The Cellist by Daniel Silva
38Île Saint-Louis, Paris
Martin and Isabel walked hand in hand along the lamplit Quai de Bourbon to a brasserie at the foot of the Pont Saint-Louis. On the opposite side of the narrow channel loomed Notre-Dame, its flying buttresses concealed by scaffolding, its spire missing. The Russian who had followed Isabel from Geneva dined at an adjacent restaurant; Yossi Gavish and Eli Lavon, at an establishment across the street. Halfway through his meal, Yossi suddenly declared his coq au vin inedible, provoking a heated confrontation with the outraged chef that soon spilled on to the pavement. Lavon managed to defuse the situation, and the two combatants made their apologies and pledged eternal friendship, much to the delight of the spectators in the surrounding eateries. Gabriel, who monitored the incident via Isabel’s phone, was only sorry he had not witnessed the performance, for it was one of the better pieces of operational street theater he had heard in some time.
He had instructed Martin to ply Isabel with a glass or two of wine over dinner. They drank Sancerre with their appetizers and with their main course a rather good Burgundy. As they walked back to the apartment, Isabel’s step was languorous, her laughter brighter in the night. The Russian saw them to their door, then made his way across the Pont Marie to a floating café bar on the opposite embankment. His table offered an unobstructed view of Martin’s bedroom window, where Isabel appeared shortly before midnight, wearing only a men’s dress shirt. The Russian snapped several photos with his smartphone—hardly ideal but, when combined with his firsthand visual observations, more than sufficient.
Martin appeared in the window briefly, shirtless, and drew Isabel inside. The Russian at the floating café would have been forgiven for assuming the couple returned to bed. In truth, they made their way to Martin’s splendid dining room, where Gabriel waited in the half-light, his hands resting on the tabletop. He instructed Isabel to sit down in the chair opposite and refused her request to put on additional clothing. Her seminudity made her uncomfortable. It had the same effect on Gabriel. He averted his eyes slightly as he posed his first question.
“What is your name?”
“Isabel Brenner.”
“Your real name.”
“That is my real name.”
“Where were you born?”
“In Trier.”
“When did you receive your first cello?”
“When I was eight.”
“Your father gave it to you?”
“My mother.”
“You competed in the ARD International Music Competition when you were nineteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“You won a second prize for your performance of Brahms’s Cello Sonata in E Minor?”
“Third prize. And it was the F Major.”
“How long have you been working for Israeli intelligence?”
“I don’t work for Israeli intelligence. I work for Martin Landesmann.”
“Is Martin working for Israeli intelligence?”
“No.”
“Are you involved in a sexual relationship with Landesmann?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in love with Landesmann?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“You would have to ask him.”
Gabriel’s questions ceased.
“How did I do?”
“If your wish is to die on Saturday afternoon, you did just fine. If, however, you wish to survive your lunch at Arkady’s villa, we have a great deal of work to do. Now tell me your name.”
“It’s Isabel.”
“Why did you give those documents to Nina Antonova?”
“I didn’t.”
“How long have you been working for Gabriel Allon?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“You’re lying, Isabel. And now you’re dead.”
The next mock interrogation was worse than the first, and the one after that was the equivalent of a signed confession. But by four that morning—with a few valuable insights from a criminal who had managed to convince the world he was a saint—Isabel lied with the ease and confidence of a highly trained intelligence officer. Even Gabriel, who was looking for any excuse to press the kill switch, had to admit she was more than capable of answering a few questions at a luncheon party. He was under no illusions, however, about her ability to stand up under sustained KGB-style pressure. If Arkady and his thugs strapped her to a chair, she was to immediately revert to her first fallback, that she had been coerced into working for British intelligence while she was working for RhineBank in London. And if that didn’t work, she was to offer them Gabriel’s name.
By then, it was approaching five a.m. Isabel managed to sleep for a few hours and at nine fifteen crawled into the back of a taxi for the drive to the Gare de Lyon. Martin departed for Le Bourget a short time later, but Gabriel remained in the apartment until late afternoon, when Eli Lavon determined it was no longer under surveillance by the Haydn Group. Together they made their way to the Israeli Embassy in the first arrondissement and headed downstairs to the secure communications vault. In the lexicon of the Office, it was known as the Holy of Holies.
On the video screen was a feed from GVI headquarters. Martin, looking none the worse for wear after a sleepless night, was presiding over the afternoon staff meeting. At its conclusion, Isabel gathered up her papers and returned to her office, where she rang Ludmilla Sorova at NevaNeft. Ludmilla placed Isabel on hold, and a moment later Arkady came on the line.
“I was beginning to think I’d never hear from you.”
“Hello, Mr. Akimov.”
“Please, Isabel. You must call me Arkady.”
“I’m still working on that.”
“You sound tired.”
“Do I? It’s been a busy day.”
“I hope it was on my account.”
“It was, actually.”
“I take it Martin is interested in my offer?”
“We’re working on the prospectus as we speak. He asked me to deliver it to Féchy on Saturday afternoon.”
“You’re staying for lunch, I hope.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. What time should I arrive?”
“Around one. But don’t worry about arranging a car. I’ll send one.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Akimov.”
“I insist. Where should he meet you?”
Isabel recited the name of a prominent Geneva landmark rather than the address of her apartment building. Then, after a final exchange of pleasantries, the connection went dead. In the Holy of Holies, the silence was absolute.
At length, Eli Lavon said, “Maybe classical musicians can’t improvise, after all.”
“And what should she have said differently?”
“She should have told Arkady that she was more than capable of finding her way to Féchy on her own.”
“I’m quite sure she did. In fact, we can listen to the recording if you like.”
“She didn’t push hard enough.”
“And when Arkady threatened to take his business elsewhere?” Receiving no reply, Gabriel reset the time code and clicked the play icon. “Does she sound tired to you?”
“Not a bit.”
“So why did Arkady say that?”
“Because he knows where she spent last night. And he wants Isabel and Martin to know that he knows.”
“Why?”
“Kompromat.”
“And what will Arkady do with this juicy piece of kompromat we’ve so generously placed before him?”
“He’ll use it to keep Martin in line. Who knows? He might even use it to sweeten the deal if he thinks Martin’s taking too big a cut.”
“So we’ve got him? Is that what you’re saying, Eli?”
Lavon hesitated, then nodded.
Gabriel raised the volume on the feed from Isabel’s compromised mobile phone. “What’s she humming?”
“Elgar, you rube.”
“Why Elgar?”
“Perhaps she’s trying to tell you that she’d rather not have lunch with a Moscow Center–trained hood.”
“There’s no way he’ll kill her in Switzerland—right, Eli?”
“Absolutely not. He’ll drive her across the border to France,” said Lavon. “Then he’ll kill her.”