The Cellist by Daniel Silva
47Costa de Prata, Portugal
Gabriel’s old friend from France’s DGSI was a man named Paul Rousseau. Working together, they had destroyed the external terrorism division of the Islamic State, earning Gabriel the admiration and gratitude of France’s security establishment. For that reason, Rousseau had revealed closely guarded details of the Russian president’s pending private visit to France—details that Gabriel shared with Isabel in the familiar surroundings of Anna Rolfe’s villa on the Costa de Prata.
The Russian president, he explained, was scheduled to arrive at two p.m. on New Year’s Eve. His aircraft, a modified Ilyushin Il-96, would land at Chambéry Airport. There he would board a French government helicopter for the short flight to Courchevel, where he would attend a party at a luxury chalet owned by the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov. A number of French businessmen and politicians were expected to attend the gathering as well, including several leading figures from the far right, which the Russian president supported clandestinely. A team of twelve officers from the Russian Presidential Security Service—a so-called light footprint, in the lexicon of the protective trade—would look after him inside the chalet. The SDLP would handle the perimeter, with support from uniformed Police Nationale officers. Anticipated departure from the chalet was one minute past midnight. Departure from Chambéry Airport was scheduled for one fifteen.
“Unless, of course, he’s running late, which is usually the case.”
Like most things about the New Russia, Gabriel continued, the Russian Presidential Security Service was a remnant of the KGB. Formerly known as the Ninth Chief Directorate, it had served as the praetorian guard of the Communist Party elite. Now it protected only the Russian president, his family, and the prime minister. The officers were drawn mainly from elite spetsnaz units. They were killers in nice suits, and fanatically devoted to the man they served.
“Nevertheless, the French will have primacy as long as the Russian president is on their soil. Courchevel is very isolated, one road in and out, a mountaintop airstrip that’s little more than a helipad. If there’s a problem, I can ask my friends in the French government to lock it down.”
“So there’s no risk?”
“There’s always a risk when Russians are involved. But I believe it can be managed. Otherwise, I wouldn’t consider allowing you to attend.”
“Won’t Arkady be suspicious if I refuse?”
“Not if you have a good excuse.”
“Like what?”
“A severe case of Covid that requires you to be hospitalized in Geneva.”
“The small lie to cover the big lie?”
From upstairs came the sound of a G-minor arpeggio. Rising, Gabriel walked over to the large stone fireplace and arranged a pyre of dried olive wood on the grate, atop a bed of kindling.
“How long did you live here?” asked Isabel.
“Six months and fourteen days. A few months later, while I was working on a painting in Venice, I met the woman I would one day marry.”
“One day?”
“My life was rather complicated.”
“Not as complicated as mine.”
“You have me to thank for that.”
“I was the one who gave those documents to Nina.”
“And now you’ve been invited to spend New Year’s Eve with the president of Russia.”
“Just the way you planned it from the beginning?”
“Hardly.” He touched a lighted match to the kindling and returned to the couch. “The Russian president and I have been locked in a blood feud for many years now. I’ve gotten the better of him lately, but he evened the score when he killed my friend Viktor Orlov. He would love nothing more than to kill me, too. In fact, he’s tried on several occasions. Twice he tried to kill me with a bomb. The last was attached to a child.”
“My God,” Isabel whispered.
“I’m afraid God had nothing to do with what happened that night. The Russian president is not a statesman, Isabel. He is the godfather of a nuclear-armed gangster regime. They are not ordinary, run-of-the-mill gangsters. They are Russian gangsters, which means they are among the cruelest, most violent people on earth. That is why we’ve gone to such lengths to protect you. And why I’m reluctant to allow you to go to Courchevel.”
“Why do you suppose he wants to meet me?”
“If I had to guess, he’d like to ask you a question or two before he allows Arkady to hire you. After all, it’s his money. Arkady is only the bagman.”
“And if I pass the test?”
“We would have an asset in the heart of Kremlin Incorporated.” He paused. “We would own him.”
“Mr. Big?”
He nodded.
“And when it’s over?”
“I’m afraid you will have plenty of time to practice the cello.”
“How long will I have to remain in hiding?”
“If you walk away now, not long. But if you take a job with Kremlin Incorporated . . .” He left the thought unfinished.
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“I’ve never lied to you. Only to Arkady.”
“He believes your lies. Mine, too.”
“Are you improvising again?”
Upstairs, Anna was playing Paganini’s Caprice no. 10. Smiling, Isabel lifted her gaze toward the ceiling. “Don’t you love to listen to her practice?”
“Immensely.”
“Are you lying to me now?”
Gabriel closed his eyes. “Never, Isabel.”
Later that evening, after consuming a traditional Portuguese meal served by a contemptuous Maria Alvarez, Gabriel tried to prepare Isabel for the shock of being in the same room with the most powerful man in the world. A cursory review of press photographs and video revealed the marked change in his appearance in the two decades since his rise to power. Gone were the sunken cheeks and dark circles beneath his eyes. Now he had the waxen face of a corpse on display in a mausoleum. His right arm, broken during a street brawl in Leningrad, hung stiffly at his side when he walked. Intentionally rude and vulgar, he took pleasure in the discomfort of others. Successive American and Western European leaders had emerged from meetings appalled by his conduct. The slouch, the displayed crotch, the dead-eyed stare.
“Like his friend Arkady Akimov, he speaks fluent German, so he will undoubtedly address you in your native language rather than in English, which he speaks poorly. Feel free to wish him a pleasant New Year, but make no other attempt to engage him in conversation. Allow him to ask the questions, and keep your answers brief and to the point. And if you feel nervous, don’t hesitate to say so. He’s a serial killer. He’s used to people being nervous in his presence.”
Isabel’s preparation continued the following morning after Eli Lavon and Christopher Keller arrived from Geneva. Lavon, who spoke both Russian and German, volunteered to portray Vladimir Vladimirovich in a dry run of the encounter. The exercise ended soon after it began, however, when his attempt to appear menacing provoked nothing in Isabel except an expression of pity. Later, following a break for lunch, she breezed through several mock interrogations. Gabriel conducted the last. When it was over, he laid his Beretta 9mm on the table.
“And what happens if they start waving one of these around? Or if they hit you with it? What do you do then, Isabel?”
“I tell them everything they want to know.”
“Everything,” Gabriel repeated. “Including my name and phone number. Is that clear?”
She nodded.
“Recite it, please.”
She did as she was told.
“Again, please.”
She sighed. “I reworked RhineBank’s entire balance sheet in less than hour. I can remember a phone number.”
“Humor me.”
Isabel repeated the number accurately and then slumped in her seat, exhausted. What she needed, thought Gabriel, was not additional training but several days of well-deserved rest.
He left her in the hands of Anna Rolfe and turned his attention to the task of moving his operation from Switzerland to the enchanted ski village of Courchevel. Located 135 kilometers south of Geneva, it was an exclusive playground of the beautiful and the rich, especially rich Russians. Arkady’s chalet was on the rue de Nogentil. Housekeeping snared a vacant property on the same street for a mere thirty thousand a night, minimum stay of seven nights, no exceptions during the high season, no refunds in the event of a cancellation. Like the Russian president, Gabriel planned to arrive with a light footprint. With the exception of Christopher Keller, all his personnel would be Israeli, though their passports, drivers’ permits, and credit cards would identify them as anything but.
By Christmas morning the preparations were complete. All that remained was Arkady’s invitation, which Isabel had yet to accept. Once again, Gabriel waited for the Russian billionaire to take the initiative. He passed the holiday quietly with his young wife in Féchy; Isabel, with her friend Anna Rolfe on the Costa de Prata. They walked the windswept beach in midmorning and that evening shared a festive meal with three old friends, including a handsome Englishman who had once been hired to kill Anna during a recital in Venice. It was, she declared, the most enjoyable dinner party she had thrown in many years.
There was no contact from Arkady on Boxing Day, or the day after that. But on Monday the twenty-eighth, he rang Isabel’s mobile and, receiving no answer, left a lengthy message on her voice mail. She waited until late Tuesday morning before calling him back.
“But why not?” asked Arkady, deflated.
“Because I won’t know a soul there, and I don’t speak a word of Russian.”
“The guest list includes plenty of non-Russians. And if you don’t attend, my friend from Moscow will be upset.”
“Who is he, Arkady?”
“A very important figure in the Kremlin. That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”
Isabel exhaled slowly.
“That sounded like a yes to me,” said Arkady.
“On two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“I will see to my own transportation.”
“It’s not such an easy drive up the mountain.”
“I’m German. I’ll manage.”
“And the other?”
“You will behave yourself, especially when I’m around your wife.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Isabel glanced at Gabriel, who nodded once. “All right, Arkady. You win.”
“Brilliant. I’ve already taken the liberty of booking you the largest suite at the Hôtel Grand Courchevel. The head of reservations is named Ricardo. He promised to take excellent care of you.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“What time is the party?”
“The first guests should begin to arrive around nine. My chalet is on the rue de Nogentil in the Jardin Alpin. It’s the largest in Courchevel,” he boasted before ringing off. “You can’t possibly miss it.”