The Cellist by Daniel Silva
39Féchy, Canton Vaud
Saturday dawned overcast and gray, but by late morning the sun shone brightly upon the pavements of the rue du Purgatoire. Isabel waited on the steps of the dun-colored Temple de la Madeleine, one of the oldest churches in Geneva. Her clothing, all newly purchased, was appropriate for a lakeside luncheon with a crowd of grotesquely rich Russians—Max Mara trousers, Ferragamo pumps, cashmere sweater and jacket by Givenchy, a Louis Vuitton tote bag. Inside was a detailed proposal to launder and conceal eleven and a half billion dollars in looted Russian state assets. She and Martin had put the finishing touches on the document late the previous evening during a marathon session at GVI headquarters.
She checked the time on her wristwatch—a Jaeger-LeCoultre Rendez-Vous, diamond accent, a gift from Martin—and saw that it was noon precisely. Looking up, she spotted a sleek Mercedes S-Class sedan approaching along the narrow street. The driver stopped at the base of the steps and lowered the passenger-side window.
“Madame Brenner?”
She settled in the backseat for the thirty-minute drive to Féchy, a wealthy wine-producing village in Canton Vaud, on the northern shore of Lake Geneva. Not surprisingly, Arkady’s villa was the largest in the municipality. The garish entrance hall was a replica of the Andreyevsky Hall of the Grand Kremlin Palace, smaller in scale, but no less ornate.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Words fail me,” said Isabel truthfully.
“Wait until you see the rest of the place.”
They passed through a pair of golden doors and entered a reproduction of the Alexandrovskiy Hall. Next came a series of formal drawing rooms, each with a distinct motif. Here a country house, here a palace by the sea, here the book-lined study of a great Russian intellectual. Only one of the rooms was inhabited, a luminous parlor where three long-limbed young girls were posed as if for a fashion shoot. They eyed Isabel with obvious envy.
Eventually they emerged onto a large terrace where a hundred Russians sipped champagne in the chill autumn sunlight. Isabel had to raise her voice to be heard over the music.
“I was expecting a small luncheon.”
“I don’t do small.”
“Who are all these people?”
Arkady directed his gaze toward a well-fed man with his arm around the waist of an impossibly pretty young woman. “I assume you recognize him.”
“Of course.”
The man was Oleg Zhirinovsky, chairman of the Russian state energy giant Gazprom. The young woman he was pawing was wife number four. Getting rid of number three had cost him several hundred million pounds in a London courtroom.
Arkady pointed out another guest. “What about him?”
“Good heavens.” It was Mad Maxim Simonov, the nickel king of Russia.
“Or him?”
“Is that—”
“Oleg Lebedev, otherwise known as Mr. Aluminum.”
“Is it true he’s the richest man in Russia?”
“Second richest.” Arkady plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and gave one to Isabel. “I trust the drive from Geneva was comfortable?”
“Very.”
“And you brought the proposal?”
Isabel patted the Vuitton bag.
“Perhaps we should review it now. That way we can relax and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”
Inside, they scaled a grand stairway and entered Arkady’s private office suite. It lacked the gold-plated tsarist vulgarity of the rest of the villa. Holding her champagne glass aloft, Isabel laid her right hand on the keys of a Bösendorfer piano and played the opening passage of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” asked Arkady.
“I can’t play the rest of this sonata. Not anymore, at least.”
“I rather doubt that.” He led her to a seating area near the windows and opened a decorative box on the lacquered coffee table. “Place your mobile phone inside, please.”
Isabel did as she was told. Then she removed the prospectus from her bag and handed it to Arkady.
“Is this the only copy?”
“Except for the original file. It’s on an air-gapped computer in my office.”
He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and turned slowly through the pages. “There’s a great deal of British and American commercial real estate.”
“That’s because the pandemic has created a glut of available properties. We believe these assets can be acquired at favorable prices and that they will appreciate in value once the American economy regains its pre-pandemic footing.”
“How long will I have to retain possession to see a profit?”
“Three to five years, to be on the safe side.”
He looked down again. “Fifty million dollars for an organic food company in Portland?”
“We believe it’s undervalued and primed for future growth.”
“One hundred million for a maker of solar panels?” He turned another page. “Two hundred million for a company that manufactures wind-driven turbines?” He peered at Isabel over his reading glasses. “Have you forgotten that I’m in the oil business?”
“Owning these companies will allow you to atone for your carbon sins.”
Smiling, he looked down again. “Three hundred million for an aftermarket aircraft parts distributor in Salina, Kansas?”
“If you purchase the firm’s main competitor, you’ll be the dominant player in the American market.”
“Is it for sale?”
“We’re hearing rumors.”
He returned to the real estate section of the document. “The tallest office building in London’s Canary Wharf?”
“A not-to-be-missed opportunity.”
“A commercial-and-residential tower on Brickell Avenue in downtown Miami?”
“It’s a steal at six hundred million. What’s more, you’ll be able to process tens of millions of dollars through the resale of the luxury condominiums on the upper floors.”
“Process?”
Isabel smiled. “Launder is such an ugly word.”
“Which brings us to your fee.” Arkady flipped to the back of the document. “One and a half billion dollars in consulting and other fees, payable to a limited-liability shell corporation registered in the Channel Islands.” He looked up. “Rather steep, don’t you think?”
“You’re paying for Martin’s good name. It doesn’t come cheap.”
“Neither, it seems, does currency conversion.”
Isabel made no reply.
“I assume you have someone in mind for the job?”
“The London office of RhineBank. They’re the best in the business.”
“And you would know. After all, that’s where you began your career. You were recruited by RhineBank after you finished your graduate degree at the London School of Economics.”
“You’ve obviously looked into my background.”
“Did you expect otherwise?”
Isabel ignored the question. “Find anything interesting?”
“You weren’t fired from RhineBank-Zurich because you got caught with your hand in the till. You were fired because you worked for the so-called Russian Laundromat. Most of your colleagues are still looking for work, but you managed to land on your feet at Global Vision Investments of Geneva.” Arkady lowered his voice. “And now you are sitting in my private study, offering to process more than eleven and a half billion dollars of my money.”
“I’m here, Mr. Akimov, because for some reason you insisted that I come.”
“I assure you, my intentions were honorable.”
“Were they?”
“I was merely hoping to get to know you better.”
“In that case, where would you like me to begin?”
“By playing the rest of the Moonlight Sonata.”
“I told you, I can’t remember it.”
“I heard you the first time, Isabel. But I don’t believe you.”