The Cellist by Daniel Silva
67Mason’s Yard, St. James’s
The first review of the newest recording of Dvořák’s beloved Cello Concerto in B Minor appeared on the website of Gramophone magazine. The soloist was the previously unheralded Isabel Brenner; the conductor, the legendary Daniel Barenboim. Their personal chemistry, wrote the reviewer, was evident from the cover photograph, and from the power of their performances—especially Ms. Brenner’s, which was noteworthy for its haunting, luminous tone. The fill-up material was Dvořák’s “Waldesruhe” and Brahms’s Cello Sonata in F Major. For the chamber pieces, Isabel was accompanied by the pianist Nadine Rosenberg, perhaps best known for her long collaboration with the renowned Swiss violinist Anna Rolfe.
The concise artist’s biography contained in the press materials documented Isabel’s remarkable journey from obscurity to musical success—at least a portion of it. Born in the ancient city of Trier, she had studied the piano under the tutelage of her mother before taking up the cello. At the age of seventeen she was awarded a third prize at the prestigious ARD International Music Competition, thus guaranteeing admission to the conservatory of her choice. Instead, she earned degrees in applied mathematics from Berlin’s Humboldt University and the London School of Economics, and embarked on a career in the financial services industry—for which firm, the biography pointedly did not say.
But a sharp-eyed business reporter from the Guardian, a classical music enthusiast herself, remembered that an Isabel Brenner had been linked to the notorious Russian Laundromat at RhineBank, the recent collapse of which was currently battering global financial markets. The reporter rang the high-powered lawyer representing Anil Kandar, the former RhineBank executive now on trial for money laundering and fraud, and asked whether Isabel Brenner the cellist was also Isabel Brenner the dirty German banker.
“Same girl,” replied the lawyer.
The story unexpectedly produced a notable increase in sales, as did a rave five-star review in BBC Music magazine. But it was Isabel’s sensational interview with Anderson Cooper on 60 Minutes that propelled the album to number one in both Britain and the United States. Yes, she admitted under questioning, she had worked for RhineBank’s Russian Laundromat, but only as a means of gathering information and collecting incriminating documents. She had given those documents to the investigative reporter Nina Antonova and to the legendary Israeli spymaster Gabriel Allon, who had enlisted her in an operation against Arkady Akimov. With Allon guiding her every move, she had penetrated Arkady’s inner circle and had helped to launder and conceal several billion dollars’ worth of looted Russian state assets.
“Arkady trusted you?” asked Cooper.
“Implicitly.”
“Why?”
“Music, I suppose.”
“Were you ever in danger?”
“Several times.”
“What did you do?”
“I improvised.”
The interview was a global sensation, especially in Russia, where early the following morning Arkady Akimov’s smashed body was discovered in the courtyard of an apartment building on Baskov Lane in St. Petersburg, having landed there after a fall from an upper-floor window. Police declared the death a suicide, despite the fact the body showed signs of multiple blunt-force injuries.
Isabel, who was in hiding at an undisclosed location, declined to comment. Nor did she discuss the matter when she arrived in Britain in mid-July for her debut concert at London’s Barbican Centre. Tickets were impossible to come by—only half the usual number were available for purchase—and security was unusually tight. Among those in attendance were the Swiss financier Martin Landesmann and his wife, Monique.
After thrice returning to the stage to acknowledge the adulation of the crowd, Isabel was whisked clandestinely across London to a quiet backwater of St. James’s known as Mason’s Yard. There, in the glorious upper exhibition room of Isherwood Fine Arts, she was fêted as though she were a member of the family, which indeed she was.
“Miraculous!” declared Julian Isherwood.
“Truly,” agreed Oliver Dimbleby.
Sarah pried Isabel from Oliver’s grasp and introduced her to Jeremy Crabbe, who was similarly entranced. Reluctantly, he surrendered her to Simon Mendenhall, the smooth-as-silk auctioneer from Christie’s, and Simon delivered her to Amelia March of ARTNews, who was the only reporter in attendance.
After providing Amelia with a suitable quote for her article, Isabel excused herself and approached the one man at the party who seemed to have no interest in meeting her. He was standing before a landscape by Claude, a hand pressed to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.
“Better than that still life in the safe house by the lake,” she said.
“Much,” agreed Gabriel.
She looked around the room. “Friends of yours?”
“You might say that.”
“Where’s Mr. Marlowe?”
“Avoiding that woman over there.”
“She looks like someone I saw in a fashion magazine once.”
“You did.”
“Why on earth would he want to avoid her?”
“Because he’s currently living with that one over there.”
“Sarah?”
Gabriel nodded. “She’s another one of my restoration projects. So is the former fashion model.”
“And I thought my life was complicated.” Isabel regarded him carefully. “I have to say, you look rather good for someone who’s lucky to be alive.”
“You should have seen me a few months ago.”
“How bad is the scar?”
“I have two, actually.”
“Do they still hurt?”
Gabriel smiled. “Only when I laugh.”
He was the first to leave the party. Not surprisingly, no one seemed to notice he had gone. Isabel departed soon after, but the others lingered until nearly midnight, when the last of the Bollinger Special Cuvée finally ran dry. On her way out the door, Olivia Watson blew Sarah a decorous kiss with those perfect crimson lips of hers. Through a frozen smile, Sarah whispered, “Bitch.”
She supervised the caterers while they packed away the empty bottles and dirty glasses. Then, after arming the gallery’s security system, she went into Mason’s Yard. Christopher was leaning against the hood of the Bentley, an unlit Marlboro between his lips.
His Dunhill lighter flared. “How was the party?”
“Why don’t you ask Olivia?”
“She told me to ask you.”
Frowning, Sarah slid into the passenger seat. “You know,” she said as they sped westward along Piccadilly, “none of this would have happened if I hadn’t found that Artemisia.”
“Except for Viktor,” Christopher pointed out.
“Yes,” agreed Sarah. “Poor Viktor.”
She lit one of Christopher’s cigarettes and accompanied Billie Holiday as the Bentley flowed along the Brompton Road into Kensington. As they drew to a stop in Queen’s Gate Terrace, she noticed a light burning in the lower level of the maisonette.
“You must have forgotten—”
“I didn’t.” Christopher reached inside his suit jacket and drew his Walther PPK. “I won’t be but a moment.”
The door was ajar, the kitchen deserted. On the granite counter, propped against an empty bottle of Corsican rosé, was an envelope. Christopher’s name was written in stylish longhand on the front. Inside was a high-quality bordered correspondence card.
“What does it say?” asked Sarah from the open doorway.
“He’s wondering whether you and I ought to get married.”
“Truth be told, I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
“In that case . . .”
“Yes?”
Christopher returned the note card to the envelope. “Perhaps we should.”