Page 110 of The Cellist

Only Eli Lavon remained with Gabriel in the safe house. At 11:59 p.m. they stepped onto the balcony and listened as Arkady’s inebriated guests thunderously counted down the final seconds of a most dreadful year. The motorcade departed at twelve fifteen. Yevgeny Nazarov, the ubiquitous Kremlin spokesman, had joined the president in the armored Peugeot SUV. Directly behind it was a Mercedes-Maybach. Inside were Arkady and Oksana Akimov.

“Late as usual,” said Lavon. “But why do you suppose Arkady is going with him to the airport?”

“It’s possible he wants to wave goodbye to the helicopter. The presence of his wife, however, would suggest he intends to beonthe helicopter.”

“So would this.”

Lavon showed Gabriel a text message from the surveillance team in the Place du Port in Geneva. Several employees of the Haydn Group had just entered Arkady’s offices. Lights were burning on the sixth floor.

“If I had to guess,” said Lavon, “they’re shredding documents and erasing hard drives.”

Gabriel quickly dialed Christoph Bittel. “It looks as though Arkady is making a run for Moscow.”

“Say the word, and I’ll order a raid on his offices.”

“The villa in Féchy, too. And do me a favor, Bittel.”

“What’s that?”

“Make some noise.” Gabriel killed the connection and watched the flashing blue lights of the motorcade winding its way up the mountainside. “They wouldn’t try to take her to Russia—would they, Eli?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

The motorcade had reached the airport. A moment later the first Airbus Super Puma helicopter was airborne and turning toward the northwest.

“You know,” said Lavon after a moment, “if Arkady had any sense, he’d stay here in the West.”

“He handed me eleven and a half billion dollars of Mr. Big’s money on a silver platter. I rather doubt he was given that option.”

The second helicopter rose into the black sky, then the third.

“You’d better get it over with,” said Lavon.

Gabriel hesitated, then dialed. “This is going to be ugly.”

Owing to a recent string of deadly lone-wolf attacks by Islamic militants, Paul Rousseau, leader of an elite counterterrorism unit known as the Alpha Group, had decided to spend New Year’s Eve in his office on the rue Nélaton in Paris. Consequently, when his phone rang at 12:22 a.m., he assumed the worst. The fact that it was Gabriel Allon at the other end of the connection only added to his sense of impending doom. The Israeli’s briefing was rapid-fire and, without doubt, only partially accurate.

“Are you sure they’re planning to take her to Russia?”

“No,” answered Gabriel. “But at the very least, they know where she is.”

“She’s Israeli, this agent of yours?”

“German, actually.”

“Do the Germans know—”

“Next question.”

“Have the Swiss issued a domestic warrant for Monsieur Akimov’s arrest?”

“Not yet.”

“Filed a Red Notice request with Interpol?”

“Paul, please.”

“We can’t detain him without legal justification. We need a piece of paper.”