Page 35 of The Cellist

“How did you find me?”

“We got a nice picture of you when you left that package in Bern the other night. Several, in fact.”

“You had no right to hack my phone.”

“I couldn’t agree more. But I’m afraid we had no choice.”

“Discover anything interesting?”

“The passwords to your favorite online retailers, every website you’ve ever visited, and every person you’ve ever stalked on social media. You’ve checked Nina’s Twitter feed more than four hundred times in the past six months.”

“Is that all?”

“We also found more than a dozen email accounts. You have six addresses at ProtonMail alone. You send most of your text messages using the one encrypted service we haven’t been able to penetrate.”

“That’s why we use it.”

“We?”

“Employees of RhineBank. Senior management encourages us to conduct sensitive communication using our personal encrypted accounts rather than corporate email addresses.”

“Why?”

“To keep our deliberations hidden from regulators. Why else?”

“Do you like Haydn?” he asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

“The composer.”

“I know who he is.”

“You searched his name several times the week of Viktor Orlov’s murder. I was wondering if you had a particular affinity for Haydn’s music.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I’ve always preferred Mozart.”

“Mozart adored Haydn.”

“You also searched for something called the Haydn Group,” he informed her. “For some reason, you capitalized the letter G.”

“You have good software.”

“Are they a string quartet? A trio?”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t think so.” They passed the Zurich offices of the Russian Commercial Bank and, a few seconds later, Gazprombank. “Enemy territory,” remarked the Englishman.

“Not as far as RhineBank is concerned. We do a brisk business with both institutions.”

“What about MosBank?”

“Most reputable banks avoid it. But as you know from reading my emails, MosBank is our most important Russian partner.” Isabel paused, then asked, “Was that a test?”

He looked down at his phone without answering. They had entered the suburb of Zollikon. The Seestrasse bore them along the lakeshore to the town of Küsnacht and then Erlenbach. There the smallish man behind the wheel turned ponderously through the gates of a walled villa. It was turreted and unwelcoming. Several dark sedans lined the drive. Security men patrolled the lawn.