The Cellist by Daniel Silva

52Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel

In the rented chalet on the opposite side of the rue de Nogentil, Gabriel and the six other members of his team were at that moment gathered around a single laptop computer, monitoring the encrypted feed from Isabel’s compromised smartphone. For a period of approximately three minutes, the device had been disconnected from the SFR Mobile cellular network, presumably as a result of being placed in a signal-blocking containment vessel. It was now in the hands of an officer of the Russian Presidential Security Service. Having correctly entered the password on his first attempt, he was scrolling through the directory of recent voice calls.

“Now we know why the boys at the front door ordered her to unlock her phone,” said Eli Lavon.

“Is there any way they can find our malware?” asked Gabriel.

“Not unless they attach the phone to a computer. And even then, the technician would have to be damn good to find it.”

“They are good, Eli. They’re Russians.”

“But we’re better. And you were meticulous when it came to her communications.”

“So why did they steal her password?” Gabriel glanced at the computer. “And why is Igor now reading her text messages?”

“Because Igor’s boss told him to read them. That’s what a Russian gangster does before hiring a non-Russian to launder his money.”

“Do you think she can handle him?”

“If she hits her toe marks . . .”

“What, Eli?”

“We’ll own him.”

The decor of the room matched the rest of the chalet, bright and modern, nothing timbered or rustic or suggestive of a ski lodge. For that matter, there seemed to be nothing of Arkady in the room, either. Nothing but the piano, another Bösendorfer. Polished to a high black gloss, it stood forlornly atop a pale gray carpet, unplayed. In one corner of the room sat four men. Two were quite obviously members of the Russian president’s security detail. The other two reeked of bureaucracy; doubtless they were Kremlin apparatchiks. Nearby was a stack of lead-gray electronic components, red and green signal lights winking. It was the hardware, thought Isabel, of a head-of-state-level secure phone. The receiver was wedged between the shoulder and ear of the Russian president.

He wore a black rollneck sweater rather than a dress shirt, and a costly-looking cashmere sport jacket. His fair hair, carefully parted and combed, covered less of his scalp than was suggested by recent photographs. The expression on his medically pampered face was one of irritation, as though he had been placed on hold. It was the same expression, thought Isabel, that he routinely displayed to Western counterparts before embarking on an hourlong airing of grievances, real and imagined.

Arkady escorted Isabel to an arrangement of contemporary furniture adjacent to the room’s soaring picture window. The view was to the west, toward the darkened slopes of the ski area. As they sat down, the president began to speak, a burst of rapid Russian followed by a long pause. A minute or two later, he spoke a second time, and once again a lengthy silence ensued. Isabel reckoned there was translation involved.

“It sounds important.”

“It usually is.”

“Perhaps I should wait outside.”

“You told me you don’t speak Russian.”

“Not a word.”

“Then please stay where you are.” Arkady was staring out the window, a forefinger resting speculatively along one cheek. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

Isabel looked down at her hands and noticed that her knuckles were white. The Russian president was speaking again, though now it was in English; he was wishing the person at the other end of the call a happy New Year. At the conclusion of the conversation, he handed the phone to an aide and in Russian addressed Arkady from across the room.

“A minor crisis at home,” Arkady explained to Isabel. “He’d like us to wait outside while he makes another call or two.”

They rose in unison and, watched by the Russian president, returned to the anteroom. During their brief absence, three additional officers of the Presidential Security Service had arrived. One was Comrade Clipboard, the sentry from the front door.

Arkady was looking at his phone. “How is your hotel?” he asked.

“Lovely. I’m only sorry I can’t stay longer.”

“When are you planning to leave?”

“Martin’s driver is picking me up at noon.”

Arkady looked up from the phone abruptly but said nothing.

“Is something wrong?”

His smile appeared forced. “I was hoping you might join us for brunch tomorrow.”

“I really need to be getting back to Geneva.”

“Numbers to crunch?”

“Always.”

Arkady’s phone purred with an incoming call. The conversation was brief and largely one-sided. “It turns out the crisis isn’t so minor, after all,” he said after killing the connection. “I only hope you can forgive me for dragging you all the way to Courchevel for nothing.” He nodded toward Comrade Clipboard. “Gennady will escort you back to the party. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”

“All I need,” said Isabel, “is my phone.”

Arkady removed it from the box and handed it over. The movement did not awaken the device from its slumber. Isabel thumbed the side button, but there was no response. The phone was powered off.

She slipped it into her handbag and followed Comrade Clipboard down a hallway and into a waiting lift. Two other security men squeezed inside as well. One pressed a call button labeled B.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the party,” answered Comrade Clipboard.

“The party is on the first floor.”

When the door slid open, the stench of chlorine was overwhelming. Comrade Clipboard seized Isabel by the arm and pulled her from the carriage. A single figure stood on the deck at the pool’s edge, faintly lit by watery blue light. It was Fletcher Billingsley, the rich American from Goldman Sachs whom she had met at the bar upstairs.

He approached her slowly, a benevolent smile on his face, and addressed her in Russian-accented English. “I told you that I wouldn’t forget you, Isabel.”

He issued no threat or warning, which was inadvertently chivalrous on his part, for it gave Isabel no opportunity to prepare herself for the pain. One moment she was standing ramrod-straight, the next she was doubled over like a folding knife. He eased her with surprising tenderness to the cold tile floor, where she fought in vain to draw a breath. The chalet seemed to be spinning. Welcome to the party that never ends, she thought. Enjoy it while it lasts.