Much to Christopher’s relief, they made no attempt to follow them into the lobby.
There he was able to regard them at his leisure. Arkady Akimov, the sickly boy from Baskov Lane, was now a trim, linear figure of upright bearing and imperious demeanor, with thinning silver hair combed carefully over his broad Russian pate, and smooth skin stretched tightly over his square Russian cheekbones. The mouth was small and unsmiling, the eyes were hooded and observant. They were the eyes, thought Christopher, of a Moscow Center–trained hood. They swept over him without pause before settling approvingly on Oksana. In Christopher’s professional estimation, Arkady regarded his beautiful young wife as little more than a possession. Heaven help her if she ever crossed him. He would kill her and find another.
The Arkady Akimovs followed the Gerhard Müllers toward the event hall along a designated path that took them past some of the museum’s most popular attractions, including works by Bonnard, Gauguin, Monet, and Van Gogh. Christopher, armed with his clipboard and badge, headed to the venue by a direct route. White-jacketed waiters were serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres to the early arrivals in the foyer. Inside the hall, neat ranks of auditorium chairs were arrayed before a rectangular raised platform, upon which stood a concert grand piano and a baize-covered display pedestal. Technicians from the museum’s production department were making a final adjustment to the microphones and the lighting.
Christopher slipped through a doorway at the left side of the stage and instantly heard the muted sound of Anna Rolfe’s violin, a simple D-minor scale played over two octaves. The security guard posted outside her door was making small talk with the unflappable Nadine Rosenberg, Anna’s longtime accompanist. Isabel was in a room across the hall. Gowned, her hair professionally styled, she was contemplating her reflection in the lighted mirror over her dressing table. Her 1790 William Forster II cello was propped on a stand in the corner.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Remarkably calm for someone who’s about to share a billing with Anna Rolfe.”
“Trust me, it’s all an act.”
“Any last questions?”
“What happens if he doesn’t approach me after the performance?”
“I suppose you’ll have to improvise.”
She lifted the cello from its stand and played the melody of “Someday My Prince Will Come.” Christopher hummed the tune as he headed through the event hall to the foyer. The crowd of invited dignitaries had broken into opposing camps, one surrounding Martin Landesmann, the other Arkady Akimov. Tray-bearing waiters shuttled between the two blocs, but otherwise a cold peace prevailed. It was, thought Christopher, an altogether perfect start to the evening.
In the Erlenbach safe house, Gabriel and Eli Lavon were observing the same scene on an open laptop computer. The video feed arrived to them courtesy of Unit 8200, which had seized control of the museum’s security system and internal audiovisual network—all with the knowledge and tacit approval of the Swiss intelligence service.
Shortly before eight p.m., the doors of the event hall were opened from within, and a ceremonial bell was rung. Because the invited guests were all terribly rich and unused to following instructions, they ignored it. Indeed, by the time they were all settled in their assigned seats, Gabriel’s carefully planned program was already running twenty minutes behind schedule. Martin and Monique, the event’s sponsors and hosts, occupied two chairs in the center of the first row. Arkady and Oksana Akimov, having donated twenty million Swiss francs to the One World Global Alliance for Democracy, had also been granted preferential seating. Martin, as instructed, acted as though the Russian and his wife were invisible.
At last, the museum’s director stepped onto the stage and spoke at length regarding the importance of art and culture in an age of conflict and uncertainty. His remarks were only slightly less sedative than those delivered by the chief conservator Ludwig Schenker on the subject of Artemisia Gentileschi and the unlikely rediscovery of The Lute Player, little of which bore any resemblance to the truth. Martin was for once mercifully taciturn. At his command, two curators placed the painting atop the pedestal, and Monique and the director removed the white veil with a flourish. In the event hall of the Kunsthaus, the applause was rapturous. In the Erlenbach safe house, it was brief but genuine nonetheless.
Gabriel and Eli Lavon watched as The Lute Player was conveyed from the stage and Martin introduced the evening’s featured entertainment. The mere mention of her name brought the audience to its feet, including the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov. Her acknowledgment of the adulation was perfunctory, automatic. Like Gabriel, she possessed the ability to block out all distraction, to enclose herself in an impenetrable cocoon of silence, to transport herself to another time and place. For the moment, at least, the two hundred and fifty invited guests did not exist.
There was only her accompanist and her beloved Guarneri. Her fiddle, as she liked to call it. Her graceful lady. She placed the instrument against her neck and laid the bow upon the A string. The silence seemed to last an eternity. Too anxious to watch, Gabriel closed his eyes. A villa by the sea. The sienna light of sunset. The liquid music of a violin.
The sonatas were both four movements in structure and nearly identical in duration—twenty minutes for the Brahms, twenty-two for the Beethoven. Isabel watched the final moments of Anna’s performance from the open doorway next to the stage. Anna was ablaze, the audience spellbound. And to think Isabel would soon take her place. Surely, she thought suddenly, it was not possible. She was experiencing one of her frequent anxiety dreams, that was all. Or perhaps there had been an oversight of some sort, a scheduling error. It was Alisa Weilerstein who would perform next. Not Isabel Brenner, a former compliance officer from the world’s dirtiest bank who had once earned a third prize at the ARD International Music Competition.
Lost in thought, she gave an involuntary start when the event hall erupted with thunderous applause. Martin Landesmann was the first to rise, followed instantly by a silver-haired man a few meters to his right. Isabel, try as she might, could not seem to recall his name. He was no one, a nothing man.
Microphone in hand, Anna requested silence, and the two hundred and fifty luminaries arrayed before her obeyed. She thanked the audience for their support of the museum and the cause of democracy, and for giving her an opportunity to play in public again after so long an absence. Wealthy and privileged, she had managed to hide from the lethal virus. But nearly two million people worldwide—the aged, the sick, the indigent, those who were crammed into substandard housing or who toiled for hourly wages in essential industries—had not been so fortunate. She asked the audience to keep the dead in their hearts and to remember those who lacked the basic resources most of them took for granted.
“The pandemic,” she continued, “is taking a terrible toll on the performing arts, especially classical music. My career will resume when the concert halls finally reopen. At least I hope so,” she added modestly. “But unfortunately, many talented young musicians will have no choice but to start over. With that in mind, I would like to introduce you to a dear friend of mine who will perform a final piece for us this evening, a lovely composition by Sergei Rachmaninoff called ‘Vocalise.’”
Isabel heard her name reverberate through the hall, and somehow her legs managed to carry her to the stage. The audience disappeared the instant she began to play. Even so, she could feel the weight of his steady gaze upon her. Try as she might, she could not seem to recall his name. He was no one. He was a nothing man.