The Cellist

by Daniel Silva

  “Which is why I didn’t invite you to the party, Morris.”

  “So why are you telling me about this now?”

  “Thirteen ninety-five Brickell Avenue. It’s a sixty-story tower in Miami’s financial district.”

  “What about it?”

  “Arkady and I bought it last week with money looted from Russia’s Federal Treasury.” Gabriel smiled. “It was a steal at four hundred million.”

  “Which firms are handling the mirror trades?” asked Payne when Gabriel had finished the briefing.

  “Actually, only one financial institution is involved.”

  “American?”

  “German.”

  “RhineBank?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “You are aware of the fact,” said Payne carefully, “that RhineBank is the president’s primary lender.”

  “I’m not interested in the president’s finances, Morris. I just want you to quietly ask the Treasury Department and the Fed to turn a blind eye to my activities for the moment.”

  “You neglected to mention the name of the Geneva-based private equity firm you’re using.”

  “Global Vision Investments.”

  “Saint Martin Landesmann? That tree-hugging leftist?”

  “That’s one way of describing him.”

  “I hear he’s in the democracy business now.”

  “He got into it at my suggestion. I created the Global Alliance for Democracy in order to place Martin on the Haydn Group’s radar.”

  Morris Payne smiled in spite of himself. “Not bad, Gabriel. But what is the goal of this operation?”

  “Once Arkady and I complete our shopping spree, I will ask the United States to seize the assets we purchased with looted Russian funds and freeze Arkady’s bank accounts worldwide. Given the pro-Russian sympathies of your boss, this reckoning will necessarily have to wait until after the inauguration.”

  “What makes you think the new crowd will go for it?”

  “Come on, Morris. Really.”

  “And the British?” asked Payne.

  “Downing Street will target Arkady’s assets in the United Kingdom, and simultaneously the Swiss authorities will shut down his operation in Geneva and expel his workforce, including the employees of the Haydn Group. Arkady will have no choice but to return to Moscow.”

  “If you’re right about the Haydn Group, their computers are the intelligence equivalent of the Holy Grail.”

  “I’ve already laid claim to them.”

  “Who gets the money?”

  “Anyone but the Tsar.”

  “If we seize it, the blowback from Moscow will be intense.”

  “That money is a weapon of mass destruction, Morris. He’s using it to weaken the West from within. The West’s internal political divisions are real, but the Russians have been fanning the flames. They’re good at this game. They’ve been playing it for more than a century. But now they have a new weapon at their disposal. The supremacy of the dollar gives the United States the power to disarm them. You must act.”

  “Not me. I’m out of here on January twentieth at noon.” Payne paused, then added, “If I survive that long.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “Apparently, I haven’t shown sufficient loyalty in the aftermath of the election.”

  “What did he want you to do?”

  “Next subject,” said Payne.

  “The mirror trades.”

  “I’ll talk to Treasury and the Fed.”

  “Quietly, Morris.”

  “The Agency knows how to keep a secret.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about,” said Gabriel. “Do you remember that code-word operation I was running in Syria against the Islamic State? The one your boss described in great detail to the Russian foreign minister in the Oval Office?”

  “I turned purple,” said Payne.

  “That makes two of us, Morris.”

  44

  Geneva

  Next morning the operation shifted into high gear. No longer constrained by the threat of American financial surveillance, Gabriel instructed Isabel to pressure Anil Kandar into making ever larger mirror trades. The daily hauls of laundered dollars increased sharply, and by week’s end there was enough cash in the till to finance another purchase. This time it was the rumored office tower on West Monroe Street in Chicago, which Martin purchased for $500 million from a Charlotte-based real estate trust. He turned over management of the building to the same company that was looking after 1395 Brickell Avenue. No one involved in the deal ever considered the possibility that the true owner of the property was Arkady Akimov and his childhood friend from Baskov Lane. No one, that is, but the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who sent Gabriel a secure cable of congratulations over his latest move in the American commercial real estate market.

  Gabriel’s Russian partner, however, appeared blissfully unaware that his financial empire—not to mention his private intelligence service—was in grave peril. Each afternoon he welcomed the instrument of his demise into his office and signed the documents that would seal his fate. So complete was Arkady’s trust of Isabel that by the second week of December she was no longer required to place her phone in the signal-blocking box on Ludmilla Sorova’s desk. The recordings lent support to her concerns about the state of Arkady’s emotions. In a bid to cool the Russian’s ardor, Gabriel dispatched Isabel to Paris for a Wednesday-evening tryst with Martin, but the ruse seemed to have the opposite of its intended effect. A billionaire many times over, Arkady Akimov was used to getting what he wanted. And what he wanted was Isabel Brenner in his bed.

  Gabriel had no intention of allowing his agent to be drawn into a love triangle—even a fictitious one. Used judiciously, however, Arkady’s affections could be put to good use in helping to run out the operational clock. Gabriel had already engineered more than enough financial misconduct to smash NevaNeft and the Haydn Group to pieces. All he needed now was a change of administration in Washington. On December 14, the Electoral College officially affirmed the president’s defeat. The final step in the process, a largely ceremonial congressional certification, would take place in three weeks’ time, on Wednesday, January 6. The defeated president called on Republicans in the House and Senate to use the occasion to overturn the results of the election. “Too soon to give up,” he wrote on Twitter. “People are really angry.” They were also dying of the coronavirus in record numbers. But the president, desperate to remain in power, seemed not to notice or care.

  Nor did he seem to notice that the Swiss financier and left-leaning political activist Martin Landesmann had dipped his toe into the American commercial real estate market. Martin’s next acquisition, however, was more in keeping with his track record: an Arizona-based manufacturer of wind turbines. The very next day he snapped up SunTech, a maker of solar panels headquartered in Fort Lauderdale. AeroParts of Salina, Kansas, was next, followed soon after by Columbia River Organic Foods of Portland.

  His final purchase of the year, an office tower in London’s Canary Wharf, came on the Friday of that week, the unofficial start of what promised to be the most depressing winter holiday since the darkest days of the Second World War. Isabel delivered the accompanying documents to NevaNeft headquarters at half past five, and for the first time in many days, Ludmilla Sorova demanded she surrender her phone before entering Arkady’s office. One hour later, when she emerged into the Place du Port, her handbag was hanging from her left shoulder rather than the right, a signal there was a problem. While crossing the rue du Purgatoire, she rang Martin and calmly explained what it was.

  “You’ll never guess who invited me to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I would give him an answer in the morning.”

  “Who else is going to be there?”

  “No one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oksana is leaving for Moscow for a few days. It wi
ll just be the two of us. What do you want me to do, Martin?”

  He rang her at nine the following morning with his answer. His airy tone betrayed the fact he was speaking on behalf of Gabriel.

  “It’s fine with me. In fact, it might be good for future business.”

  “And if he tries to seduce me?”

  “Improvise.” After a pause, Martin added, “If you think you can handle him.”

  “If I can handle you, I can handle Arkady Akimov.”

  “I didn’t realize I was being handled.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to try harder next time.”

  “Please do.”

  Isabel planned to telephone Arkady with the news at midday, but he called her five minutes after Martin rang off. He didn’t sound at all surprised when she accepted his invitation, though he was quite obviously pleased.

  “My driver will pick you up at your apartment at seven,” he said, and abruptly rang off.

  He didn’t bother to ask Isabel for the address.

  45

  Féchy, Canton Vaud

  Arkady’s garish villa sparkled like a yuletide tree, but in its cavernous ceremonial rooms the atmosphere was one of sudden abandonment. Isabel imagined the driver had mistakenly delivered her to Gatsby’s mansion in West Egg the morning after Myrtle’s tragic death in the valley of ashes. Indeed, she half expected to find Arkady as Nick Carraway had found his enigmatic neighbor—leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep. Instead, Arkady received Isabel cheerfully in his formal drawing room. Like his office upstairs, it was impeccably decorated, though here the piano was a Bechstein Concert B 212 rather than a Bösendorfer.

  He lifted an open bottle of Montrachet from a crystal ice bucket and poured two glasses. Handing one to Isabel, he kissed her lightly on each cheek. The shock was like a spark of static electricity.

  “You look lovely, Isabel. But then, you always do.” Arkady raised his glass. “Thank you so much for accepting my invitation. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your last visit here was . . .”

  “At times unpleasant,” said Isabel.

  “But lucrative, yes?”

  “Incredibly.”

  “I hope Martin has looked after your interests.”

  “He’s been very generous.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you called him the minute you left my office last night and asked him what you should do.”

  “Are you listening to my calls?” asked Isabel playfully.

  “Of course.” His smile was disarming. “And we’re reading your text messages and emails as well.”

  “Is that how you discovered my address?”

  “Absolutely not. We simply followed you home one evening after you left work.” Arkady opened a Chinese lacquered box. “Your phone, please.”

  Isabel placed it inside and closed the lid. “Is this the way you treat all the women you’re trying to seduce?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It has been for some time.”

  “And yet Martin allowed you to come.”

  “Because I assured him it was a business dinner and that nothing would happen.”

  “This is a business dinner. As for whether anything will happen . . .” Arkady shrugged. “That is entirely up to you.”

  Outside, Arkady’s terraced gardens were illuminated like the Roman Forum at night. “It’s beautiful,” remarked Isabel.

  “Yes,” said Arkady distantly. “But not as beautiful as you.”

  She accepted his compliment in silence.

  “May I ask you a question, Isabel?”

  “No.”

  “Why is a woman like you involved with a married man? And please don’t bother to deny it.”

  “Have you been following me to Paris as well?”

  “The apartment is located on the Quai du Bourbon.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Arkady sighed. “Surely you realized that, when working for a man like me, you could expect no zone of privacy.”

  “I don’t work for you. I work for Martin.”

  “And when he grows bored with you?”

  “I’ll take solace in the fact that I am now a very wealthy woman.”

  “How wealthy?”

  “Arkady, please.”

  “Seven figures? Eight perhaps?” He made a dismissive movement of his hand. “This is nothing. I’m prepared to make you seriously rich. Rich enough to own a villa like this. Rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “And what would I have to do in return?”

  “Leave Martin Landesmann and come to work for me.”

  Isabel laughed in spite of herself.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I thought you wanted me to become your mistress.”

  “I do,” said Arkady. “But I am a very patient man.”

  The dining room was hung with crystal chandeliers and aglow with candlelight. Two places had been laid at one end of the ludicrously long table. White-jacketed waiters served a first course of green lentils and caviar.

  “You must have toiled all day on this,” joked Isabel.

  “My chef used to work for Alain Ducasse in Paris.”

  “What a coincidence. So did mine.”

  “Do you have household help in that little hutch of yours in the Old Town?”

  “I have a very nice woman from Senegal who straightens up for me every Friday afternoon.”

  “You need something larger.”

  “I’m thinking about a place in Cologny.”

  “Good idea. Perhaps this will help.”

  He presented Isabel with a single-page document outlining the terms of his offer. It included a one-time signing bonus of fifty million Swiss francs—the equivalent of $56 million—and a yearly salary of ten million francs. Isabel would earn most of her money, however, through her annual bonuses. The letter promised that they would never be less than eight figures in size.

  “I know nothing about the oil business.”

  “You won’t be working in that part of the company. In fact, you won’t even have an office in NevaNeft headquarters. Yours will be around the corner on the rue de Rhône.”

  “What will I do there?”

  “Nominally, you will be the owner of a small investment firm.”

  “What will I really be doing?”

  Arkady smiled. “Processing.”

  Isabel laid the offer letter on the table. “It’s a mistake, Arkady. I’m more valuable to you at GVI.”

  “My relationship with Martin has been extremely successful. Those beautiful office towers in America and London are proof of that. But GVI alone can’t handle the volume of processing I require. I need a dozen Martins working around the clock. You will be standing atop the podium with a baton in your hand. You will serve as my kapellmeister.”

  Isabel tapped the document with the tip of her forefinger. “It doesn’t mention anything about me sleeping with you.”

  “My lawyer advised me not to put it in writing.”

  “Is it a job requirement?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “And if I’m not interested?”

  “I will be heartbroken, but it will have no impact on our working relationship.” He pushed the letter across the tabletop. “That is yours to keep. Take all the time you need.”

  With that, he allowed the matter to drop. Isabel prepared herself to be sexually propositioned but was pleasantly surprised when he asked about her childhood in Trier. He had visited the city in 1985, he claimed, while working as a Soviet diplomat. Isabel listened to Arkady’s lies with false attentiveness, a hand pressed to her chin. She only hoped she was half as convincing. Obviously, she had played her part well. How else to explain the fact that Arkady had offered her a senior position at Kremlin Inc.? Regrettably, she would be unable to accept it, as Kremlin Inc. would soon fac
e an unprecedented period of market turbulence.

  They returned to the drawing room for coffee. Arkady sat down at the Bechstein and played the Moonlight Sonata. It was a performance worthy of Murray Perahia or Alfred Brendel.

  “You missed your calling,” said Isabel.

  “We have that in common, you and I.” He lowered the piano’s fallboard. “Women usually melt when I play that piece. But not you, Isabel.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s late.”

  “Was my playing that bad?”

  “It was the perfect end to a lovely evening.”

  “And you’ll consider my offer?”

  “Of course.”

  He rose from the piano and lifted the lid of the signal-blocking box. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

  “Hiding from the virus. You?”

  “Oksana and I are spending Christmas here in Féchy, but we’re celebrating New Year’s Eve with a few friends in Courchevel.”

  “A few friends?”

  “Actually, it will be a rather large gathering.”

  “I thought the ski resort was closed because of the pandemic.”

  “It is. But I’ve purchased every snowmobile in Les Trois Vallées to get my guests to the top of the mountain. Several important figures from Moscow are flying in for the occasion.” He handed Isabel her phone. “I insist you join us.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

  “You won’t be. In fact, one of my guests specifically asked me to invite you.”

  “Really? Who?”

  Arkady took Isabel by the arm. “My driver will take you back to Geneva.”

  46

  Geneva–Costa de Prata, Portugal

  Isabel was awakened by her phone shortly after eight the following morning. She tapped the accept icon and raised the device to her ear.

  “Didn’t I read somewhere that you never get out of bed before noon?”

  “Reporters,” said Anna Rolfe disdainfully.

  “If I remember correctly, it was a direct quote.”

  Anna laughed. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “You did, actually. I had a rather late night.”