The Cellist

by Daniel Silva

  He asked her to remain behind as the others filed out of the room. “How was your phone call?” he asked.

  “If I had to guess, you’ll be meeting with Arkady on Tuesday afternoon at three.”

  Smiling, Isabel returned to her office to find the red message light on her phone flashing like a channel marker. It was a breathless Ludmilla Sorova calling to say that Mr. Akimov was free to meet with Mr. Landesmann on both Tuesday and Wednesday, with Tuesday being his preference. She was hoping to hear from Isabel before the day was out, as Mr. Akimov’s time was limited as well.

  “I wonder why.” Isabel deleted the message. Then, to no one in particular, she asked, “What do you think?”

  A few seconds later her mobile phone shivered with an incoming message.

  Nothing that can’t wait until morning.

  “My thought exactly.”

  Isabel placed a few papers in her shoulder bag, pulled on a lightweight quilted coat, and headed downstairs. Outside, the highest peaks of the Mont Blanc massif blushed in the last tawny light of sunset, but the neon Rolex and Hermes signs burned atop the elegant buildings lining the South Bank of the Rhône. In the Place du Port, she passed the ugly modern office building where, on the uppermost floor, Ludmilla Sorova eagerly awaited her call. The next square was the trapezoidal Place de Longemalle. The Englishman, disreputably attired in denim and leather, was drinking a Kronenbourg at a table outside the Hôtel de la Cigogne. The label of the bottle was pointed directly toward Isabel, which meant she was not being followed.

  To reach the Old Town she first had to cross the rue du Purgatoire. Her apartment building overlooked the shops and cafés of the Place du Bourg-de-Four. The little Israeli who reminded Isabel of a rare book dealer was seated cross-legged on the cobbles next to the ancient wellhead. Dressed in the soiled clothing of a vagrant, he was clutching a tattered sign requesting food and money from passersby. At present, the sign was right side up, meaning he shared the opinion of the Englishman that Isabel was not being followed.

  Upstairs in her apartment, she opened the windows and shutters to the chill autumn air and poured herself a glass of wine from an open bottle of Chasselas. Her cello beckoned. She removed it from its case, placed a mute upon its bridge, and laid her bow upon the strings. Bach’s Cello Suite in G Major. All six movements. No sheet music. Not a single mistake. Afterward, the habitués of the square beneath her window demanded an encore, none with more enthusiasm than the little vagrant sitting on the cobbles at the base of the wellhead.

  Isabel rang Ludmilla Sorova the following morning and greenlit Tuesday at three. She then laid down a number of conditions for the encounter, none of which were negotiable, as she was pressed for time. The duration of the meeting, she explained, would be forty-five minutes, not a minute more. Mr. Akimov was to come alone, with no associates, attorneys, or assorted hangers-on.

  “And no security detail, please. Global Vision Investments isn’t that sort of place.”

  For the next four days, Isabel was entirely unreachable, at least where Ludmilla Sorova was concerned. Emails went unreturned, phone calls unanswered—including the urgent call Ludmilla placed at 2:50 p.m. on Tuesday regarding Mr. Akimov’s imminent arrival at GVI headquarters. It was unnecessary, for Isabel, from her office window, could see his appalling motorcade barreling toward her over the Pont du Mont-Blanc.

  By the time she reached the lobby, he was bounding from the back of his limousine. Chased by a band of bodyguards, he marched across the pavement and came whirling through the revolving door. The pose he struck was that of a victorious general come to dictate terms of surrender. His expression softened when he spotted Isabel standing next to the security desk.

  “Isabel,” he called out. “So wonderful to see you again.”

  Hands clasped behind her back, she nodded formally. “Good afternoon, Mr. Akimov.”

  “I insist you call me Arkady.”

  “I’ll do my best.” She checked the time on her phone, then gestured toward the elevators. “This way, Mr. Akimov. And if you wouldn’t mind, please instruct your security detail to remain here in the lobby or in their vehicles.”

  “Surely you have a waiting room upstairs.”

  “As I explained to your assistant, Martin finds them disruptive.”

  Arkady muttered a few words to the bodyguards in Russian and followed Isabel into a waiting elevator carriage. She pushed the call button for the ninth floor and stared straight ahead as the doors closed, a leather folio case clutched defensively to her breasts. Arkady tugged at his French cuff. His expensive cologne hung between them like tear gas.

  “You mentioned the other night that you used to live in Zurich.”

  “Yes,” replied Isabel vaguely.

  “What sort of work did you do there?”

  “Banking. Like everyone else.”

  “Why did you leave this bank of yours and come to Geneva?”

  I left because of you, she thought. Then she said, “I was given the sack, if you must know.”

  Arkady regarded her reflection in the elevator doors. “What was your crime?”

  “They caught me with my hand in the till.”

  “How much did you steal?”

  She met his reflected gaze and smiled. “Millions.”

  “Were you able to keep any of it?”

  “Not a centime. In fact, I was living on the streets until Martin came along. He cleaned me up and gave me a job.”

  “Perhaps he is a saint, after all.”

  When the doors opened, Arkady insisted Isabel depart the carriage first. The hallway along which she led him was hung with photographs of Martin engaged in philanthropic pursuits in the developing world. Arkady offered no commentary on the shrine to Martin’s good works. In fact, Isabel had a nagging suspicion he was at that moment assessing the quality of her ass.

  She paused at the conference room door and held out a hand. “This way, Mr. Akimov.”

  He brushed past her without a word. Martin appeared distracted by something he was reading on his mobile phone. A single chair stood on each side of the long wooden table, upon which was arrayed an assortment of mineral water. The carefully staged setting seemed more suited to high-stakes East-West summitry than a criminal conspiracy. All that was missing, thought Isabel, was the obligatory handshake for the press photographers.

  Instead, the two men exchanged a cheerless, unspoken greeting across the divide of the table. Martin scored the first goal of the contest owing to the fact he was tieless and his opponent was hopelessly overdressed. In an attempt to even the score, Arkady dropped into his chair without first receiving an invitation to sit. Martin, in a shrewd display of boardroom jujitsu, remained on his feet, thus retaining control of the high ground.

  He looked at Isabel and smiled. “That will be all for now, Isabel. Thank you.”

  “Of course, Martin.”

  Isabel went out, closing the door behind her, and returned to her office. The digital clock on her desk read 3:04 p.m. Forty-one minutes, she thought. And not a minute more.

  36

  Quai du Mont-Blanc, Geneva

  Not surprisingly, Martin had resisted the installation of hidden cameras and microphones in the conference room of Global Vision Investments. He acquiesced only after receiving a solemn pledge from Gabriel that the devices—all of them—would be removed at the conclusion of the operation. There were four cameras in all, and six high-resolution microphones. The encrypted feed bounced from a receiver in the telecom closet to the team’s new safe house in diplomatic Champel. They hadn’t bothered with much of a cover story to explain their presence. The local security service was a silent partner in their endeavor.

  They received their first update at half past two, when Eli Lavon’s watchers in the Place du Port reported the arrival of a motorcade—a Mercedes-Maybach sedan and two Range Rovers—at the NevaNeft headquarters. Arkady Akimov stepped from the building’s opaque doorway fifteen minutes later, and at 2:55 p.m. he was listening
to Isabel explaining that his security detail was not welcome in the carbon-neutral confines of Global Vision Investments. The transmission from her phone died when she entered the lift, and when the audio feed resumed, she was standing in the door of the conference room. Martin and Arkady were glaring at one another over the table like prizefighters in the center of a ring.

  “That will be all for now, Isabel. Thank you.”

  “Of course, Martin.”

  Isabel withdrew, leaving the two billionaires alone in the conference room. At length, Martin opened one of the bottles of mineral water and slowly poured two glasses.

  “Do you think he’ll drink any of it?” asked Eli Lavon.

  “Arkady Akimov?” Gabriel shook his head. “Not if it was the last drop of water on earth.”

  “If you would prefer,” said Martin, “I have some without gas.”

  “I’m not thirsty, thank you.”

  “You don’t drink water?”

  “Not unless it’s my water.”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  “Capitalism in Russia is a contact sport.”

  “This is Geneva, Arkady. Not Moscow.” Martin finally sat down. “For the record—”

  “I don’t see anyone keeping a record, do you?”

  “For the record,” Martin repeated, “I agreed to take this meeting as a courtesy to you, and because we live and work in close proximity to one another. But I have no intention of going into business with you.”

  “You haven’t heard my offer.”

  “I already know what it is.”

  “Do you?”

  “It’s the same offer you’ve made to countless other Western businessmen.”

  “I can assure you, they’ve all done remarkably well.”

  “I’m not like them.”

  “I’ll say.” Arkady surveyed the photographs hanging on the wall of Martin’s conference room. “Who do you think you’re fooling with this bullshit?”

  “My charitable foundation has changed millions of lives around the world.”

  “Your charitable foundation is a fraud. And so are you.” Arkady smiled. “I’ll have some of that water, please. No gas, if you don’t mind.”

  Martin poured a glass of the sparkling water and nudged it across the table. “Where did you learn your negotiating tactics? The KGB?”

  “I was never a KGB officer. That, as they say, is an old wives’ tale.”

  “That’s not what I read in The Atlantic.”

  “I sued them.”

  “And you lost.”

  Arkady moved the glass aside without drinking from it. “You clearly have a better publicity department than I do. How else to explain the fact that the press has never written about your relationship with a certain Sandro Pugliese of the Italian ’Ndrangheta? Or your ties to Meissner PrivatBank of Liechtenstein? And then there were those centrifuge components you were selling to the Iranians through that German company of yours. Keppler Werk GmbH, I believe it was.”

  “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. After all, successful men like us are always being accused of wrongdoing. They accuse me of being a KGB officer, that I owe all my wealth to my relationship with Russia’s president. It is nothing more than anti-Russian bigotry. Russophobia!” He thumped the tabletop for emphasis. “Consequently, I sometimes find it necessary to conduct my affairs in a way that shields my identity. As do you, I imagine.”

  “Global Vision Investments is one of the most respected private equity firms in the world.”

  “Which is precisely why I would like to be in business with you. I have an enormous amount of excess capital sitting on the sidelines. I would like you to invest that capital on my behalf, using the unimpeachable imprimatur of GVI.”

  “I don’t need your money, Arkady. I have plenty of my own.”

  “Your net worth is a paltry three billion, if the most recent Forbes list is to be believed. I’m offering you the chance to be rich enough to truly change the world.” He paused. “Would that be of interest to you, Saint Martin?”

  “I don’t like to be called that.”

  “Ah, yes. I believe I read that in the same article that mentioned your disdain for business cards.”

  “And just where is this excess capital of yours now?”

  “A portion of it is already here in the West.”

  “How much?”

  “Let’s call it six billion dollars.”

  “And the rest?”

  “MosBank.”

  “Which means it’s in rubles.”

  Arkady nodded.

  “How many rubles are we talking about?”

  “Four hundred billion.”

  “Five and a half billion dollars?”

  “Five-point-four-seven, at today’s exchange rate. But who’s counting?”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “My construction company was recently awarded a contract for a large public works project in Siberia.”

  “Do you intend to actually construct any of it?”

  “As little as possible.”

  “So the money has been siphoned from the Federal Treasury.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I don’t deal in looted state assets. Or in rubles, for that matter.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll have to convert my looted rubles into a reserve currency before investing the money on my behalf.”

  “In what?”

  “The usual. Privately held companies and industrial concerns, large real estate assets, perhaps a port or two. These assets will be held by Global Vision Investments, but the true ownership will reside with several corporate shell companies that you will create for me. You will keep these assets on your books until such time as I see fit to dispose of them.”

  “I just founded a nongovernmental organization dedicated to promoting the spread of democracy around the world, including to the Russian Federation.”

  “You would have a better chance of slowing the rise of the seas than bringing democracy to Russia.”

  “But you see my point.”

  “The fact that you are now a self-declared opponent of the Russian government plays to our advantage. No one would ever dream that you are doing business with someone like me.” Arkady admired his wristwatch—Patek Philippe of Geneva, one million Swiss francs—and then rose to his feet. “I was told your time was limited, as is mine. If you are interested in my offer, send word to my office by no later than five p.m. on Thursday. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll take my business elsewhere. No hard feelings.”

  “And if I’m interested?”

  “You will draw up a detailed prospectus and deliver it to my villa in Féchy on Saturday. Oksana and I are having a few friends for lunch. I’m sure you and your lovely wife will find the other guests interesting.”

  “I have plans this weekend.”

  “Cancel them.”

  “I’m addressing a gathering of civil society leaders in Warsaw on Saturday.”

  “Another lost cause.”

  “I’ll have my lawyer deliver the prospectus.”

  Arkady smiled. “I don’t deal with lawyers.”

  Isabel returned to the conference room at the stroke of 3:45 p.m. It appeared as though nothing had changed since she left. Now, as then, one man was seated and another was standing, though it was Arkady, not Martin, who was on his feet. The air between them was charged with the electricity of their final exchange.

  Isabel escorted Arkady to the lifts and bade him a pleasant evening. Returning to the conference room, she found Martin standing contemplatively at the window, as though posing for a One World Foundation promotional video.

  “How did it go?”

  “Arkady Akimov would like us to launder and conceal eleven and a half billion dollars.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” Martin answered. “I’m afraid there’s one more thing.”

  At seven
fifteen that evening, while tidying up her already spotless desk, Isabel received a text message from a number she didn’t recognize, instructing her to purchase some wine on her way home. The sender was good enough to suggest a shop on the boulevard Georges-Favon. The proprietor recommended a Bordeaux of moderate price but exceptional vintage and placed it in a plastic bag, which Isabel carried through the quiet streets of the Old Town to the Place du Bourg-de-Four. The vagrant was in his usual spot near the wellhead. He appeared oblivious to the fact he was holding his sign upside down.

  Isabel dropped a few coins in his cup and crossed the square to the entrance of her building. Upstairs, she opened the wine and poured a glass. Once again, her cello beckoned, but this time she ignored it, for her thoughts were elsewhere. The oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov had invited her to attend a luncheon on Saturday at his villa in Féchy. And she was now under surveillance by the private Russian intelligence service known as the Haydn Group.

  37

  Geneva–Paris

  Martin rang Isabel at half past seven the following morning while she was attempting to revive herself with a pulverizing shower after a largely sleepless night.

  “I’m sorry to call so early, but I wanted to catch you before you left for the office. I hope it’s not a bad time.”

  “Not at all.” It was the day’s first lie. Isabel was certain there would be more to come. “Is there a problem?”