The Cellist by Daniel Silva
40Féchy, Canton Vaud
“Mechanical and passionless,” Arkady declaredat the conclusion of the first movement. “But it’s obvious you could play it quite well if you chose to.”
“How about this?” Isabel played the opening passage of “When I Fall in Love.”
“Have you ever?” asked Arkady.
“Fallen in love? Once or twice.”
“And are you in love now?”
Isabel rose from the piano without answering and reclaimed her seat. “Where were we?”
“RhineBank,” answered Arkady.
“Founded in 1892 in the Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg, which, as you know, is located on the river Elbe rather than the Rhine. Currently the world’s fourth-largest bank, with approximately twenty-seven billion in revenue and one-point-six trillion in assets.”
Arkady regarded her without expression. “Tell me about your work there.”
“I signed a nondisclosure agreement as part of my settlement package. I’m not at liberty to discuss anything I did for RhineBank.”
“Did you ever handle transactions related to a company called Omega Holdings?”
“Arkady, please.”
“Finally!” His smile appeared almost genuine.
“I didn’t know the identity of any of the clients,” explained Isabel. “I just signed off on the transactions.”
“Then why on earth were you fired?”
“I was part of the Laundromat. We all had to go.”
“Were you the person who leaked the documents to the newspapers?”
“Yes, Arkady. I was the one who did it.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.” Another smile. “Now tell me how you ended up working for Martin Landesmann.”
“The usual way. He offered me a job.”
“Why you?”
“I suppose he wanted my expertise.”
“Expertise?”
“I know how to process funds without getting caught.”
“And when did you begin sleeping with him?”
Isabel deliberately allowed a false note to creep into her denial. “Martin is a happily married man.”
“As am I,” replied Arkady. “And it is quite obvious that the two of you are involved in a passionate affair. I only hope that for Martin’s sake it never becomes public. His sterling reputation would suffer.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Does it?”
“What are you so worried about?” asked Isabel. “Martin and I are the ones who are required to abide by the rules of the Anti–Money Laundering Act. And we’re the ones who will be fined or even prosecuted for our actions if we’re caught. You, as the customer, face no such risk.”
“My concerns are geopolitical, not legal. But please continue.”
“You were the one who came to us, Arkady. Remember?”
“I remember that you performed one of my favorite compositions by my favorite composer at a reception that cost me twenty million Swiss francs to attend. And I remember that when I expressed interest in doing business with Martin, you both played hard to get.”
“We played hard to get because we didn’t think it was a good idea to go into business with Russians.” She slipped the prospectus into her bag and rose. “For reasons that are now all too obvious.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to Geneva.”
“Why?”
“Sorry, Arkady. The deal’s off.”
“Don’t you think you should consult with Martin before walking away from a billion-dollar payday?”
“Martin will do whatever I tell him.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Isabel opened the lid of the decorative signal-blocking box, but Arkady closed it with a sharp crack before she could remove her phone. “Please sit down.”
“I’m leaving.”
“How do you intend to get back to Geneva?”
“I’ll call an Uber.” She managed a smile. “They’re all the rage.”
“That won’t be easy without your phone, will it?” His hand was still resting on the lid of the box. “Besides, you haven’t had lunch.”
“I’ve lost my appetite.” Isabel fished the prospectus from her bag and dropped it on the table. “What’s it going to be, Arkady?”
“I need a few days to think it over.”
Isabel looked at her wristwatch. “You have one minute.”
Arkady’s voice was the first Gabriel and his team heard when Isabel’s phone, after an absence of twenty-seven minutes, reconnected with the Swisscom cellular network. Curiously, the Russian oligarch was gently chastising her for having rushed through an important passage of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The phone’s geolocation and altitude data indicated they were still in his office, as did the video images captured by its camera. It focused briefly on Isabel’s face as she checked her text messages. There was nothing in her expression to suggest she was under duress, though it was evident from the unstable quality of the shot that her hand was trembling slightly.
She dropped the phone into the darkened void of her Vuitton handbag and followed Arkady downstairs to the villa’s terrace, where they circulated through the all-Russian crowd. Arkady introduced Isabel as “an associate,” a description that covered all manner of sins. The Gazprom chairman Oleg Zhirinovsky was delighted; Mad Maxim Simonov, the nickel king, clearly smitten. He invited Isabel to join him aboard his yacht, the appropriately named Mischief, for his annual summer cruise of the Mediterranean. Isabel wisely declined.
At three fifteen she informed Arkady that she had numbers to crunch—a legitimate investment opportunity in a Norwegian e-commerce firm—and needed to be getting back to Geneva. Reluctantly, he saw her to her car. The driver dropped her at the Temple de la Madeleine and, followed by two operatives of the Haydn Group, she walked to the Place du Bourg-de-Four. Upstairs in her apartment, she performed Bach’s Cello Suite in D Minor. All six movements. No sheet music. Not a single mistake.