The Cellist by Daniel Silva
34Kunsthaus, Zurich
It had been Anna Rolfe’s intention to make only a brief final appearance on the stage, but the audience would not permit her to leave. Admittedly, much of the adulation was directed toward Isabel. Her performance of Rachmaninoff’s haunting six-minute composition had been incendiary.
At last, Anna took Isabel’s hand, and together they departed the event hall. It seemed a sudden onset of headache—it was common knowledge Anna suffered from crippling migraines—would not allow her to mingle with the invited guests at the post-recital reception as planned. Dazzling young Isabel had consented to take her place. For reasons having to do with operational security, Gabriel had not told Anna all the reasons he had concocted tonight’s elaborate charade. She knew only that it had something to do with the Slavic-looking man who had been feeding on Isabel with his eyes from his place in the front row.
Anna bade farewell to Isabel with stilted formality in the corridor, and they retreated to their separate green rooms. A museum security guard stood watch outside Anna’s. Her violin case lay on the dressing table, next to her packet of Gitanes. She lit one in violation of the museum’s strict no-smoking regulations and instantly thought of Gabriel, brush in hand, shaking his head at her with reproach.
I suppose we’re lucky it ended before someone got hurt . . .
The sound of feminine footfalls in the corridor intruded on Anna’s thoughts. It was Isabel leaving her dressing room for her star turn at the reception. Anna was relieved that her attendance was not required, as she found nothing quite so terrifying as a room filled with strangers. She much preferred the company of her Guarneri.
She pressed her lips gently to the scroll. “Time for bed, graceful lady.”
She dropped the Gitane into a half-drunk bottle of Eptinger and opened the violin case. Nestled among her things—a spare bow, extra strings, rosin, mutes, peg compound, cleaning cloths, nail clippers, emery boards, a lock of her mother’s hair—was an envelope with her name written in longhand across the front. It had not been there when she went onstage, and she had left strict instructions with the security guard not to allow anyone to enter her room in her absence. So, too, had the dishy Englishman with the lovely suntan. He had done so in quite possibly the least convincing French accent Anna had ever heard.
She hesitated a moment, then reached for the envelope. It was of high quality, as was the bordered correspondence card inside.
Anna recognized the handwriting.
Rising, she wrenched open the door and rushed into the corridor. The security guard looked at her as though she were a madwoman. Obviously, her reputation preceded her.
“I thought I told you not to let anyone in my room while I was onstage.”
“I didn’t, Frau Rolfe.”
She waved the envelope in his face. “Then how on earth did this get in my violin case?”
“It must have been Monsieur Carnot.”
“Who?”
“The Frenchman who delivered the painting to the museum this afternoon.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s right here,” came a distant reply.
Anna wheeled round. He was standing next to the half-lit stage, an ironic half-smile on his face.
“You?”
He raised a forefinger to his lips, then disappeared from Anna’s view.
“Bastard,” she whispered.
The Lute Player, oil on canvas, 152 by 134 centimeters, formerly assigned to the circle of Orazio Gentileschi, now firmly attributed to Orazio’s daughter Artemisia and restored to its original glory by Gabriel Allon, stood atop a pedestal in the center of the foyer, flanked by a pair of docile-looking museum guards. The invited dignitaries orbited the painting reverently, like pilgrims around the Kaaba at Mecca. The bare floors and walls echoed with the sound of their incantations.
Isabel, as yet unnoticed, reflected upon the set of circumstances, the chain of misadventure and providence, that had brought her to the gala. The story she told herself contained several glaring omissions but otherwise adhered to a few confirmable facts. A child prodigy, she had won an important prize at the age of seventeen but had decided to attend a proper university rather than conservatory. After completing her graduate degree at the prestigious London School of Economics, she had worked for RhineBank, first in London, then Zurich. Having left the firm under circumstances she was not at liberty to discuss—hardly uncommon where employees of RhineBank were concerned—she now worked for Martin Landesmann at Global Vision Investments of Geneva.
And why is that man looking at me like that?
The unsmiling gray-haired man with the raven-haired Slavic centerfold on his arm. Avoid at all costs, Isabel told herself.
She plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray. The effervescence carried the alcohol from her lips to her bloodstream with startling speed. She heard someone call her name and, turning, was confronted by a woman of late middle age whose most recent appointment with her plastic surgeon had left her with an expression of sheer terror.
“The piece you performed was by Tchaikovsky?” she asked.
“Rachmaninoff.”
“It’s quite beautiful.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“Will Anna be joining us? I’m so looking forward to meeting her.”
Isabel explained that Anna had taken ill.
“It’s always something, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She’s cursed, the poor thing. You know about her mother, of course. Awful.”
The woman was carried away, as if by a gust of wind, and another took her place. It was Ursula Müller, the emaciated wife of Gerhard Müller, a client of RhineBank.
“You play like an angel! You look like one, too.”
Herr Müller clearly agreed. So did the gray-haired man with the centerfold on his arm. They were advancing on Isabel through the crowd. She allowed herself to be pulled in the opposite direction and was passed like a serving dish from one shimmering, bejeweled couple to the next.
“Breathtaking!” exclaimed one.
“I’m so glad you liked it.”
“A triumph!” declared another.
“You’re too kind.”
“Tell us your name again.”
“Isabel.”
“Isabel what?”
“Brenner.”
“Where’s Anna?”
“Unwell, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with me.”
“When is your next performance?”
Soon, she thought.
She had run out of places to hide. She surrendered her glass to a waitress—the champagne was doing her no good—and started toward the painting, but the gray-haired man and his child bride blocked her path. He wore on his broad Slavic face an approximation of a smile. He addressed Isabel in perfect German, with the accent of an Ostländer.
“With the possible exception of Rostropovich, I have never heard ‘Vocalise’ performed any better.”
“Come now,” replied Isabel.
“It’s the truth. But why Rachmaninoff?”
“Why not Rachmaninoff?”
“Is his cello sonata part of your repertoire?”
“God, yes.”
“Mine as well.”
“You’re a cellist?”
“A pianist.” He smiled. “You’re not Swiss.”
“German. But I live here in Switzerland.”
“In Zurich?” he probed.
“I used to. But I moved to Geneva not long ago.”
“My office is in the Place du Port.”
“Mine is across the bridge on the Quai de Mont-Blanc.”
He frowned, confused. “You’re not a professional musician?”
“I’m a project analyst for a Swiss private equity firm. A number cruncher.”
He was incredulous. “How can that be?”
“Number crunchers make much more money than musicians.”
“Which firm do you work for?”
She pointed toward Martin Landesmann. “The one owned by the man standing right over there.”
“Saint Martin?”
“He hates when people call him that.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. For some reason, he seems to be ignoring me tonight. Which is odd, considering the fact I donated twenty million Swiss francs to his pro-democracy organization to attend tonight’s performance.”
Isabel made a show of thought. “Are you—”
“Arkady Akimov.” He glanced at the girl. “And this is my wife, Oksana.”
“I’m sure Martin would be honored to meet you.”
“Would you mind?”
Isabel smiled. “Not at all.”
Two museum security cameras peered into the corner of the foyer where Martin had established his court—one from his right, the other directly overhead. With the first camera, Gabriel and Eli Lavon watched as Isabel Brenner, formerly of RhineBank-Zurich, lately of Global Vision Investments in Geneva, threaded her way through the dense crowd. Several times she was obliged to pause to accept another compliment. None of her well-wishers paid any heed to the silver-haired Russian following in her wake—the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov, childhood friend of Russia’s kleptocratic authoritarian leader, estimated net worth $33.8 billion, according to the most recent estimate by Forbes magazine. For now, at least, he was no one. A nothing man.
When at last Isabel arrived at her destination, Gabriel switched to the second camera, which offered a satellite view of the stage upon which the evening’s final performance would take place. Once again there was a delay, as the acolytes and admirers gathered around Martin welcomed Isabel elatedly to their midst. Eventually she placed a hand on Martin’s arm, a deliberately intimate gesture the oil trader and oligarch was sure to notice. The phone in the breast pocket of Martin’s tuxedo, handmade by Senszio of Geneva, provided audio coverage.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Martin. But I’d like to introduce you to someone I just met . . .”
There were no handshakes, only guarded nods of greeting, one billionaire to another. Their conversation was cordial in tone but confrontational in content. At the midway point, the oil trader and oligarch offered Martin a business card, which prompted a final tense exchange. Then the oil trader and oligarch murmured something directly into Martin’s ear and, taking his wife by the hand, withdrew.
The party resumed as though nothing untoward had occurred. But ten kilometers to the south, in a safe house on the shores of Lake Zurich, Eli Lavon’s applause was spontaneous and sustained. Gabriel reset the time code on the recording of the conversation and clicked the play icon.
“Thank you for the generous contribution to the Global Alliance, Arkady. I’m planning to use it to finance our efforts in Russia.”
“Save your money, Martin. As for the twenty million, it was a small price to pay for the privilege of attending your little soiree tonight.”
“Since when is twenty million a small price?”
“There’s much more where that came from, if you’re interested.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Are you free next week?”
“Next week is bad, but I might have a minute or two to spare the week after.”
“I’m a busy man, Martin.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Making the world safe for democracy?”
“Someone has to do it.”
“You should stick to climate change. How do I reach you?”
“You call the main number at GVI like everyone else.”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you call me instead?”
“What’s that in your hand, Arkady?”
“A business card. They’re all the rage.”
“If you’d done your homework, you would know I never accept them. Call Isabel. She’ll set something up.”
“She was quite extraordinary tonight.”
“You should see her with a spreadsheet.”
“Where did you find her?”
“Don’t even think about it, Arkady. She’s mine.”
It was at that instant the oil trader and oligarch leaned forward and spoke directly into Martin’s ear. The din of the reception drowned out the remark, but Martin’s expression suggested it was an insult. Gabriel reset the recording, activated a filter that reduced much of the background noise, and clicked play. This time the final words of the oil trader and oligarch were clearly audible.
“Lucky you.”