The Cellist by Daniel Silva
46Geneva–Costa de Prata, Portugal
Isabel was awakened by her phone shortly after eight the following morning. She tapped the accept icon and raised the device to her ear.
“Didn’t I read somewhere that you never get out of bed before noon?”
“Reporters,” said Anna Rolfe disdainfully.
“If I remember correctly, it was a direct quote.”
Anna laughed. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You did, actually. I had a rather late night.”
“What was his name?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I’ve had a few nights like that myself,” admitted Anna.
“I’ve read about those, too.”
Anna asked about Isabel’s plans for the holidays. Isabel gave her the same answer she had given Arkady the previous evening, that she intended to shelter in place in her apartment in the Old Town.
“I have a better idea,” said Anna. “Let’s take a trip. Just the two of us.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“How shall I pack?”
“In a suitcase, I suppose.”
“Warm or cold?”
“Cold,” said Anna. “And wet.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“Meet me at Geneva Airport at noon. Martin has agreed to let us borrow his plane.”
“Noon today?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Cello or no cello?”
“Cello,” replied Anna before ringing off. “Definitely cello.”
Isabel closed her eyes and tried to sleep a little longer, but it was no use; the sun was streaming through her window, and her thoughts were spinning. She doubted Anna’s unexpected call had been as spontaneous as it sounded. In fact, Isabel was all but certain it had something to do with the invitation Arkady had extended after his performance of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. She had been holding her phone at the time, and the signal meter indicated it had reconnected to the cellular grid. Others had been listening.
In the kitchen, Isabel brewed a pot of coffee and watched the latest election news from America. The outgoing president’s lawyers were reportedly preparing a last-ditch appeal to the US Supreme Court to overturn the results in the pivotal battleground state of Pennsylvania. It was, said one legal analyst, the last desperate act of a desperate man.
Isabel switched off the television. Showered and dressed, she packed enough clothing for a stay of several days in a cold, wet climate. At 11:45, observed by two employees of the Haydn Group, she maneuvered the suitcase and her cello into the back of an Uber on the rue de l’Hôtel-de-Ville. Because it was a Sunday, the drive to the private terminal at Geneva Airport was only ten minutes. Anna was aboard Martin’s Gulfstream, her mobile phone to her ear.
“My agent,” she whispered, and continued the conversation until the plane was airborne and the connection was lost. Isabel’s phone read no service as well. Anna nevertheless placed both their devices in a signal-blocking pouch and sealed the Velcro flap.
“Since when do you travel with a Faraday bag?”
Anna smiled but made no reply.
“Where are we going?” asked Isabel.
“My villa in Portugal.”
“Just the two of us?”
“No. Our mutual friend will be there, too.”
“May I ask a question?”
“It’s a long story, Isabel.”
“Does it have a happy ending?”
Anna smiled sadly. “No such luck.”
An Audi sedan was waiting for them at the FBO at Lisbon Airport. Much to Isabel’s dismay, Anna insisted on driving. As they hurtled recklessly northward along the A8, she spoke without pause about her career, her failed marriages, her disastrous love affairs, and her lifelong struggle with bipolar disorder—all for the benefit of Isabel’s phone, which was resting on the center console, fully charged and connected to Portugal’s MEO mobile cellular network.
“And what about you?” asked Anna at last. “Tell me about your work for Martin.”
“We’re buying everything in sight.”
“I read something about a skyscraper in Miami.”
“And Chicago and London, too.” Isabel glanced at the speedometer. “Don’t you think you should slow down a bit?”
“Faster, you say?”
By the time they reached the Costa de Prata, the sun was a fiery orange disk suspended above a copper sea. Anna’s villa occupied a wooded hilltop overlooking the fishing village of Torreira. She flashed through the open security gate and a moment later braked to a halt in the gravel forecourt, where an elderly man waited in the fading afternoon light. With his white hair and saddle-leather skin, he reminded Isabel of Pablo Picasso. He seemed relieved that they had arrived from Lisbon in one piece.
“This is Carlos,” explained Anna. “When he’s not looking after my roof and my vineyard, he looks after me. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have a left hand, much less a career. Isn’t that right, Carlos?”
Ignoring her question, he directed his gaze toward a Volkswagen Passat estate car. “You have a visitor,” he said gravely.
“Really? Who?”
“Senhor Delvecchio. He arrived earlier this afternoon.”
“After all these years?”
“He said you were expecting him.”
“You were rude to him, I hope.”
“Of course, Senhora Rolfe.”
Isabel left her phone in the Audi and followed Anna into the villa. In the comfortably furnished sitting room they encountered another worried-looking member of the staff. It was Maria Alvarez, Anna’s longtime cook and housekeeper.
“What have you done with him?” asked Anna.
The housekeeper pointed toward the terrace, where a silhouetted figure stood at the balustrade, watching the sun sinking into the Atlantic.
“You’d better set an extra place for dinner.”
“If you insist, Senhora Rolfe.”
Anna remained in the sitting room while Isabel went onto the terrace. “Who’s Senhor Delvecchio?” she called out to the figure standing at the balustrade.
Gabriel delivered his answer over his shoulder. “He was someone I used to be.”
“Anna’s staff doesn’t seem to like him very much.”
“With good reason, I’m afraid.”
“You hurt her?”
“Evidently.”
“Scoundrel,” hissed Isabel.
Inside, Anna was filling three glasses with chilled tawny Port wine. She handed one to Gabriel and smiled. “I trust my staff treated you cordially when you arrived?”
“I can only imagine the things you said about me after I left.” He drew his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket. “I need to have a word with Isabel alone.”
Anna walked over to the couch and sat down.
“If you do not leave this room, you will remain here under armed guard for the foreseeable future.”
“That sounds wonderful to me. In fact, I think I’ll quarantine here until the plague subsides.”
“Please quarantine yourself in the next room. Or better yet, why don’t you go upstairs and practice? You know how much I used to love listening to you play the same arpeggio over and over again.”
Anna took up her glass and withdrew. Gabriel sat down in her place and entered a long password into his phone. A moment later it emitted the sound of a man speaking stilted German, in the accent of an Ostländer.
“Several important figures from Moscow are flying in for the occasion. 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?”
He paused the recording. “It sounds as though the evening went well.”
“Not as well as Arkady had hoped.”
“He made a pass at you?”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“And another?”
“Arkady would like us to enter into a long-term arrangement.”
“Sexual?”
“And professional.” Isabel handed over Arkady’s offer letter.
“The terms are rather generous,” said Gabriel after reviewing it. “But what exactly does he want you to do for all this money?”
“He’d like me to be his kapellmeister.”
“Meaning?”
“He wants me to serve as the liaison between Kremlin Incorporated and the financial services industry in the West.” She paused. “Head washerwoman.”
“He’s obviously impressed by your work.”
“So it would seem.”
Gabriel reset the time code on the recording and tapped the play icon.
“In fact, one of my guests specifically asked me to invite you.”
“Really? Who?”
He paused the recording a second time. “After you arrived home safely last night, I rang an old friend who works for the DGSI, the French internal security service. And I asked the old friend whether his government knew of any high-profile Russians who were planning to celebrate the New Year in Courchevel. And the old friend, after calling a contact at the Service de la Protection, told me his name.”
“What’s the Service de la Protection?”
“The SDLP is an elite unit of the Police Nationale that looks after the president and visiting foreign dignitaries.”
“He’s a government official, this important figure from Moscow?”
“Quite a senior one.”
“Who is he?”
“The CEO of Kremlin Incorporated.” Gabriel smiled. “Mr. Big.”