The Cellist by Daniel Silva
45Féchy, Canton Vaud
Arkady’s garish villa sparkled like a yuletide tree, but in its cavernous ceremonial rooms the atmosphere was one of sudden abandonment. Isabel imagined the driver had mistakenly delivered her to Gatsby’s mansion in West Egg the morning after Myrtle’s tragic death in the valley of ashes. Indeed, she half expected to find Arkady as Nick Carraway had found his enigmatic neighbor—leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep. Instead, Arkady received Isabel cheerfully in his formal drawing room. Like his office upstairs, it was impeccably decorated, though here the piano was a Bechstein Concert B 212 rather than a Bösendorfer.
He lifted an open bottle of Montrachet from a crystal ice bucket and poured two glasses. Handing one to Isabel, he kissed her lightly on each cheek. The shock was like a spark of static electricity.
“You look lovely, Isabel. But then, you always do.” Arkady raised his glass. “Thank you so much for accepting my invitation. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“Why?”
“Because your last visit here was . . .”
“At times unpleasant,” said Isabel.
“But lucrative, yes?”
“Incredibly.”
“I hope Martin has looked after your interests.”
“He’s been very generous.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you called him the minute you left my office last night and asked him what you should do.”
“Are you listening to my calls?” asked Isabel playfully.
“Of course.” His smile was disarming. “And we’re reading your text messages and emails as well.”
“Is that how you discovered my address?”
“Absolutely not. We simply followed you home one evening after you left work.” Arkady opened a Chinese lacquered box. “Your phone, please.”
Isabel placed it inside and closed the lid. “Is this the way you treat all the women you’re trying to seduce?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It has been for some time.”
“And yet Martin allowed you to come.”
“Because I assured him it was a business dinner and that nothing would happen.”
“This is a business dinner. As for whether anything will happen . . .” Arkady shrugged. “That is entirely up to you.”
Outside, Arkady’s terraced gardens were illuminated like the Roman Forum at night. “It’s beautiful,” remarked Isabel.
“Yes,” said Arkady distantly. “But not as beautiful as you.”
She accepted his compliment in silence.
“May I ask you a question, Isabel?”
“No.”
“Why is a woman like you involved with a married man? And please don’t bother to deny it.”
“Have you been following me to Paris as well?”
“The apartment is located on the Quai du Bourbon.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Arkady sighed. “Surely you realized that, when working for a man like me, you could expect no zone of privacy.”
“I don’t work for you. I work for Martin.”
“And when he grows bored with you?”
“I’ll take solace in the fact that I am now a very wealthy woman.”
“How wealthy?”
“Arkady, please.”
“Seven figures? Eight perhaps?” He made a dismissive movement of his hand. “This is nothing. I’m prepared to make you seriously rich. Rich enough to own a villa like this. Rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
“And what would I have to do in return?”
“Leave Martin Landesmann and come to work for me.”
Isabel laughed in spite of herself.
“What’s so funny?”
“I thought you wanted me to become your mistress.”
“I do,” said Arkady. “But I am a very patient man.”
The dining room was hung with crystal chandeliers and aglow with candlelight. Two places had been laid at one end of the ludicrously long table. White-jacketed waiters served a first course of green lentils and caviar.
“You must have toiled all day on this,” joked Isabel.
“My chef used to work for Alain Ducasse in Paris.”
“What a coincidence. So did mine.”
“Do you have household help in that little hutch of yours in the Old Town?”
“I have a very nice woman from Senegal who straightens up for me every Friday afternoon.”
“You need something larger.”
“I’m thinking about a place in Cologny.”
“Good idea. Perhaps this will help.”
He presented Isabel with a single-page document outlining the terms of his offer. It included a one-time signing bonus of fifty million Swiss francs—the equivalent of $56 million—and a yearly salary of ten million francs. Isabel would earn most of her money, however, through her annual bonuses. The letter promised that they would never be less than eight figures in size.
“I know nothing about the oil business.”
“You won’t be working in that part of the company. In fact, you won’t even have an office in NevaNeft headquarters. Yours will be around the corner on the rue de Rhône.”
“What will I do there?”
“Nominally, you will be the owner of a small investment firm.”
“What will I really be doing?”
Arkady smiled. “Processing.”
Isabel laid the offer letter on the table. “It’s a mistake, Arkady. I’m more valuable to you at GVI.”
“My relationship with Martin has been extremely successful. Those beautiful office towers in America and London are proof of that. But GVI alone can’t handle the volume of processing I require. I need a dozen Martins working around the clock. You will be standing atop the podium with a baton in your hand. You will serve as my kapellmeister.”
Isabel tapped the document with the tip of her forefinger. “It doesn’t mention anything about me sleeping with you.”
“My lawyer advised me not to put it in writing.”
“Is it a job requirement?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“And if I’m not interested?”
“I will be heartbroken, but it will have no impact on our working relationship.” He pushed the letter across the tabletop. “That is yours to keep. Take all the time you need.”
With that, he allowed the matter to drop. Isabel prepared herself to be sexually propositioned but was pleasantly surprised when he asked about her childhood in Trier. He had visited the city in 1985, he claimed, while working as a Soviet diplomat. Isabel listened to Arkady’s lies with false attentiveness, a hand pressed to her chin. She only hoped she was half as convincing. Obviously, she had played her part well. How else to explain the fact that Arkady had offered her a senior position at Kremlin Inc.? Regrettably, she would be unable to accept it, as Kremlin Inc. would soon face an unprecedented period of market turbulence.
They returned to the drawing room for coffee. Arkady sat down at the Bechstein and played the Moonlight Sonata. It was a performance worthy of Murray Perahia or Alfred Brendel.
“You missed your calling,” said Isabel.
“We have that in common, you and I.” He lowered the piano’s fallboard. “Women usually melt when I play that piece. But not you, Isabel.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s late.”
“Was my playing that bad?”
“It was the perfect end to a lovely evening.”
“And you’ll consider my offer?”
“Of course.”
He rose from the piano and lifted the lid of the signal-blocking box. “What are you doing for the holidays?”
“Hiding from the virus. You?”
“Oksana and I are spending Christmas here in Féchy, but we’re celebrating New Year’s Eve with a few friends in Courchevel.”
“A few friends?”
“Actually, it will be a rather large gathering.”
“I thought the ski resort was closed because of the pandemic.”
“It is. But I’ve purchased every snowmobile in Les Trois Vallées to get my guests to the top of the mountain. Several important figures from Moscow are flying in for the occasion.” He handed Isabel her phone. “I insist you join us.”
“I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”
“You won’t be. In fact, one of my guests specifically asked me to invite you.”
“Really? Who?”
Arkady took Isabel by the arm. “My driver will take you back to Geneva.”