The Cellist by Daniel Silva
51Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel
Two of the Russian bodyguards were at that moment standing like pillars at the entrance of Arkady’s chalet. One was holding a clipboard, the other a portable magnetometer. Evidently, Isabel had been singled out for additional scrutiny; the pat-down she endured at the hands of the one with the magnetometer bordered on sexual assault. When it was finally over, Comrade Clipboard rummaged through her handbag as though searching for something of value to steal. He found nothing of interest other than her phone, which he demanded she unlock in his presence. She entered the eight digits as swiftly as possible, and the home screen appeared. Satisfied, the Russian returned the device and ordered Isabel to enjoy the party.
Inside, a skinny, mannequin-like girl in stage makeup and a formfitting sequined gown relieved Isabel of her overcoat and then carelessly directed her toward the chalet’s great room. She had expected the decor to match the timbered exterior, but the room was white and modern and hung with large, colorful works of contemporary art. On one side was an open staircase leading to a loft on the second level, where two more expressionless Russian bodyguards stood watch along a balustrade. Beneath them, two hundred or so stylishly attired revelers, drinks in hand, were shouting at one another over the deafening music. Isabel could feel the vibration of the sound waves crawling like insects over her bare arms. Or perhaps, she thought, it was merely particles of coronavirus. She considered pulling on her mask but decided against it. Even the poor French catering staff were absent protection.
A second mannequin girl, her clothing identical to the first, wordlessly pointed out the cocktail table. Several more women moved like dead souls amid the guests, occasionally alighting on the arm of an unaccompanied male. Isabel supposed they were party favors. One was attached to Mad Maxim Simonov, the nickel king, who was engaged in an intense conversation with the Kremlin press secretary. An unusually accomplished liar, the press secretary owned several luxury homes, including an apartment on Fifth Avenue, and vacationed regularly in hot spots such as Dubai and the Maldives. On his left wrist was a limited-edition Richard Mille watch worth $670,000, more than he had earned during his entire career as a humble servant of the Russian people.
He was not the only example of unexplained riches in the room. There was, for example, the former hot-dog salesman who was now the proud owner of record of several highly valuable Russian firms, including the shadowy Internet company that had meddled in the American presidential election of 2016. And the former judo instructor who now built gas pipelines and electric power stations. And the former director of the Mariinsky Theatre who had somehow amassed a personal fortune in excess of $10 billion.
And then, of course, there was the former KGB officer who now owned the Geneva-based oil trading firm known as NevaNeft. At present, he was standing next to the bodyguards along the balustrade, no doubt searching for Isabel. Adopting the unseeing gaze of the mannequin girls, she walked over to the nearest cocktail table, where she lent her ear to a wholesome-looking man of around forty.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he roared in American-accented English.
“I believe they’re complimentary,” shouted Isabel in reply. She asked the server for a glass of champagne, and the American ordered vodka.
“You’re not Russian,” he pointed out.
“You seem disappointed.”
“I’ve always heard Russian girls are easy.”
“Especially girls like her.” Isabel nodded toward one of the ambulatory mannequins. “If I had to guess, they were flown in for the occasion.”
“Like the caviar.”
Isabel smiled. “Why are you here?”
“Business,” he bellowed.
“What do you do?”
“I work for Goldman Sachs.”
“My condolences. Where?”
“London. What about you?”
“I play the cello.”
“Nice. How do you know Arkady?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Is that your phone?”
“What?”
He pointed toward the bag she was clutching in her left hand. “I think you have a call.”
Glancing toward the loft, she saw Arkady standing at the balustrade with a phone to his ear. His eyes were searching the crowd, which suggested he had not yet discovered Isabel’s whereabouts. She decided to remain in the company of the wholesome-looking stranger a little longer. Though she was allergic to Americans, this one seemed relatively harmless.
“Nice bag,” he said when the phone stopped ringing.
“Bottega Veneta,” explained Isabel.
“Nice watch, too. How much do cellists make?”
“My father is one of the richest men in Germany.”
“Really? Mine is one of the richest in Connecticut. What are you doing for the rest of your life?”
“To be honest, I haven’t a clue.” The phone started up again. “Will you excuse me?”
“You forgot this.” He handed her a glass of champagne. “What’s your name?”
“Isabel.”
“Isabel what?”
“Brenner.”
“I won’t forget you, Isabel Brenner.”
“Please don’t.”
She stepped away and engaged in a futile attempt to remove her phone from the clutch while at the same time holding the champagne. Eventually she lifted her gaze toward the balustrade and saw Arkady observing her struggle with obvious amusement. He beckoned to her with one hand and with the other pointed to the base of the staircase. A moment later he greeted her on the landing with a kiss on each cheek. The display of affection did not go unnoticed by Oksana, who was eyeing them from below.
“I see you met Fletcher Billingsley,” Arkady blared.
“Who?”
“The handsome young banker from Goldman Sachs.”
“Have you been unfaithful, Arkady?”
“My relationship with Fletcher is entirely legitimate.”
“What does that make me?”
He caressed her shoulder. “I assume you now know the name of the man who would like to meet you.”
“I believe I do. In fact, one of his bodyguards gave me a thorough groping before letting me through your door.”
“I’m afraid you’re about to get another.”
He led her through a doorway, into a small sitting room—an anteroom, thought Isabel. The walls were adorned with framed photographs of the man who awaited her on the other side of the next door. Most of the photos depicted him meeting with important people and tending to important matters of state, but in one he was walking along a rocky streambed, his hairless chest exposed to the pale Russian sunlight.
“Does he come here often?” asked Isabel, but Arkady made no reply other than to lift the lid of yet another decorative signal-blocking box. Automatically, Isabel placed her phone inside.
Arkady closed the lid and nodded toward the waiting officer of the Russian Presidential Security Service. His pat-down was even more invasive than the one Isabel had received earlier. When it was over, he demanded her purse.
Arkady placed his hand on the latch of the door. “Ready?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Excited?”
“A bit nervous, actually.”
“Don’t worry,” whispered Arkady as he opened the door. “He’s used to it.”