The Cellist by Daniel Silva
54Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel
At 11:30 p.m., approximately ninety minutes after Arkady Akimov summoned Isabel for her meeting with the Russian president, her phone remained off the air. It was possible the encounter had lasted longer than anticipated. It was also possible Isabel had left the phone in the signal-blocking receptacle after returning to the party. The more likely explanation, however, was that something had gone wrong inside the monstrous chalet on the opposite side of the rue de Nogentil.
A prudent and battle-scarred operational planner, Gabriel had prepared for such an eventuality. Five members of his team had slipped from the safe house in rented vehicles and were now positioned at key points around Courchevel. Yossi was parked across the street from Isabel’s hotel; Rimona and Natalie, in a deserted gas station near the entrance of the village. Christopher and Mikhail, the violent tip of Gabriel’s spear, were in an Audi Q7 on the rue du Jardin Alpin, near the gondola station. Keller, an accomplished outdoorsman and climber, had protectively brought along snowshoes and hiking poles. Mikhail had nothing other than an altitude-induced headache and a gun, a Barak SP-21 .45-caliber pistol, a man-stopper.
Only Eli Lavon remained with Gabriel in the safe house. At 11:59 p.m. they stepped onto the balcony and listened as Arkady’s inebriated guests thunderously counted down the final seconds of a most dreadful year. The motorcade departed at twelve fifteen. Yevgeny Nazarov, the ubiquitous Kremlin spokesman, had joined the president in the armored Peugeot SUV. Directly behind it was a Mercedes-Maybach. Inside were Arkady and Oksana Akimov.
“Late as usual,” said Lavon. “But why do you suppose Arkady is going with him to the airport?”
“It’s possible he wants to wave goodbye to the helicopter. The presence of his wife, however, would suggest he intends to be on the helicopter.”
“So would this.”
Lavon showed Gabriel a text message from the surveillance team in the Place du Port in Geneva. Several employees of the Haydn Group had just entered Arkady’s offices. Lights were burning on the sixth floor.
“If I had to guess,” said Lavon, “they’re shredding documents and erasing hard drives.”
Gabriel quickly dialed Christoph Bittel. “It looks as though Arkady is making a run for Moscow.”
“Say the word, and I’ll order a raid on his offices.”
“The villa in Féchy, too. And do me a favor, Bittel.”
“What’s that?”
“Make some noise.” Gabriel killed the connection and watched the flashing blue lights of the motorcade winding its way up the mountainside. “They wouldn’t try to take her to Russia—would they, Eli?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
The motorcade had reached the airport. A moment later the first Airbus Super Puma helicopter was airborne and turning toward the northwest.
“You know,” said Lavon after a moment, “if Arkady had any sense, he’d stay here in the West.”
“He handed me eleven and a half billion dollars of Mr. Big’s money on a silver platter. I rather doubt he was given that option.”
The second helicopter rose into the black sky, then the third.
“You’d better get it over with,” said Lavon.
Gabriel hesitated, then dialed. “This is going to be ugly.”
Owing to a recent string of deadly lone-wolf attacks by Islamic militants, Paul Rousseau, leader of an elite counterterrorism unit known as the Alpha Group, had decided to spend New Year’s Eve in his office on the rue Nélaton in Paris. Consequently, when his phone rang at 12:22 a.m., he assumed the worst. The fact that it was Gabriel Allon at the other end of the connection only added to his sense of impending doom. The Israeli’s briefing was rapid-fire and, without doubt, only partially accurate.
“Are you sure they’re planning to take her to Russia?”
“No,” answered Gabriel. “But at the very least, they know where she is.”
“She’s Israeli, this agent of yours?”
“German, actually.”
“Do the Germans know—”
“Next question.”
“Have the Swiss issued a domestic warrant for Monsieur Akimov’s arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Filed a Red Notice request with Interpol?”
“Paul, please.”
“We can’t detain him without legal justification. We need a piece of paper.”
“Then I suppose we’ll need to think of an extrajudicial way to prevent him from leaving the country.”
“Such as?”
“Close the airport, of course.”
“That would effectively ground the Russian president’s aircraft.”
“Exactly.”
“There will be diplomatic repercussions.”
“We can only hope.”
Rousseau sought bureaucratic shelter. “It’s not something I can do on my own. I need the approval of higher authority.”
“How much higher?”
“For something like this . . . Élysée Palace.”
“How does the French president feel about his Russian counterpart these days?”
“He loathes him.”
“In that case, will you allow me to make a suggestion?”
“By all means.”
“Call the palace, Paul.”
Which is precisely what Rousseau did, at 12:27 a.m. The French president was celebrating the New Year with a few close friends. Much to Rousseau’s surprise, he was not opposed to the idea of grounding his Russian counterpart’s plane. In fact, he rather liked it.
“Call the tower at Chambéry,” he said to Rousseau. “Tell them you’re acting on my behalf.”
“The tower will have to give the Russian pilots a reason for the delay.”
“Switch off the airport’s radar. The runway lights, too. That way, the pilots won’t try something stupid.”
“And if they do?”
“I’m sure you and Allon will think of something,” said the French president, and the line went dead.