The Cellist by Daniel Silva
49Courchevel, France
The base of Courchevel’s main ski lift stood with the stillness of a monument built by a long-vanished civilization, its empty gondolas swaying gently in the brilliant afternoon sunlight. Isabel strolled past a parade of exclusive shops—Dior, Bulgari, Vuitton, Fendi—all of which were shuttered. Next was a ski rental outlet, also closed, and a small café where two patrons, a man and a woman, were drinking coffee from paper cups at a table on the pavement. The man wore a Salomon cap and wraparound sunglasses. The woman, black-haired and olive-complected, was chastising him in rapid, vehement French.
The small lie to cover the big lie . . .
Smiling, Isabel crossed the street and entered the pharmacy. As she was describing her symptoms to the white-jacketed woman behind the counter, she heard the ping of the electronic door chime. A moment later a sultry Russian-accented voice said, “Isabel? Is that you?”
It was Oksana Akimova. She was wearing a formfitting Fusalp ski suit. Her skin was aglow with the cold and the sun.
Breathlessly, she asked, “When did you arrive?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“Are you unwell?”
“Just a little carsick.”
“Why don’t you come skiing with us? The snow is perfect, and the slopes are absolutely empty.”
“I’m not much of a skier, to be honest. I think I’ll just go back to my room and rest before the party.”
“At least come have a drink with us. We’ve taken over the terrace of Le Chalet de Pierres.”
The pharmacienne placed the medication on the counter. Isabel paid with her credit card and followed Oksana into the street. Watched by the couple at the café, they walked past the same parade of shuttered shops to the base of the lift, where Oksana had left a red-and-black Lynx snowmobile.
“I guess it’s true,” said Isabel.
“What’s that?”
“That Arkady bought every available snowmobile in Les Trois Vallées.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Oksana settled behind the controls and fired the engine.
“I’m not dressed for this,” shouted Isabel over the racket.
“It’s just a few hundred meters up the hill.”
Isabel squeezed on to the back of the saddle and wrapped her arms around Oksana’s waist. It was shockingly slender, like the waist of an adolescent girl.
“I really think I need to lie down before the party.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can sleep tomorrow.”
Oksana turned up the slope of the hill and opened the throttle. Rather than progress in a straight line, she delighted in showing off her skill at handling the powerful machine. Like Anna Rolfe, she ignored Isabel’s pleas to slow down.
Le Chalet de Pierres, a Courchevel institution, stood on the left side of the slope. Four more Lynx snowmobiles were parked outside, and a collection of brightly colored skis and poles leaned drunkenly against the storage rack. Their Russian-speaking owners were gathered in a sunlit corner of the large terrace. The tables were littered with uneaten food and several bottles of Bandol rosé, most of them empty.
A sunburned Russian man thrust a glass of the wine into Isabel’s hand as Oksana made the introduction. “Everyone, this is Isabel. Isabel, this is everyone.”
“Hello, Isabel!” the Russians replied in unison, and Isabel responded by saying, “Hello, everyone.”
Oksana was lighting a cigarette. “Aren’t you going to take some?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“The medicine you bought at the pharmacy.”
Isabel unscrewed the cap from the container and washed down a tablet with the rosé. “Where’s Arkady?”
“At the airport awaiting the arrival of tonight’s guest of honor.”
“Who is he?”
“Arkady didn’t tell you?”
Isabel shook her head. “Only that he was very keen to meet me.”
“You should consider yourself lucky,” said Oksana. “You have been touched by the magic hand.”
“What does that mean?”
“In Russia you cannot succeed or become wealthy unless someone in a position of power or influence places his hand on your shoulder. Arkady has placed his hand on you. Soon you will be as rich as an oligarch.”
“But I’m not Russian.”
“Look around you, Isabel. Do you see any other non-Russians here? You’re one of us now. Welcome to the party that never ends.” Oksana gave an ironic smile. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Suddenly, the valley echoed with the distant thump-thump-thump of rotors. A moment passed before the first helicopter came into view. Two more soon followed. As they descended toward Courchevel’s mountaintop airfield, the revelers gathered on the terrace broke into a boisterous version of the state anthem of the Russian Federation.
Oksana’s eyes shone with emotion. “Why aren’t you singing?” she asked.
“I don’t know the words.”
“How is this possible?”
“I’m German.”
“Nonsense!” Oksana threw an arm around Isabel’s shoulder. “Look around you, Isabel. You’re one of us now.”
The helicopters were Airbus H215 Super Pumas operated by the French military. Aboard the first was the president of the Russian Federation, a small entourage of traveling aides, and four officers of the Russian Presidential Security Service. Eight additional Russian bodyguards were squeezed into the second helicopter along with several crates of secure communications equipment. The third Airbus was reserved for a detail from the French Service de la Protection. Relegated to standing watch at the perimeter, the officers would spend their New Year’s Eve outside in inclement Alpine weather rather than with friends and loved ones in Paris. Morale was said to be exceedingly low.
An advance team from the SDLP had arrived in Courchevel that morning for a site survey of the hotel-size chalet on the rue de Nogentil where the Russian president would celebrate the New Year with his childhood friend from Leningrad and three hundred invited guests. Had the officers bothered to knock on the door of the more modest dwelling at Number 172—thirty thousand a night, seven-night minimum, no exceptions, no refunds—they would have discovered a multinational group of holidaymakers who had come to Courchevel, seemingly on a whim, despite the fact the ski area was closed. A further inspection of the premises would have uncovered the presence of a large quantity of sophisticated electronic equipment and several firearms.
It would have also revealed that the holidaymakers were in fact officers of Israel’s vaunted secret intelligence service. One was Gabriel Allon, a man who had waged a long and bitter struggle against revanchist Russia and its malign organs of state security. Another was his old friend and accomplice Eli Lavon, chief of the physical-and-electronic-surveillance division known as Neviot. Two other division chiefs, Rimona Stern of Collections and Yossi Gavish of Research, had also slipped into Courchevel unobserved. At present, they were drinking coffee at the café across the street from the pharmacy. The previous occupants of their table were strolling past the darkened storefronts lining the rue de la Croisette. The man wearing a Salomon hat and wraparound sunglasses was Mikhail Abramov. He was accompanied by his French-speaking wife, Natalie Mizrahi.
The final member of the team—he was known variously as Nicolas Carnot, Peter Marlowe, or, more accurately, Christopher Keller—was borrowed from the ranks of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. Concealed beneath the attire of a cross-country skier, he was drinking hot cider on the terrace of Le Chalet de Pierres, watching a band of inebriated Russians singing a lusty, dissonant rendition of their national anthem. Two attractive women, one Russian, the other German, stood slightly apart from the group. An audio feed from the German woman’s phone, which was tucked into her fashionable shearling coat, was audible in the rented chalet on the rue de Nogentil.
“Why aren’t you singing?”
“I don’t know the words.”
“How is this possible?”
“I’m German.”
“Nonsense! Look around you, Isabel. You’re one of us now.”
The singing faded, as did the beating of the helicopter rotors. For that much, at least, Gabriel was grateful. The sound had stirred in him an unpleasant memory.
Enjoy watching your wife die, Allon . . .
He moved to the window of the chalet’s vaulted great room and watched a motorcade winding its way down the serpentine rue de l’Altiport. As it passed beneath his feet, he fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and aimed it toward the figure in the back of an armored Peugeot 5008. The thug from Baskov Lane in Leningrad. The godfather of a nuclear-armed gangster regime.
The motorcade continued along the rue de Nogentil for another one hundred meters before turning into the forecourt of the hotel-size chalet. Instantly, officers of the SDLP and Police Nationale established a checkpoint at the northern end of the street—a checkpoint through which the beautiful German woman on the terrace of Le Chalet de Pierres would soon be compelled to pass. At four fifteen, after a harrowing snowmobile ride down the mountain, she returned to her hotel, where the Spanish-born head of reservations informed her that Monsieur Akimov had taken the liberty of arranging her car for the evening.
“How thoughtful of him. What time?”
“Nine o’clock, Madame Brenner.”
“Tell the driver not to expect me before nine thirty. There’s nothing worse than arriving for a party too early. Wouldn’t you agree, Ricardo?”
“No, Madame Brenner. Nothing at all.”