Page 31 of The Cellist

“Isabel Brenner. She’s a compliance officer at RhineBank’s Zurich office.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Why?”

“Given the firm’s track record,” said Lavon, “I didn’t think it had any.”

During the drive into central Zurich, Gabriel briefed Eli Lavon on the improbable series of events that had heralded their return to Switzerland. His long-overdue reunion with their old friend Olga Sukhova in Norwich. His exfiltration of Olga’s former colleague Nina Antonova from Amsterdam. The package that had been left at the base of a poplar tree along the bank of the river Aare. Then he outlined the provisions of the unusual accord he had reached with Christoph Bittel, the deputy director of a reasonably friendly though sometimes adversarial foreign intelligence service.

“Leave it to you to convince the Swiss, the most insular people in the world, to let you run an operation on their soil.”

“I didn’t give them much of a choice.”

“And when they figure out that the one additional operative you brought in for the job is the tenacious little troll from the Holocaust accounts scandal?”

“It was a long time ago, Eli.”

“And what about Mr. Marlowe? How many hits did he carry out in Switzerland before joining MI6?”

“He says he can’t remember.”

“Never a good sign.” Lavon ignited a cigarette and then lowered the window to vent the smoke.

“Must you?” pleaded Gabriel.

“It helps me think.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m wondering why the Russians haven’t taken Isabel Brenner out of circulation. And why they didn’t pick up that package of documents she left in Bern.”

“What’s the answer?”

“The only explanation is that she made each of the dropsbeforesending the emails to Nina Antonova. The Russians don’t know her identity.”

“And the package in Bern?”

“They were probably hoping Nina would be the one to collect it so they could kill her. But you can be sure they didn’t fall for that little stunt you and your Swiss friends pulled the other night. They know they have a problem.”

“They do, indeed,” said Gabriel quietly.

“How long do you intend to watch her before you bring her in?”

“Long enough to make certain she isn’t a Russian operative in a clever disguise.”

Gabriel turned onto the Talackerstrasse and eased to thecurb along the facade of the Credit Suisse building. On the opposite side of the street, adjacent to the headquarters of UBS, was RhineBank-Zurich.

It was approaching six o’clock; the evening exodus had commenced. At length, Gabriel pointed toward a woman who had just stepped from RhineBank’s doorway.

Dark designer pantsuit, white blouse, a pair of expensive-looking pumps. Private banker chic.

“There’s our girl. Mr. Nobody.”

She was tall and model slender, with long limbs and articulate hands. Her beauty was at once obvious, but partially obscured by the seriousness of her expression. In the half-light of the street, it was impossible to determine the color of her eyes, though one would have been forgiven for assuming they were pale blue. The hair was blond. It swung like the pendulum of a metronome as she walked.

“How old is she?” asked Lavon.

“Her passport says thirty-four.”