The Cellist by Daniel Silva
36Quai du Mont-Blanc, Geneva
Not surprisingly, Martin had resisted the installation of hidden cameras and microphones in the conference room of Global Vision Investments. He acquiesced only after receiving a solemn pledge from Gabriel that the devices—all of them—would be removed at the conclusion of the operation. There were four cameras in all, and six high-resolution microphones. The encrypted feed bounced from a receiver in the telecom closet to the team’s new safe house in diplomatic Champel. They hadn’t bothered with much of a cover story to explain their presence. The local security service was a silent partner in their endeavor.
They received their first update at half past two, when Eli Lavon’s watchers in the Place du Port reported the arrival of a motorcade—a Mercedes-Maybach sedan and two Range Rovers—at the NevaNeft headquarters. Arkady Akimov stepped from the building’s opaque doorway fifteen minutes later, and at 2:55 p.m. he was listening to Isabel explaining that his security detail was not welcome in the carbon-neutral confines of Global Vision Investments. The transmission from her phone died when she entered the lift, and when the audio feed resumed, she was standing in the door of the conference room. Martin and Arkady were glaring at one another over the table like prizefighters in the center of a ring.
“That will be all for now, Isabel. Thank you.”
“Of course, Martin.”
Isabel withdrew, leaving the two billionaires alone in the conference room. At length, Martin opened one of the bottles of mineral water and slowly poured two glasses.
“Do you think he’ll drink any of it?” asked Eli Lavon.
“Arkady Akimov?” Gabriel shook his head. “Not if it was the last drop of water on earth.”
“If you would prefer,” said Martin, “I have some without gas.”
“I’m not thirsty, thank you.”
“You don’t drink water?”
“Not unless it’s my water.”
“What are you so afraid of?”
“Capitalism in Russia is a contact sport.”
“This is Geneva, Arkady. Not Moscow.” Martin finally sat down. “For the record—”
“I don’t see anyone keeping a record, do you?”
“For the record,” Martin repeated, “I agreed to take this meeting as a courtesy to you, and because we live and work in close proximity to one another. But I have no intention of going into business with you.”
“You haven’t heard my offer.”
“I already know what it is.”
“Do you?”
“It’s the same offer you’ve made to countless other Western businessmen.”
“I can assure you, they’ve all done remarkably well.”
“I’m not like them.”
“I’ll say.” Arkady surveyed the photographs hanging on the wall of Martin’s conference room. “Who do you think you’re fooling with this bullshit?”
“My charitable foundation has changed millions of lives around the world.”
“Your charitable foundation is a fraud. And so are you.” Arkady smiled. “I’ll have some of that water, please. No gas, if you don’t mind.”
Martin poured a glass of the sparkling water and nudged it across the table. “Where did you learn your negotiating tactics? The KGB?”
“I was never a KGB officer. That, as they say, is an old wives’ tale.”
“That’s not what I read in The Atlantic.”
“I sued them.”
“And you lost.”
Arkady moved the glass aside without drinking from it. “You clearly have a better publicity department than I do. How else to explain the fact that the press has never written about your relationship with a certain Sandro Pugliese of the Italian ’Ndrangheta? Or your ties to Meissner PrivatBank of Liechtenstein? And then there were those centrifuge components you were selling to the Iranians through that German company of yours. Keppler Werk GmbH, I believe it was.”
“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”
“I suppose it’s possible. After all, successful men like us are always being accused of wrongdoing. They accuse me of being a KGB officer, that I owe all my wealth to my relationship with Russia’s president. It is nothing more than anti-Russian bigotry. Russophobia!” He thumped the tabletop for emphasis. “Consequently, I sometimes find it necessary to conduct my affairs in a way that shields my identity. As do you, I imagine.”
“Global Vision Investments is one of the most respected private equity firms in the world.”
“Which is precisely why I would like to be in business with you. I have an enormous amount of excess capital sitting on the sidelines. I would like you to invest that capital on my behalf, using the unimpeachable imprimatur of GVI.”
“I don’t need your money, Arkady. I have plenty of my own.”
“Your net worth is a paltry three billion, if the most recent Forbes list is to be believed. I’m offering you the chance to be rich enough to truly change the world.” He paused. “Would that be of interest to you, Saint Martin?”
“I don’t like to be called that.”
“Ah, yes. I believe I read that in the same article that mentioned your disdain for business cards.”
“And just where is this excess capital of yours now?”
“A portion of it is already here in the West.”
“How much?”
“Let’s call it six billion dollars.”
“And the rest?”
“MosBank.”
“Which means it’s in rubles.”
Arkady nodded.
“How many rubles are we talking about?”
“Four hundred billion.”
“Five and a half billion dollars?”
“Five-point-four-seven, at today’s exchange rate. But who’s counting?”
“Where did it come from?”
“My construction company was recently awarded a contract for a large public works project in Siberia.”
“Do you intend to actually construct any of it?”
“As little as possible.”
“So the money has been siphoned from the Federal Treasury.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I don’t deal in looted state assets. Or in rubles, for that matter.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have to convert my looted rubles into a reserve currency before investing the money on my behalf.”
“In what?”
“The usual. Privately held companies and industrial concerns, large real estate assets, perhaps a port or two. These assets will be held by Global Vision Investments, but the true ownership will reside with several corporate shell companies that you will create for me. You will keep these assets on your books until such time as I see fit to dispose of them.”
“I just founded a nongovernmental organization dedicated to promoting the spread of democracy around the world, including to the Russian Federation.”
“You would have a better chance of slowing the rise of the seas than bringing democracy to Russia.”
“But you see my point.”
“The fact that you are now a self-declared opponent of the Russian government plays to our advantage. No one would ever dream that you are doing business with someone like me.” Arkady admired his wristwatch—Patek Philippe of Geneva, one million Swiss francs—and then rose to his feet. “I was told your time was limited, as is mine. If you are interested in my offer, send word to my office by no later than five p.m. on Thursday. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll take my business elsewhere. No hard feelings.”
“And if I’m interested?”
“You will draw up a detailed prospectus and deliver it to my villa in Féchy on Saturday. Oksana and I are having a few friends for lunch. I’m sure you and your lovely wife will find the other guests interesting.”
“I have plans this weekend.”
“Cancel them.”
“I’m addressing a gathering of civil society leaders in Warsaw on Saturday.”
“Another lost cause.”
“I’ll have my lawyer deliver the prospectus.”
Arkady smiled. “I don’t deal with lawyers.”
Isabel returned to the conference room at the stroke of 3:45 p.m. It appeared as though nothing had changed since she left. Now, as then, one man was seated and another was standing, though it was Arkady, not Martin, who was on his feet. The air between them was charged with the electricity of their final exchange.
Isabel escorted Arkady to the lifts and bade him a pleasant evening. Returning to the conference room, she found Martin standing contemplatively at the window, as though posing for a One World Foundation promotional video.
“How did it go?”
“Arkady Akimov would like us to launder and conceal eleven and a half billion dollars.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” Martin answered. “I’m afraid there’s one more thing.”
At seven fifteen that evening, while tidying up her already spotless desk, Isabel received a text message from a number she didn’t recognize, instructing her to purchase some wine on her way home. The sender was good enough to suggest a shop on the boulevard Georges-Favon. The proprietor recommended a Bordeaux of moderate price but exceptional vintage and placed it in a plastic bag, which Isabel carried through the quiet streets of the Old Town to the Place du Bourg-de-Four. The vagrant was in his usual spot near the wellhead. He appeared oblivious to the fact he was holding his sign upside down.
Isabel dropped a few coins in his cup and crossed the square to the entrance of her building. Upstairs, she opened the wine and poured a glass. Once again, her cello beckoned, but this time she ignored it, for her thoughts were elsewhere. The oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov had invited her to attend a luncheon on Saturday at his villa in Féchy. And she was now under surveillance by the private Russian intelligence service known as the Haydn Group.