Page 109 of The Cellist

Arkady folded the bloody towel carefully. “The Global Alliance for Democracy?”

“Gabriel created it in order to put a target on Martin’s back.”

“The newly discovered Artemisia? The reception at the Kunsthaus? Anna Rolfe? It was all...” His voice trailed off. “What about Anil Kandar? Was he in on it, too?”

“Anil’s just a greedy bastard. RhineBank is going down, Arkady. And so are you. We had you the minute you signed the paperwork for that office building in Miami.”

“Then why did you come here tonight?”

“A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

From upstairs came a swell of rapturous applause. A moment later the Russian president began to speak. No doubt from the balustrade, thought Isabel. Thugs the world over loved nothing more than to look down on their vassals from a balcony.

Arkady made a face at something his master said. “He’s rather crude, our Volodya. But then again, he always was. He would be nothing if it wasn’t for me. I was the one who chose him. I was the one who facilitated his rise through the ranks of the Kremlin bureaucracy. And I was the one who made certain he won that first presidential election. And how does he repay me? By treating me the same way he did when I was a sickly little boy from Baskov Lane who wanted to be a pianist.”

“You should have followed your dreams, Arkady.”

“I tried.” He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ve made a fool out of me.”

“I’m sure I wasn’t the first.”

“I trusted you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Do you know what’s going to happen when I get back to Moscow? With a bit of luck, I will fall from a window. Backwards, of course. That’s how all Russian businessmen jump from windows these days. It’s a tradition in the brave new Russia that I helped to create. We never face forward when we jump. We only fall backwards.” Quietly, he added, “At least that way we don’t see the cobbles of the courtyard rushing up to greet us.”

“Perhaps there’s a deal to be made.”

“There is,” said Arkady. “But it isyouwho will have to come to terms.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to deliver Gabriel Allon into my hands so that my oldest friend in the world doesn’t kill me.” He drew his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket. “How much do you want? A billion? Two billion? Name your price, Isabel.”

“Do you really think I would take your filthy money in order to save myself?”

“It’s not my money, it’s his. And why should you be any different from all the others who’ve taken it?” He seized a handful of Isabel’s hair, his face so contorted with desperation she scarcely recognized him. “What’s it going to be, Isabel? You have one minute.”

“Sorry, Arkady. No deal.”

“A very unwise decision on your part.” He released his gripon her hair. “Perhaps you’re not the shrewd, unprincipled businesswoman I imagined you to be.”

“You’ll only make it worse for yourself by killing me.”

“Who said anything about killing?” He stretched a hand toward her swollen cheek, but she recoiled from his touch. “Tell me something. Whose idea was it for you to play ‘Vocalise’ at the reception? Yours or Allon’s?”

“Mine,” she lied.

“You really did give a beautiful performance that night. It’s a shame no one will ever hear you play it again.” He returned the phone to the breast pocket of his jacket. “Happy New Year, Isabel.”

54

Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel

At 11:30 p.m., approximately ninety minutes after Arkady Akimov summoned Isabel for her meeting with the Russian president, her phone remained off the air. It was possible the encounter had lasted longer than anticipated. It was also possible Isabel had left the phone in the signal-blocking receptacle after returning to the party. The more likely explanation, however, was that something had gone wrong inside the monstrous chalet on the opposite side of the rue de Nogentil.

A prudent and battle-scarred operational planner, Gabriel had prepared for such an eventuality. Five members of his team had slipped from the safe house in rented vehicles and were now positioned at key points around Courchevel. Yossi was parked across the street from Isabel’s hotel; Rimona and Natalie, in a deserted gas station near the entrance of the village. Christopherand Mikhail, the violent tip of Gabriel’s spear, were in an Audi Q7 on the rue du Jardin Alpin, near the gondola station. Keller, an accomplished outdoorsman and climber, had protectively brought along snowshoes and hiking poles. Mikhail had nothing other than an altitude-induced headache and a gun, a Barak SP-21 .45-caliber pistol, a man-stopper.