The Cellist

by Daniel Silva

  There was no contact from Arkady on Boxing Day, or the day after that. But on Monday the twenty-eighth, he rang Isabel’s mobile and, receiving no answer, left a lengthy message on her voice mail. She waited until late Tuesday morning before calling him back.

  “But why not?” asked Arkady, deflated.

  “Because I won’t know a soul there, and I don’t speak a word of Russian.”

  “The guest list includes plenty of non-Russians. And if you don’t attend, my friend from Moscow will be upset.”

  “Who is he, Arkady?”

  “A very important figure in the Kremlin. That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”

  Isabel exhaled slowly.

  “That sounded like a yes to me,” said Arkady.

  “On two conditions.”

  “Name them.”

  “I will see to my own transportation.”

  “It’s not such an easy drive up the mountain.”

  “I’m German. I’ll manage.”

  “And the other?”

  “You will behave yourself, especially when I’m around your wife.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Isabel glanced at Gabriel, who nodded once. “All right, Arkady. You win.”

  “Brilliant. I’ve already taken the liberty of booking you the largest suite at the Hôtel Grand Courchevel. The head of reservations is named Ricardo. He promised to take excellent care of you.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s the least I could do.”

  “What time is the party?”

  “The first guests should begin to arrive around nine. My chalet is on the rue de Nogentil in the Jardin Alpin. It’s the largest in Courchevel,” he boasted before ringing off. “You can’t possibly miss it.”

  48

  Courchevel, France

  It was Jean-Claude Dumas, general manager of the chic K2 Palace, who famously dismissed the clientele of the Hôtel Grand Courchevel as “the elderly and their parents.” Her rooms were thirty in number, modest in size, and discreet in appointment. One did not come to the Grand for gold fixtures and suites the size of football pitches. One came for a taste of Europe as it once was. One came to linger over a Campari in the lounge bar or dawdle over coffee and Le Monde in the breakfast room. But never in ski attire, mind you; guests waited until after breakfast before dressing for the slopes. The hotel’s wireless Internet service, a recent if reluctant addition to her abbreviated list of amenities, was universally regarded as the worst in Courchevel, if not the entire French Alps. Devotees of the Grand rarely complained.

  At half past one p.m. on New Year’s Eve, the Grand’s tidy lobby was as silent as a crypt. The lounge bar was closed by government edict, as was the breakfast room, the grill room, the gym, the spa, and the indoor swimming pool. The kitchen was operating on a skeleton crew, with “no contact” room service being the only option for on-premises dining. At present, only two of the Grand’s rooms were occupied. With the resort’s ski lifts shut down and its nightclubs shuttered, Courchevel was a gilded ghost town.

  Consequently, most of the resort’s hotels were closed for the all-important winter holidays. But not the proud Grand. For the sake of its longtime seasonal employees, management had refused to surrender to the surging pandemic, even if it meant incurring day-to-day operational losses. Quite unexpectedly, the hotel had been rewarded with an onslaught of New Year’s Eve bookings. It seemed the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov had decided to throw caution to the wind and host a blowout at his monstrous chalet in the Jardin Alpin. Twenty-four of Arkady’s guests had wisely decided to sleep it off at the Grand rather than risk the treacherous drive down the mountain. Regrettably, most were Russians, for whom management did not care. Before the plague, they would have been informed—by polite email or with a phone call from Ricardo the reservations manager—that there was no room at the inn. The harsh economic realities of the day, however, had required the Grand to relax its exacting standards and open its doors to the invaders from the East.

  One of Arkady’s guests, however, was a certain Isabel Brenner—German citizen, resident of Geneva, one night in a Deluxe Prestige Suite, very VIP. Or so claimed the abrasive personal assistant who had made the reservation on Arkady’s behalf. Ricardo had pledged to personally look after Madame Brenner’s every need before placing the assistant on eternal hold. For his insolence, he received a call from none other than Arkady himself, who issued a not-so-veiled threat of bodily violence if Madame Brenner’s stay fell short of absolute perfection. Ricardo, a Spaniard from the restive Basque region, had no reason to doubt the authenticity of the billionaire’s warning. Twelve years earlier, a Russian investigative journalist named Aleksandr Lubin had been stabbed to death in Room 237. It was Ricardo, nearly twenty-four hours after the killing, who found the body.

  Owing to the hotel’s perilously low current occupancy rate, he had granted Arkady’s guests the option of a two p.m. check-in at no additional charge. Therefore, at the stroke of 1:45, he stepped hesitantly from the grotto of Reception and took up a defensive position just inside the Grand’s double glass doors. He was joined a moment later by the reassuring presence of Philippe, a neatly built former French paratrooper who wore the crossed keys of the International Concierge Institute on his spotless lapel.

  Philippe automatically consulted his wristwatch as a Mercedes sedan braked to a halt at the base of the Grand’s front steps. “Maybe this was a mistake,” he said quietly.

  “Maybe not,” replied Ricardo as the limousine’s only passenger emerged from the backseat.

  Attractive female, mid-thirties, blond hair parted on one side, casually but expensively dressed. The driver was a towering brute, more bodyguard than chauffeur. Ricardo pointed out the slight bulge at the left side of his jacket, suggesting the presence of a concealed firearm.

  “Ex-military,” declared Philippe.

  “Russian?”

  “Does he look Russian to you?”

  “What about the woman?”

  “We’ll know in a minute.”

  Thierry the bellman lifted a single piece of luggage from the boot of the Mercedes.

  “Russians,” said Ricardo, “never come to Courchevel with only one suitcase.”

  “Never,” agreed Philippe.

  The woman bade farewell to her driver and started up the steps. Her gaze was vaguely remote, as though she were listening to distant music. It was beautiful music, thought Ricardo. Proper music. Not the EDM technocrap they blasted at deafness-inducing levels every night at Les Caves.

  He retreated to the grotto of Reception and watched Philippe fling open the door with more than his usual flourish. The concierge greeted the woman in syrupy French, and she responded in the same language, though it was readily apparent that French was not her native tongue. Ricardo, who typically spent several hours each day on the phone with foreigners, had a well-honed ear for accents. The graceful young woman who seemed to be listening to music only she could hear was a citizen of Germany.

  “Madame Brenner?” he asked when she presented herself at the check-in counter.

  “How could you tell?”

  “Lucky guess.” Ricardo flashed his polished hotelier’s smile and handed her the cardkey to her room. “Monsieur Akimov has seen to all your charges. If there’s anything at all we can do to be of service, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “I could use a coffee.”

  “I’m afraid the lounge is closed, but there’s a Nespresso in your suite.”

  “How’s the gym?”

  “Closed.”

  “The spa, too?”

  Ricardo nodded. “All the public spaces in the hotel are closed by order of the government.”

  “I think I’ll take a walk.”

  “A fine idea. Thierry will place your bag in your room.”

  “Is there a pharmacy nearby?”

  “Follow the rue de l’Église down the hill. The pharmacy will be on your right.”

  “Merc
i,” said the woman, and went out.

  Ricardo and Philippe stood side by side in the doorway, watching her descent down the steps.

  “No wonder Arkady wants us to take such good care of her,” said Ricardo as she disappeared from view.

  “You think she’s—”

  “His mistress? No way,” said Ricardo. “Not that one.”

  A pair of limousines drew up in the street. Four Russians. A mountain of luggage. Not a mask in sight.

  Ricardo shook his head. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” agreed Philippe.

  49

  Courchevel, France

  The base of Courchevel’s main ski lift stood with the stillness of a monument built by a long-vanished civilization, its empty gondolas swaying gently in the brilliant afternoon sunlight. Isabel strolled past a parade of exclusive shops—Dior, Bulgari, Vuitton, Fendi—all of which were shuttered. Next was a ski rental outlet, also closed, and a small café where two patrons, a man and a woman, were drinking coffee from paper cups at a table on the pavement. The man wore a Salomon cap and wraparound sunglasses. The woman, black-haired and olive-complected, was chastising him in rapid, vehement French.

  The small lie to cover the big lie . . .

  Smiling, Isabel crossed the street and entered the pharmacy. As she was describing her symptoms to the white-jacketed woman behind the counter, she heard the ping of the electronic door chime. A moment later a sultry Russian-accented voice said, “Isabel? Is that you?”

  It was Oksana Akimova. She was wearing a formfitting Fusalp ski suit. Her skin was aglow with the cold and the sun.

  Breathlessly, she asked, “When did you arrive?”

  “A few minutes ago.”

  “Are you unwell?”

  “Just a little carsick.”

  “Why don’t you come skiing with us? The snow is perfect, and the slopes are absolutely empty.”

  “I’m not much of a skier, to be honest. I think I’ll just go back to my room and rest before the party.”

  “At least come have a drink with us. We’ve taken over the terrace of Le Chalet de Pierres.”

  The pharmacienne placed the medication on the counter. Isabel paid with her credit card and followed Oksana into the street. Watched by the couple at the café, they walked past the same parade of shuttered shops to the base of the lift, where Oksana had left a red-and-black Lynx snowmobile.

  “I guess it’s true,” said Isabel.

  “What’s that?”

  “That Arkady bought every available snowmobile in Les Trois Vallées.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Oksana settled behind the controls and fired the engine.

  “I’m not dressed for this,” shouted Isabel over the racket.

  “It’s just a few hundred meters up the hill.”

  Isabel squeezed on to the back of the saddle and wrapped her arms around Oksana’s waist. It was shockingly slender, like the waist of an adolescent girl.

  “I really think I need to lie down before the party.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can sleep tomorrow.”

  Oksana turned up the slope of the hill and opened the throttle. Rather than progress in a straight line, she delighted in showing off her skill at handling the powerful machine. Like Anna Rolfe, she ignored Isabel’s pleas to slow down.

  Le Chalet de Pierres, a Courchevel institution, stood on the left side of the slope. Four more Lynx snowmobiles were parked outside, and a collection of brightly colored skis and poles leaned drunkenly against the storage rack. Their Russian-speaking owners were gathered in a sunlit corner of the large terrace. The tables were littered with uneaten food and several bottles of Bandol rosé, most of them empty.

  A sunburned Russian man thrust a glass of the wine into Isabel’s hand as Oksana made the introduction. “Everyone, this is Isabel. Isabel, this is everyone.”

  “Hello, Isabel!” the Russians replied in unison, and Isabel responded by saying, “Hello, everyone.”

  Oksana was lighting a cigarette. “Aren’t you going to take some?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The medicine you bought at the pharmacy.”

  Isabel unscrewed the cap from the container and washed down a tablet with the rosé. “Where’s Arkady?”

  “At the airport awaiting the arrival of tonight’s guest of honor.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Arkady didn’t tell you?”

  Isabel shook her head. “Only that he was very keen to meet me.”

  “You should consider yourself lucky,” said Oksana. “You have been touched by the magic hand.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In Russia you cannot succeed or become wealthy unless someone in a position of power or influence places his hand on your shoulder. Arkady has placed his hand on you. Soon you will be as rich as an oligarch.”

  “But I’m not Russian.”

  “Look around you, Isabel. Do you see any other non-Russians here? You’re one of us now. Welcome to the party that never ends.” Oksana gave an ironic smile. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  Suddenly, the valley echoed with the distant thump-thump-thump of rotors. A moment passed before the first helicopter came into view. Two more soon followed. As they descended toward Courchevel’s mountaintop airfield, the revelers gathered on the terrace broke into a boisterous version of the state anthem of the Russian Federation.

  Oksana’s eyes shone with emotion. “Why aren’t you singing?” she asked.

  “I don’t know the words.”

  “How is this possible?”

  “I’m German.”

  “Nonsense!” Oksana threw an arm around Isabel’s shoulder. “Look around you, Isabel. You’re one of us now.”

  The helicopters were Airbus H215 Super Pumas operated by the French military. Aboard the first was the president of the Russian Federation, a small entourage of traveling aides, and four officers of the Russian Presidential Security Service. Eight additional Russian bodyguards were squeezed into the second helicopter along with several crates of secure communications equipment. The third Airbus was reserved for a detail from the French Service de la Protection. Relegated to standing watch at the perimeter, the officers would spend their New Year’s Eve outside in inclement Alpine weather rather than with friends and loved ones in Paris. Morale was said to be exceedingly low.

  An advance team from the SDLP had arrived in Courchevel that morning for a site survey of the hotel-size chalet on the rue de Nogentil where the Russian president would celebrate the New Year with his childhood friend from Leningrad and three hundred invited guests. Had the officers bothered to knock on the door of the more modest dwelling at Number 172—thirty thousand a night, seven-night minimum, no exceptions, no refunds—they would have discovered a multinational group of holidaymakers who had come to Courchevel, seemingly on a whim, despite the fact the ski area was closed. A further inspection of the premises would have uncovered the presence of a large quantity of sophisticated electronic equipment and several firearms.

  It would have also revealed that the holidaymakers were in fact officers of Israel’s vaunted secret intelligence service. One was Gabriel Allon, a man who had waged a long and bitter struggle against revanchist Russia and its malign organs of state security. Another was his old friend and accomplice Eli Lavon, chief of the physical-and-electronic-surveillance division known as Neviot. Two other division chiefs, Rimona Stern of Collections and Yossi Gavish of Research, had also slipped into Courchevel unobserved. At present, they were drinking coffee at the café across the street from the pharmacy. The previous occupants of their table were strolling past the darkened storefronts lining the rue de la Croisette. The man wearing a Salomon hat and wraparound sunglasses was Mikhail Abramov. He was accompanied by his French-speaking wife, Natalie Mizrahi.

  The final member of the team—he was known variously as Nicolas Carnot, Peter Marlowe, or, more accurately, Christopher Keller—was borrowed from t
he ranks of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. Concealed beneath the attire of a cross-country skier, he was drinking hot cider on the terrace of Le Chalet de Pierres, watching a band of inebriated Russians singing a lusty, dissonant rendition of their national anthem. Two attractive women, one Russian, the other German, stood slightly apart from the group. An audio feed from the German woman’s phone, which was tucked into her fashionable shearling coat, was audible in the rented chalet on the rue de Nogentil.

  “Why aren’t you singing?”

  “I don’t know the words.”

  “How is this possible?”

  “I’m German.”

  “Nonsense! Look around you, Isabel. You’re one of us now.”

  The singing faded, as did the beating of the helicopter rotors. For that much, at least, Gabriel was grateful. The sound had stirred in him an unpleasant memory.

  Enjoy watching your wife die, Allon . . .

  He moved to the window of the chalet’s vaulted great room and watched a motorcade winding its way down the serpentine rue de l’Altiport. As it passed beneath his feet, he fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and aimed it toward the figure in the back of an armored Peugeot 5008. The thug from Baskov Lane in Leningrad. The godfather of a nuclear-armed gangster regime.

  The motorcade continued along the rue de Nogentil for another one hundred meters before turning into the forecourt of the hotel-size chalet. Instantly, officers of the SDLP and Police Nationale established a checkpoint at the northern end of the street—a checkpoint through which the beautiful German woman on the terrace of Le Chalet de Pierres would soon be compelled to pass. At four fifteen, after a harrowing snowmobile ride down the mountain, she returned to her hotel, where the Spanish-born head of reservations informed her that Monsieur Akimov had taken the liberty of arranging her car for the evening.

  “How thoughtful of him. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock, Madame Brenner.”