Page 105 of The Cellist

Arkady placed his hand on the latch of the door. “Ready?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Excited?”

“A bit nervous, actually.”

“Don’t worry,” whispered Arkady as he opened the door. “He’s used to it.”

52

Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel

In the rented chalet on the opposite side of the rue de Nogentil, Gabriel and the six other members of his team were at that moment gathered around a single laptop computer, monitoring the encrypted feed from Isabel’s compromised smartphone. For a period of approximately three minutes, the device had been disconnected from the SFR Mobile cellular network, presumably as a result of being placed in a signal-blocking containment vessel. It was now in the hands of an officer of the Russian Presidential Security Service. Having correctly entered the password on his first attempt, he was scrolling through the directory of recent voice calls.

“Now we know why the boys at the front door ordered her to unlock her phone,” said Eli Lavon.

“Is there any way they can find our malware?” asked Gabriel.

“Not unless they attach the phone to a computer. And even then, the technician would have to be damn good to find it.”

“Theyaregood, Eli. They’re Russians.”

“But we’re better. And you were meticulous when it came to her communications.”

“So why did they steal her password?” Gabriel glanced at the computer. “And why is Igor now reading her text messages?”

“Because Igor’s boss told him to read them. That’s what a Russian gangster does before hiring a non-Russian to launder his money.”

“Do you think she can handle him?”

“If she hits her toe marks...”

“What, Eli?”

“We’ll own him.”

The decor of the room matched the rest of the chalet, bright and modern, nothing timbered or rustic or suggestive of a ski lodge. For that matter, there seemed to be nothing of Arkady in the room, either. Nothing but the piano, another Bösendorfer. Polished to a high black gloss, it stood forlornly atop a pale gray carpet, unplayed. In one corner of the room sat four men. Two were quite obviously members of the Russian president’s security detail. The other two reeked of bureaucracy; doubtless they were Kremlin apparatchiks. Nearby was a stack of lead-gray electronic components, red and green signal lights winking. It was the hardware, thought Isabel, of a head-of-state-level secure phone. The receiver was wedged between the shoulder and ear of the Russian president.

He wore a black rollneck sweater rather than a dress shirt,and a costly-looking cashmere sport jacket. His fair hair, carefully parted and combed, covered less of his scalp than was suggested by recent photographs. The expression on his medically pampered face was one of irritation, as though he had been placed on hold. It was the same expression, thought Isabel, that he routinely displayed to Western counterparts before embarking on an hourlong airing of grievances, real and imagined.

Arkady escorted Isabel to an arrangement of contemporary furniture adjacent to the room’s soaring picture window. The view was to the west, toward the darkened slopes of the ski area. As they sat down, the president began to speak, a burst of rapid Russian followed by a long pause. A minute or two later, he spoke a second time, and once again a lengthy silence ensued. Isabel reckoned there was translation involved.

“It sounds important.”

“It usually is.”

“Perhaps I should wait outside.”

“You told me you don’t speak Russian.”

“Not a word.”

“Then please stay where you are.” Arkady was staring out the window, a forefinger resting speculatively along one cheek. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

Isabel looked down at her hands and noticed that her knuckles were white. The Russian president was speaking again, though now it was in English; he was wishing the person at the other end of the call a happy New Year. At the conclusion of the conversation, he handed the phone to an aide and in Russian addressed Arkady from across the room.

“A minor crisis at home,” Arkady explained to Isabel. “He’d like us to wait outside while he makes another call or two.”