The Cellist by Daniel Silva
59Tzamarot Ayalon, Tel Aviv
Not far from King Saul Boulevard, in the Tel Aviv district known as Tzamarot Ayalon, there stands a colony of thirteen new luxury high-rise apartment towers. In one of the buildings, the tallest, was an Office safe flat. The current occupant played the cello day and night, much to the exasperation of her neighbor, a multimillionaire software magnate. The magnate, who was used to getting his way, complained to the building’s management, and management complained to Housekeeping. Gabriel retaliated by arranging for the young cellist to take daily lessons from Israel’s most sought-after instructor. He was not concerned about a security breach. The instructor’s daughter worked as an analyst for Research.
He was leaving as Gabriel arrived. “She played quite beautifully today,” he said. “Her tone is truly remarkable.”
“How about her mood?”
“Could be better.”
She was seated before a westward-facing window, her cello between her knees, the light of the setting sun on her face. It bore no trace of the ordeal she had suffered at the hands of Felix Belov, apart from a bit of trapped blood, the result of a subconjunctival hemorrhage, in one eye. Gabriel was envious of her recuperative powers. It was her youth, he assured himself.
She looked up suddenly, surprised by his presence. “How long have you been listening?”
“Hours.”
She lowered her bow and rubbed her neck.
“How are you feeling?”
She moved aside the cello and raised her shirt, revealing a huge magenta-and-garnet-colored bruise.
Gabriel winced. “Does it still hurt?”
“Only when I laugh.” She lowered the shirt. “I suppose it could have been worse. Every time I close my eyes, I see his body lying in the snow.”
“Do you want to talk to someone?”
“I thought I was.”
“You had every right to do what you did, Isabel. It will take time, but one day you will forgive yourself for having the courage to save your own life.”
“According to the newspapers, he’s missing.”
“I believe I read something about that, too.”
“Will his body ever turn up?”
“If it does, it won’t be in France.”
“His English was flawless,” said Isabel. “I still find it hard to believe he was actually Russian.”
“I’m sure his many American readers would agree with you.”
She frowned. “What American readers?”
“Felix Belov was the chief of the Haydn Group’s U.S.A. desk. My cyber specialists are analyzing the hard drives as we speak. The entire Russian playbook for information operations directed against the West, all at our fingertips.” He paused. “And all because of you.”
“How have you managed to keep my name out of the press?”
“Quite easily, actually. The only people who know about you are Martin and the Russians.”
“What about Anil Kandar?”
“He’s been told that if he so much as mentions your name, he’ll spend the next two centuries in prison.”
“And how long is my sentence?” she asked.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in hiding until I’m certain the Russian president’s desire for vengeance has receded.”
“He doesn’t strike me as someone who lets bygones be bygones.” She placed the cello in its case. “Have you determined who he was talking to when I entered that room?”
“The British signals intelligence service has concluded the call came from a secure phone in Washington, but there’s no intercept of the conversation.”
“Arkady was a different person after that call. I had them, Gabriel. And then they had me.” Rising, she moved to the window. “Where’s your office?”
“Its location is officially a secret.”
“And unofficially?”
Gabriel pointed to the southwest.
“Very close.”
“Everything is close in Israel.”
“Do you live here in Tel Aviv?”
“Jerusalem.”
“You were born there?”
Gabriel shook his head. “A small agricultural settlement in the Valley of Jezreel. Most of the people who lived there were German-Jewish survivors of the Holocaust. Quite a few were musicians.”
“Can you ever forgive us?” she asked.
“I’ve never subscribed to the notion of collective guilt. But the Holocaust proved once and for all that we could not depend on others to look after our security. We needed a home of our own. And now we have one. You’re welcome to stay, if you like.”
“Here?”
“Our economy is thriving, our democracy is stable, and we will be vaccinated long before the rest of the world. We also have an extraordinary philharmonic orchestra.”
“I’m German.”
“So were my parents.”
“And I oppose the occupation.”
“Many Israelis do. We must find a just solution to the Palestinian question. Permanent occupation is not the answer.” Noticing the surprise on her face, he added, “It’s a somewhat common affliction among those who have spent their lives killing to defend this country. In the end, we all become liberals.”
“It’s tempting,” said Isabel after a moment. “But I think I would prefer to go back to Europe.”
“Our loss.”
“Is Germany safe?”
“If that is your wish, I’ll arrange it with the head of the BfV. The Swiss have also agreed to resettle you, as have the British. But if I were you, I’d be inclined to accept Anna Rolfe’s offer.”
“What’s that?”
“Her villa on the Costa de Prata.”
“Who will provide the security?”
“Mr. Big.”
Isabel stared at him in disbelief.
“There are several billion dollars in uninvested funds sitting in Martin’s account at Credit Suisse.”
“It does have a certain poetic justice.”
“I’ve always preferred real justice. And once the new American administration finds its footing, I’m confident they’re going to track down a great deal of his money.”
“But will it change anything?”
“In Russia power is wealth, and wealth is power. The Russian president knows that if the money goes away, his power will go away, too. The protests have already started. It is my intention to help them along.” Gabriel smiled. “I’m going to meddle in his politics, for a change.”
It was a few minutes after seven p.m. when Gabriel’s motorcade turned into Narkiss Street. Upstairs, he shared a quiet dinner with Chiara and the children, a rare extravagance. Nevertheless, his gaze wandered often to the television in the next room. In Washington, a joint session of Congress was preparing to certify the results of the presidential election. The outgoing president was addressing an enormous crowd of supporters gathered in frigid weather on the grassy expanse known as the Ellipse. The audio was muted, but according to the updates crawling across the bottom of the screen, he was repeating his baseless claims that the election had been stolen from him. The crowd, some of whom were clad in military tactical gear, was growing more agitated by the minute. It looked to Gabriel like a combustible situation.
At the conclusion of dinner, he supervised the children’s baths, to little discernible effect. Afterward, he sat on the floor between their beds while they drifted off to sleep—first Raphael, then, twenty minutes later, talkative Irene. Out of habit, he marked the time. It was 10:17 p.m. He gave each child a final kiss and, closing their door soundlessly behind him, went to watch the news from Washington.