The Cellist by Daniel Silva
41Geneva–London
Three days after the luncheon at Arkady Akimov’s palace in Féchy, the inhabitants of the ancient lakeside city of Geneva held their collective breath as America went to the polls. The Republican incumbent seized what appeared to be a commanding early advantage in the key battleground states of Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania, only to see his lead evaporate as early votes and mail-in ballots were tabulated. Visibly shaken, he appeared before supporters in the White House East Room early Wednesday morning and, astonishingly, demanded that state election officials cease counting ballots. The counting nevertheless continued, and on Saturday the television networks declared the Democrat the victor. Millions of Americans poured into the streets in a spontaneous eruption of joy and utter relief. To Isabel, it looked as though they were celebrating the fall of a tyrant.
On Monday, life in Geneva resumed largely as normal, though with a new government-imposed mask mandate owing to a sudden spike in coronavirus cases. Isabel worked from her apartment in the Old Town until late morning and then flew to London aboard Martin’s Gulfstream, the smaller of his two private jets. Upon arrival at London City Airport, she endured a cursory check of her German passport before settling into the back of a waiting limousine. It bore her westward to the Fleet Street offices of RhineBank-London, her former place of employment.
Directly opposite the building was a café where Isabel had often taken her lunch. Masked, she took a table on the pavement and ordered coffee. At half past four, she checked the FTSE 100 index and saw that London share prices had closed down nearly two percent. Consequently, she waited until 4:45 before ringing Anil Kandar.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“I’m well, Anil. How are you?”
“Have you seen our stock price lately?”
“I believe it’s just under ten. Hold on, I’ll check.”
“What’s on your mind, Isabel?”
“Money, Anil. Lots of money.”
“You have my attention.”
“It’s not something I can discuss on the phone.”
“My favorite kind of deal. Where are you?”
“Across the street.”
“Twenty minutes,” said Anil, and rang off.
It was nearly half past five when he finally emerged from RhineBank’s entrance. As usual, he was dressed entirely in black, a style he had adopted while still in New York, where he had earned a reputation as one of RhineBank’s most reckless traders. For his reward, he was given control of the global markets division, a position that had allowed him to amass a nine-figure personal fortune. He lived in a vast Victorian mansion in a posh London suburb and commuted to work each morning in a chauffeur-driven Bentley. Born in Northern Virginia, educated at Yale and the Wharton School, he now spoke English with a pronounced British accent. Like his coal-black attire, it was something he put on first thing in the morning.
He sat down at Isabel’s table and ordered an Earl Grey tea. The smell of cologne, hair tonic, and tobacco was overwhelming. It was the smell, Isabel remembered, of RhineBank-London.
He removed the lid from his drink and popped a fresh piece of Nicorette. “You look good, Isabel.”
“Thanks, Anil.” She smiled. “You look like shit.”
“I suppose I deserved that.”
“You did. You were horrible to me when I worked here.”
“It wasn’t personal. You were a pain in the ass.”
“I was only trying to do my job.”
“So was I.” Anil blew on the surface of his tea. “But I hear you got with the program after you moved to the Zurich office. Lothar Brandt told me that you signed every scrap of paper he placed in front of you.”
“And look what that got me,” she murmured.
“A job with Saint Martin Landesmann.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Especially when everyone else who was fired is still seeking gainful employment. Fortunately, we were able to contain the damage to the Zurich office.”
Anil was fond of using the word we when referring to senior management. It was his ambition to one day become a member of the Council of Ten, perhaps even the firm’s chief executive officer. American by birth, Indian by ancestry, he would have to pay for the privilege. Thus his reckless trading habits. Anil was utterly bereft of personal or professional morality. In short, he was the model RhineBank employee.
“How’s your trading book these days?” asked Isabel.
“Not as interesting as it once was. The Council of Ten presented us with a cease-and-desist order after the Zurich massacre. No more dicey Russian trades until the dust settles.”
“Has it?”
“I’ve done a few test runs. Small stuff, mainly. Twenty million here, forty million there. Nickel-and-kopek.”
“And?”
“Smooth as silk. Not a peep from the British regulators or the Americans.”
“Does the Council of Ten know what you’re up to?”
“You know the old saying, Isabel. What Hamburg doesn’t know . . .” Anil peeled the wrapper from another piece of Nicorette. “I’m about to go into withdrawal, and I’m afraid it won’t be pretty. So why don’t you tell me what this is all about.”
“Global Vision Investments would like to retain the services of RhineBank’s global markets division. In return for these services, we are prepared to be very generous.”
“What kind of services?”
Isabel smiled. “Mirror, mirror on the wall.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Not nickel-and-kopek, Anil. Not even close.”
Anil inhaled his first Dunhill before they reached Victoria Embankment. By then, Isabel had outlined the basic parameters of the deal. Now, as they walked along the Thames toward the Houses of Parliament, she went into greater detail—mainly for the sake of her listening audience, which was monitoring the conversation via the phone in her handbag. Representatives of her client, she explained, would purchase blocks of blue-chip stocks from RhineBank-Moscow in rubles. Simultaneously, Anil would purchase identical amounts of the same blue-chip stocks from representatives of Isabel’s client in Cyprus, the Channel Islands, the Bahamas, or the Cayman Islands. All told, four hundred billion rubles were to be converted and transferred from Russia to the West. Given the extraordinary size of the project, it would necessarily have to be accomplished piecemeal—five billion here, ten billion there, a trade or two a day, more if there was no regulatory reaction. Eventually the money would make its way into accounts at Meissner PrivatBank of Liechtenstein, a fact she did not divulge to Anil. Nor did she tell him the name of her mysterious Russian client, only the amount of money they were prepared to pay RhineBank-London in fees and other service charges.
“Five hundred million?” Anil was predictably appalled. “I won’t touch it for less than a billion.”
“Of course you will, Anil. You’re practically salivating. The only question is whether you’re going to call Hamburg tonight to get approval from the Council of Ten.”
He flicked the end of his cigarette into the river. “What Hamburg doesn’t know . . .”
“How are you going to explain the additional five hundred million on your book?”
“I’ll spread it around. They’ll never figure out where it came from.”
“It’s good to know nothing’s changed since I left.” Isabel handed Anil a flash drive. “This has all the relevant accounts and routing numbers.”
“When do you want to start?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“No problem.” Anil slipped the flash drive into the pocket of his black overcoat. “I guess those rumors about Martin Landesmann are true after all.”
“What rumors are you referring to?”
“That he’s no saint. And neither, it seems, are you.” He gave her a sidelong leer. “If only I’d known.”
“You’re salivating again, Anil.”
“Have time for a celebratory drink?”
“I’ve got to get back to Geneva tonight.”
“Next time you’re in town?”
“Probably not. Don’t take this the wrong way, Anil, but you really do look like shit.”
By the time Isabel arrived at London City Airport, Martin’s plane was fueled and cleared for departure. The Englishman looked up from his laptop computer as she entered the cabin.
“How about that drink now?” he asked.
“I’d kill for one.”
“I think champagne is in order, don’t you?”
“If you insist.”
The Englishman entered the galley and emerged a moment later with an open bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal. He poured two glasses and handed one to Isabel.
“What shall we drink to?” she asked.
“Another remarkable performance on your part.”
“I have a better idea.” Isabel raised her glass. “To the world’s dirtiest bank.”
The Englishman smiled. “May it rest in peace.”