The Cellist by Daniel Silva
48Courchevel, France
It was Jean-Claude Dumas, general manager of the chic K2 Palace, who famously dismissed the clientele of the Hôtel Grand Courchevel as “the elderly and their parents.” Her rooms were thirty in number, modest in size, and discreet in appointment. One did not come to the Grand for gold fixtures and suites the size of football pitches. One came for a taste of Europe as it once was. One came to linger over a Campari in the lounge bar or dawdle over coffee and Le Monde in the breakfast room. But never in ski attire, mind you; guests waited until after breakfast before dressing for the slopes. The hotel’s wireless Internet service, a recent if reluctant addition to her abbreviated list of amenities, was universally regarded as the worst in Courchevel, if not the entire French Alps. Devotees of the Grand rarely complained.
At half past one p.m. on New Year’s Eve, the Grand’s tidy lobby was as silent as a crypt. The lounge bar was closed by government edict, as was the breakfast room, the grill room, the gym, the spa, and the indoor swimming pool. The kitchen was operating on a skeleton crew, with “no contact” room service being the only option for on-premises dining. At present, only two of the Grand’s rooms were occupied. With the resort’s ski lifts shut down and its nightclubs shuttered, Courchevel was a gilded ghost town.
Consequently, most of the resort’s hotels were closed for the all-important winter holidays. But not the proud Grand. For the sake of its longtime seasonal employees, management had refused to surrender to the surging pandemic, even if it meant incurring day-to-day operational losses. Quite unexpectedly, the hotel had been rewarded with an onslaught of New Year’s Eve bookings. It seemed the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov had decided to throw caution to the wind and host a blowout at his monstrous chalet in the Jardin Alpin. Twenty-four of Arkady’s guests had wisely decided to sleep it off at the Grand rather than risk the treacherous drive down the mountain. Regrettably, most were Russians, for whom management did not care. Before the plague, they would have been informed—by polite email or with a phone call from Ricardo the reservations manager—that there was no room at the inn. The harsh economic realities of the day, however, had required the Grand to relax its exacting standards and open its doors to the invaders from the East.
One of Arkady’s guests, however, was a certain Isabel Brenner—German citizen, resident of Geneva, one night in a Deluxe Prestige Suite, very VIP. Or so claimed the abrasive personal assistant who had made the reservation on Arkady’s behalf. Ricardo had pledged to personally look after Madame Brenner’s every need before placing the assistant on eternal hold. For his insolence, he received a call from none other than Arkady himself, who issued a not-so-veiled threat of bodily violence if Madame Brenner’s stay fell short of absolute perfection. Ricardo, a Spaniard from the restive Basque region, had no reason to doubt the authenticity of the billionaire’s warning. Twelve years earlier, a Russian investigative journalist named Aleksandr Lubin had been stabbed to death in Room 237. It was Ricardo, nearly twenty-four hours after the killing, who found the body.
Owing to the hotel’s perilously low current occupancy rate, he had granted Arkady’s guests the option of a two p.m. check-in at no additional charge. Therefore, at the stroke of 1:45, he stepped hesitantly from the grotto of Reception and took up a defensive position just inside the Grand’s double glass doors. He was joined a moment later by the reassuring presence of Philippe, a neatly built former French paratrooper who wore the crossed keys of the International Concierge Institute on his spotless lapel.
Philippe automatically consulted his wristwatch as a Mercedes sedan braked to a halt at the base of the Grand’s front steps. “Maybe this was a mistake,” he said quietly.
“Maybe not,” replied Ricardo as the limousine’s only passenger emerged from the backseat.
Attractive female, mid-thirties, blond hair parted on one side, casually but expensively dressed. The driver was a towering brute, more bodyguard than chauffeur. Ricardo pointed out the slight bulge at the left side of his jacket, suggesting the presence of a concealed firearm.
“Ex-military,” declared Philippe.
“Russian?”
“Does he look Russian to you?”
“What about the woman?”
“We’ll know in a minute.”
Thierry the bellman lifted a single piece of luggage from the boot of the Mercedes.
“Russians,” said Ricardo, “never come to Courchevel with only one suitcase.”
“Never,” agreed Philippe.
The woman bade farewell to her driver and started up the steps. Her gaze was vaguely remote, as though she were listening to distant music. It was beautiful music, thought Ricardo. Proper music. Not the EDM technocrap they blasted at deafness-inducing levels every night at Les Caves.
He retreated to the grotto of Reception and watched Philippe fling open the door with more than his usual flourish. The concierge greeted the woman in syrupy French, and she responded in the same language, though it was readily apparent that French was not her native tongue. Ricardo, who typically spent several hours each day on the phone with foreigners, had a well-honed ear for accents. The graceful young woman who seemed to be listening to music only she could hear was a citizen of Germany.
“Madame Brenner?” he asked when she presented herself at the check-in counter.
“How could you tell?”
“Lucky guess.” Ricardo flashed his polished hotelier’s smile and handed her the cardkey to her room. “Monsieur Akimov has seen to all your charges. If there’s anything at all we can do to be of service, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I could use a coffee.”
“I’m afraid the lounge is closed, but there’s a Nespresso in your suite.”
“How’s the gym?”
“Closed.”
“The spa, too?”
Ricardo nodded. “All the public spaces in the hotel are closed by order of the government.”
“I think I’ll take a walk.”
“A fine idea. Thierry will place your bag in your room.”
“Is there a pharmacy nearby?”
“Follow the rue de l’Église down the hill. The pharmacy will be on your right.”
“Merci,” said the woman, and went out.
Ricardo and Philippe stood side by side in the doorway, watching her descent down the steps.
“No wonder Arkady wants us to take such good care of her,” said Ricardo as she disappeared from view.
“You think she’s—”
“His mistress? No way,” said Ricardo. “Not that one.”
A pair of limousines drew up in the street. Four Russians. A mountain of luggage. Not a mask in sight.
Ricardo shook his head. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
“Maybe you’re right,” agreed Philippe.