Page 104 of The Cellist

“It’s a long story.”

“Is that your phone?”

“What?”

He pointed toward the bag she was clutching in her left hand. “I think you have a call.”

Glancing toward the loft, she saw Arkady standing at the balustrade with a phone to his ear. His eyes were searching the crowd, which suggested he had not yet discovered Isabel’s whereabouts. She decided to remain in the company of the wholesome-looking stranger a little longer. Though she was allergic to Americans, this one seemed relatively harmless.

“Nice bag,” he said when the phone stopped ringing.

“Bottega Veneta,” explained Isabel.

“Nice watch, too. How much do cellists make?”

“My father is one of the richest men in Germany.”

“Really? Mine is one of the richest in Connecticut. What are you doing for the rest of your life?”

“To be honest, I haven’t a clue.” The phone started up again. “Will you excuse me?”

“You forgot this.” He handed her a glass of champagne. “What’s your name?”

“Isabel.”

“Isabel what?”

“Brenner.”

“I won’t forget you, Isabel Brenner.”

“Please don’t.”

She stepped away and engaged in a futile attempt to removeher phone from the clutch while at the same time holding the champagne. Eventually she lifted her gaze toward the balustrade and saw Arkady observing her struggle with obvious amusement. He beckoned to her with one hand and with the other pointed to the base of the staircase. A moment later he greeted her on the landing with a kiss on each cheek. The display of affection did not go unnoticed by Oksana, who was eyeing them from below.

“I see you met Fletcher Billingsley,” Arkady blared.

“Who?”

“The handsome young banker from Goldman Sachs.”

“Have you been unfaithful, Arkady?”

“My relationship with Fletcher is entirely legitimate.”

“What does that make me?”

He caressed her shoulder. “I assume you now know the name of the man who would like to meet you.”

“I believe I do. In fact, one of his bodyguards gave me a thorough groping before letting me through your door.”

“I’m afraid you’re about to get another.”

He led her through a doorway, into a small sitting room—an anteroom, thought Isabel. The walls were adorned with framed photographs of the man who awaited her on the other side of the next door. Most of the photos depicted him meeting with important people and tending to important matters of state, but in one he was walking along a rocky streambed, his hairless chest exposed to the pale Russian sunlight.

“Does he come here often?” asked Isabel, but Arkady made no reply other than to lift the lid of yet another decorative signal-blocking box. Automatically, Isabel placed her phone inside.

Arkady closed the lid and nodded toward the waiting officerof the Russian Presidential Security Service. His pat-down was even more invasive than the one Isabel had received earlier. When it was over, he demanded her purse.