Page 106 of The Cellist

They rose in unison and, watched by the Russian president, returned to the anteroom. During their brief absence, three additional officers of the Presidential Security Service had arrived. One was Comrade Clipboard, the sentry from the front door.

Arkady was looking at his phone. “How is your hotel?” he asked.

“Lovely. I’m only sorry I can’t stay longer.”

“When are you planning to leave?”

“Martin’s driver is picking me up at noon.”

Arkady looked up from the phone abruptly but said nothing.

“Is something wrong?”

His smile appeared forced. “I was hoping you might join us for brunch tomorrow.”

“I really need to be getting back to Geneva.”

“Numbers to crunch?”

“Always.”

Arkady’s phone purred with an incoming call. The conversation was brief and largely one-sided. “It turns out the crisis isn’t so minor, after all,” he said after killing the connection. “I only hope you can forgive me for dragging you all the way to Courchevel for nothing.” He nodded toward Comrade Clipboard. “Gennady will escort you back to the party. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”

“All I need,” said Isabel, “is my phone.”

Arkady removed it from the box and handed it over. The movement did not awaken the device from its slumber. Isabel thumbed the side button, but there was no response. The phone was powered off.

She slipped it into her handbag and followed ComradeClipboard down a hallway and into a waiting lift. Two other security men squeezed inside as well. One pressed a call button labeled B.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the party,” answered Comrade Clipboard.

“The party is on the first floor.”

When the door slid open, the stench of chlorine was overwhelming. Comrade Clipboard seized Isabel by the arm and pulled her from the carriage. A single figure stood on the deck at the pool’s edge, faintly lit by watery blue light. It was Fletcher Billingsley, the rich American from Goldman Sachs whom she had met at the bar upstairs.

He approached her slowly, a benevolent smile on his face, and addressed her in Russian-accented English. “I told you that I wouldn’t forget you, Isabel.”

He issued no threat or warning, which was inadvertently chivalrous on his part, for it gave Isabel no opportunity to prepare herself for the pain. One moment she was standing ramrod-straight, the next she was doubled over like a folding knife. He eased her with surprising tenderness to the cold tile floor, where she fought in vain to draw a breath. The chalet seemed to be spinning. Welcome to the party that never ends, she thought. Enjoy it while it lasts.

53

Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel

He hauled Isabel to her feet and frog-marched her into a luxuriously appointed dressing room. There he hurled her into a ceramic wall before thrusting her head beneath the briny, scalding water of a Jacuzzi. For all she knew, he drowned her, for when she regained consciousness, she was sprawled across the tile floor, covered in her own vomit.

“What is your name?” asked a voice from above.

“Isabel Brenner.”

“Yourrealname.”

“It is my real name.”

“Who are you working for?”

“Global Vision Investments.”