The Cellist by Daniel Silva

56Chambéry Airport, France

Arkady Akimov had been relegated to the second helicopter. His seat, the only one available, was at the back of the drafty cabin, next to the crates of secure communications equipment. Oksana was balanced childlike atop his knee, pouting. The thunderous beating of the rotors made conversation all but impossible, which was a blessing. In the car she had pummeled him with questions. Why were they returning to Moscow with Volodya? Were they in trouble? What would happen to the money? Who would look after her? Did it have something to do with Isabel? That was when she had pummeled him with her fists instead of more questions. And he had acquiesced, at least for a moment, for he had earned it. He was confident it would not be the first indignity he would suffer. More would follow once they arrived in Russia. Isabel had stripped away his veneer of wealth and power. She had destroyed him. He was no one, he thought. A nothing man.

The other eight passengers crammed into the second Airbus were all officers of Volodya’s security detail. As they were approaching Chambéry, the mood in the cabin grew anxious. Arkady could not make out what they were saying, but it appeared as though there was a problem at the airport. He shifted Oksana to his opposite knee and peered out the rear starboard-side window. The lights of Chambéry sparkled like gemstones, but there was a large black spot where the airport should have been.

Only the gleaming white Ilyushin Il-96, its landing and logo lights burning brightly, was visible in the gloom. The helicopter touched down about a hundred meters behind the tail. Oksana angrily rejected Arkady’s attempt to hold her hand as they crossed the darkened tarmac. The bodyguards walking behind them exchanged a few contemptuous remarks at his expense.

A nothing man . . .

Volodya, having left his helicopter, was trudging up the forward airstair, trailed by Yevgeny Nazarov and his other close aides. A second airstair stretched from the Ilyushin’s rear door. Arkady looked to one of the bodyguards for direction and was informed, with an insolent nod, that he would make the return trip to Moscow in the back of the plane, with the rest of the hired help.

Inside the cabin, he and Oksana parted company, perhaps for the last time. Oksana collapsed into a seat on the port side of the aircraft, next to one of Volodya’s bodyguards—the best-looking one, of course. Arkady sat across the aisle and stared into the night. His thoughts were filled with images of his own death. Given the available menu of options, a fall from an elevated window would indeed be preferable. Death by nerve agent, the death he had inflicted on the traitor Viktor Orlov, would be quick and relatively painless. Death by polonium, however, would be prolonged and excruciating, a Shostakovich symphony of suffering.

And then, he thought, there was the sort of death the KGB had meted out to those who betrayed it. A savage beating, a merciful bullet to the back of the head, a grave with no marker. Vysshaya mera . . . The highest measure of punishment. For the crime of giving eleven and a half billion dollars of his money to the likes of Gabriel Allon, Arkady feared he would leave this world in the worst way imaginable. He only hoped Volodya looked after Oksana when he was gone. Perhaps he would keep her for himself. When it came to women, his appetite was insatiable.

Suddenly, Arkady realized that Oksana was calling to him from across the aisle. He turned sharply, hopeful of clemency, but she pointed with irritation toward the left side of his suit jacket. He hadn’t noticed his phone was ringing.

The call was from a number he didn’t recognize. He declined it and tossed the phone on to the next seat. Instantly, it began to ring again. Same number. This time Arkady tapped the accept icon and raised the phone hesitantly to his ear.

“Am I catching you at a bad time, Arkady?” asked a voice in Berlin-accented German.

“Who is this?”

“Who do you think?”

“Your German is quite good, Allon. How can I help you?”

“You can call the driver of that snowmobile before he gets out of cellular range and tell him to turn around.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because if he doesn’t, I’m going to kill him. And then I’m going to kill you, Arkady.”

“I’m comfortably seated on Russian soil. Which means I’m quite beyond your reach.”

“That plane isn’t going anywhere unless you give me Isabel.”

“And if I do? What do I get in return?”

“You don’t have to go back to Moscow to face the music. Trust me, it won’t end well.”

Arkady squeezed the phone tightly. “I’m afraid I need something more tangible. An office building on Brickell Avenue in Miami, for example.”

“The money is gone, Arkady. It’s never coming back.”

“But I have to offer him something.”

“In that case, I suggest you improvise. And quickly.”

The connection died.

Outside on the tarmac, the flight crew and several members of Volodya’s security detail were engaged in a heated argument with two airport officials. Arkady closed his eyes and saw something else, a bloody and battered man on his knees in a small room with walls of concrete and a drain in the center of the floor.

The highest measure of punishment . . .

He opened his eyes with a start and contemplated the number stored in his phone’s directory of recent calls. Perhaps it was not inevitable, he thought. Perhaps Gabriel Allon, of all people, had just offered him a way out.

Oksana was now flirting shamelessly with her seatmate. Rising, Arkady headed up the center aisle to the partition separating the luxurious forward compartment from the rest of the cabin. The door was locked. He knocked politely and, receiving no answer, knocked again. At length, the door swung open, revealing the elegant form of Tatiana Nazarova, retired Olympic sprinter and current wife of Yevgeny Nazarov. She sneered at Arkady as though he were late delivering her main course.

“Volodya does not wish to see you at this time. Please return to your seat.”

She tried to close the door, but Arkady blocked it with his foot and pushed past her. The lights were dimmed, the mood tense. One aide was trying to awaken the Élysée Palace. Another was shouting in Russian at someone in Moscow—presumably the Russian foreign minister. A lot of good that would do. It was New Year’s Eve, and the foreign minister was one of the world’s great drunks.

Only Volodya appeared untroubled. He was slouched in a swivel chair, hands dangling from the armrests, an expression of terminal boredom on his face. Arkady stood before him, eyes averted, and awaited permission to speak.

It was Volodya who spoke first. “Is it safe to assume that this so-called power outage is not a coincidence?”

“It was Allon’s doing,” answered Arkady.

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“A moment ago.”

“Did he switch off the power supply on his own, or are the French involved, too?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What did he say?”

“He wants the woman.”

“The one you allowed to steal my money?”

“I didn’t know she was working for Allon.”

“You should have.”

With his penitential silence, Arkady conceded the point.

“Is there a deal to be made?”

“He says not. But I had the impression he might be prepared to be reasonable. Let me speak to him again. Face-to-face, this time.”

Volodya adopted a dead-eyed stare. “Thinking about crossing over to the other side? Selling our secrets to Allon and his friends at MI6 in exchange for a nice little cottage in the English countryside?”

“Of course not,” lied Arkady.

“Good. Because you’re not going anywhere.” Outside, the tarmac was suddenly ablaze with light. Volodya smiled. “Perhaps you should return to your seat now.”

Arkady started toward the door of the compartment.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Arkady Sergeyevich?”

He stopped and turned around.

Volodya held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”