The Cellist by Daniel Silva
37Geneva–Paris
Martin rang Isabel at half past seven the following morning while she was attempting to revive herself with a pulverizing shower after a largely sleepless night.
“I’m sorry to call so early, but I wanted to catch you before you left for the office. I hope it’s not a bad time.”
“Not at all.” It was the day’s first lie. Isabel was certain there would be more to come. “Is there a problem?”
“An opportunity, actually. But I’m afraid it will require you to travel to Paris this afternoon.”
“What a shame.”
“Not to worry. I promise to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”
“How long will I be away?”
“Probably one night, but you should pack for two, just to be on the safe side. I’ll tell you the rest when you arrive.”
With that, the call went dead. Isabel finished showering, then checked the weather forecast for Paris. It was nearly identical to Geneva’s, chilly and gray but no chance of rain. She packed accordingly and slipped her passport into her handbag. Her clothing for the day, a tailored pantsuit, hung from the back of her bedroom door. Dressed, she ordered an Uber and headed downstairs to the Place du Bourg-de-Four.
There was no sign of the vagrant, but two male employees of the Haydn Group were breakfasting at one of the cafés. One of the men, the darker-haired of the two, followed Isabel to the rue de l’Hôtel-de-Ville, where her car was waiting. When she arrived at GVI headquarters, Martin was gaveling the morning meeting to order. Nearly one hour in duration, it included no discussion of a lucrative offer by the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov to launder and conceal eleven and a half billion dollars’ worth of looted Russian state assets in the West.
At the conclusion of the meeting, Martin summoned Isabel to his office to explain why she would soon be leaving for Paris. A breakfast meeting at the Hôtel Crillon with an innovative French entrepreneur—or so Martin claimed. He gave Isabel some materials to review on the train and a key to an apartment. The address was handwritten on a notecard bearing his initials, as was the eight-digit passcode for the street-level entrance. Isabel memorized the information and then fed the notecard into Martin’s shredder.
Her train departed the Gare de Cornavin at half past two. The dark-haired operative from the Haydn Group, having followed her on foot to the station, accompanied her on the three-hour journey to the Gare de Lyon. A waiting car delivered her to 21 Quai de Bourbon, an elegant residential street on the northern flank of the Île Saint-Louis.
The apartment was on the uppermost floor, the fifth. With Martin’s key in hand, she stepped from the lift, only to find the door ajar. Gabriel waited in the entrance hall, a forefinger pressed to his lips.
He relieved Isabel of her bag and drew her inside. “Forgive me for deceiving you,” he said, closing the door without a sound. “But I’m afraid there was no other way.”
The sitting room was in darkness. He threw a wall switch, and a constellation of overhead recessed lighting extinguished the gloom. The decor surprised Isabel. She had expected grandeur, a miniature Versailles. Instead, she found herself in a showplace of affected casual elegance. It was no one’s primary residence—or even secondary, she thought. It was a comfortable crash pad for those occasions when its very rich owner found himself in Paris for a few days.
“Yours?” she asked.
“Martin’s, actually.”
“Does he let all of his employees use it?”
“Only those with whom he’s romantically involved.”
Her scandalized expression was contrived. “Martin and me?”
“These things happen.”
“Poor Monique.”
“Fortunately, she’ll never know.” He dimmed the lights. “I would like you to make a brief appearance in the window.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what a young woman does when she arrives at her lover’s grand apartment on the Seine.”
Isabel started toward the windows.
“Remove your coat, please.”
She did as he asked and tossed it carelessly over the back of an armchair. Then she slipped between a pair of ivory-colored curtains and opened the room’s center casement window. The evening wind took her hair. And five floors beneath her, an employee of the private intelligence company known as the Haydn Group took her photograph.
She closed the window and emerged from behind the curtains to find Gabriel rearranging her coat. “You don’t like things out of place, do you?”
“You’ve noticed?”
“It’s rather hard to miss. Everything is always just so. Paintings, violinists, Swiss financiers, disgruntled employees of the world’s dirtiest bank. And you seem to have a cover story for every occasion.”
“It is an essential part of our operating doctrine. We call it the small lie to cover the big lie.”
“What’s the small lie?”
“That you are having an affair with Martin Landesmann.”
“And the big lie?”
“That you are here with me.”
“Why?”
“Because it wasn’t safe for us to meet in Geneva.” He paused. “And because I have a difficult decision to make.”
“Lunch at Arkady’s on Saturday?”
He nodded.
“Is there any chance he didn’t know that Martin was going to be in Warsaw this weekend?”
“None whatsoever. It was a clever ploy on his part. He wanted to invite you all along to test our bona fides. If you don’t attend, he will suspect there’s a problem.”
“And if I agree?”
“You will be observed closely by several current and former Russian intelligence officers for any signs of discomfort or deception. You will also face seemingly benign questions about your past, especially your time at RhineBank. If you somehow manage to pass this examination, Arkady will in all likelihood go forward with the deal.”
“And if I fail?”
“If we’re lucky, Arkady will send you on your way, and we’ll never hear from him again. If we are unlucky, he will subject you to a far different kind of questioning. And you will tell him everything, because that is what one does when a loaded Russian gun is pointed at one’s head.” He lowered his voice. “Which is why I’m inclined to cash out my chips and call it a night.”
“Do I get a say in the matter?”
“No, Isabel. You do not. I asked you to lend your professional expertise to Martin Landesmann and to make an introduction at a crowded reception where you were in absolutely no danger. But I never prepared you to enter Arkady’s world alone.”
“It’s only lunch.”
“It’s never only lunch. Arkady will begin testing you the second you walk through his door. He will assume that you are not who you claim to be. Once he has guided you through your usual repertoire, he will take away your sheet music and force you to improvise. The recital will not end until he is satisfied that you are not a threat.”
“I’m capable of improvisation.”
He regarded her doubtfully. “I must say, I’ve never heard ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’ played on the cello before. Your tone was quite lovely, but otherwise the performance was less than convincing.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to do another take.”
“There are no second takes, Isabel. Not where Russians are concerned.”
“But in a few hours’ time, Arkady will be under the impression I’m Martin’s lover—isn’t that correct?”
“That is my hope.”
“So why on earth would Martin Landesmann allow his beautiful young girlfriend to attend a luncheon at Arkady’s villa if he didn’t think it was safe?”
Gabriel smiled. “Was that an improvisation on your part?”
She nodded. “What do you think?”
Before he could answer, his phone pulsed with an incoming message. “Your lover’s plane just landed at Le Bourget.”
“What are our plans?”
“A quiet dinner at a bistro around the corner.”
“And then?”
“The small lie to cover the big lie.”
“What’s the small lie?”
“That you are spending the night making love to Martin.”
“And the big one?”
“You’ll be spending it with me.”