Page 103 of The Cellist

“Play the rest of it.”

Lavon tapped the trackpad.

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

The winking blue light on the computer screen indicated that Isabel’s car had arrived at the checkpoint. A moment later came the sound of two men conversing in French. One was Isabel’s driver. The other was an officer of the French Service de la Protection.

“Name?”

“Isabel Brenner.”

“Open the trunk, please.”

The inspection was brief, ten seconds, no more. Then the lid closed with a thud. Gabriel watched as the winking blue light crept forward, into the temporary Russian zone of Courchevel. In a moment his asset would be at the mercy of the Kremlin’s praetorian guard. They were fanatically devoted to the man they served, he thought. Killers in nice suits.

51

Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel

Two of the Russian bodyguards were at that moment standing like pillars at the entrance of Arkady’s chalet. One was holding a clipboard, the other a portable magnetometer. Evidently, Isabel had been singled out for additional scrutiny; the pat-down she endured at the hands of the one with the magnetometer bordered on sexual assault. When it was finally over, Comrade Clipboard rummaged through her handbag as though searching for something of value to steal. He found nothing of interest other than her phone, which he demanded she unlock in his presence. She entered the eight digits as swiftly as possible, and the home screen appeared. Satisfied, the Russian returned the device and ordered Isabel to enjoy the party.

Inside, a skinny, mannequin-like girl in stage makeup and aformfitting sequined gown relieved Isabel of her overcoat and then carelessly directed her toward the chalet’s great room. She had expected the decor to match the timbered exterior, but the room was white and modern and hung with large, colorful works of contemporary art. On one side was an open staircase leading to a loft on the second level, where two more expressionless Russian bodyguards stood watch along a balustrade. Beneath them, two hundred or so stylishly attired revelers, drinks in hand, were shouting at one another over the deafening music. Isabel could feel the vibration of the sound waves crawling like insects over her bare arms. Or perhaps, she thought, it was merely particles of coronavirus. She considered pulling on her mask but decided against it. Even the poor French catering staff were absent protection.

A second mannequin girl, her clothing identical to the first, wordlessly pointed out the cocktail table. Several more women moved like dead souls amid the guests, occasionally alighting on the arm of an unaccompanied male. Isabel supposed they were party favors. One was attached to Mad Maxim Simonov, the nickel king, who was engaged in an intense conversation with the Kremlin press secretary. An unusually accomplished liar, the press secretary owned several luxury homes, including an apartment on Fifth Avenue, and vacationed regularly in hot spots such as Dubai and the Maldives. On his left wrist was a limited-edition Richard Mille watch worth $670,000, more than he had earned during his entire career as a humble servant of the Russian people.

He was not the only example of unexplained riches in the room. There was, for example, the former hot-dog salesman who was now the proud owner of record of several highlyvaluable Russian firms, including the shadowy Internet company that had meddled in the American presidential election of 2016. And the former judo instructor who now built gas pipelines and electric power stations. And the former director of the Mariinsky Theatre who had somehow amassed a personal fortune in excess of $10 billion.

And then, of course, there was the former KGB officer who now owned the Geneva-based oil trading firm known as NevaNeft. At present, he was standing next to the bodyguards along the balustrade, no doubt searching for Isabel. Adopting the unseeing gaze of the mannequin girls, she walked over to the nearest cocktail table, where she lent her ear to a wholesome-looking man of around forty.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he roared in American-accented English.

“I believe they’re complimentary,” shouted Isabel in reply. She asked the server for a glass of champagne, and the American ordered vodka.

“You’re not Russian,” he pointed out.

“You seem disappointed.”

“I’ve always heard Russian girls are easy.”

“Especially girls like her.” Isabel nodded toward one of the ambulatory mannequins. “If I had to guess, they were flown in for the occasion.”

“Like the caviar.”

Isabel smiled. “Why are you here?”

“Business,” he bellowed.

“What do you do?”

“I work for Goldman Sachs.”

“My condolences. Where?”

“London. What about you?”

“I play the cello.”

“Nice. How do you know Arkady?”