Page 114 of The Cellist

“Am I catching you at a bad time, Arkady?” asked a voice in Berlin-accented German.

“Who is this?”

“Who do you think?”

“Your German is quite good, Allon. How can I help you?”

“You can call the driver of that snowmobile before he gets out of cellular range and tell him to turn around.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because if he doesn’t, I’m going to kill him. And then I’m going to kill you, Arkady.”

“I’m comfortably seated on Russian soil. Which means I’m quite beyond your reach.”

“That plane isn’t going anywhere unless you give me Isabel.”

“And if I do? What do I get in return?”

“You don’t have to go back to Moscow to face the music. Trust me, it won’t end well.”

Arkady squeezed the phone tightly. “I’m afraid I need something more tangible. An office building on Brickell Avenue in Miami, for example.”

“The money is gone, Arkady. It’s never coming back.”

“But I have to offer himsomething.”

“In that case, I suggest you improvise. And quickly.”

The connection died.

Outside on the tarmac, the flight crew and several members of Volodya’s security detail were engaged in a heated argument with two airport officials. Arkady closed his eyes and saw something else, a bloody and battered man on his knees in a small room with walls of concrete and a drain in the center of the floor.

The highest measure of punishment...

He opened his eyes with a start and contemplated the number stored in his phone’s directory of recent calls. Perhaps it was not inevitable, he thought. Perhaps Gabriel Allon, of all people, had just offered him a way out.

Oksana was now flirting shamelessly with her seatmate. Rising, Arkady headed up the center aisle to the partition separating the luxurious forward compartment from the rest of thecabin. The door was locked. He knocked politely and, receiving no answer, knocked again. At length, the door swung open, revealing the elegant form of Tatiana Nazarova, retired Olympic sprinter and current wife of Yevgeny Nazarov. She sneered at Arkady as though he were late delivering her main course.

“Volodya does not wish to see you at this time. Please return to your seat.”

She tried to close the door, but Arkady blocked it with his foot and pushed past her. The lights were dimmed, the mood tense. One aide was trying to awaken the Élysée Palace. Another was shouting in Russian at someone in Moscow—presumably the Russian foreign minister. A lot of good that would do. It was New Year’s Eve, and the foreign minister was one of the world’s great drunks.

Only Volodya appeared untroubled. He was slouched in a swivel chair, hands dangling from the armrests, an expression of terminal boredom on his face. Arkady stood before him, eyes averted, and awaited permission to speak.

It was Volodya who spoke first. “Is it safe to assume that this so-called power outage is not a coincidence?”

“It was Allon’s doing,” answered Arkady.

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“A moment ago.”

“Did he switch off the power supply on his own, or are the French involved, too?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Whatdidhe say?”