Page 36 of The Cellist

The smallish man eased to a stop and switched off the engine, as though relieved to have arrived at his destination without incident. At once, a second car drew up behind them. Evidently, they had been followed.

“Come inside, Isabel,” said the Englishman amiably. “Meet the others.”

The door of the villa was open to receive them. They followed a half-lit central gallery to a large drawing room with soaring windows that gazed westward across the lake. The furniture was brocade-covered, the rugs were oriental and faded. Several oil paintings adorned the walls, landscapes and still lifes, nothing too adventurous. From somewhere came the sound of Haydn’s Piano Trio in E Major. Isabel looked at the Englishman, who was once again smiling.

“We chose it specially for you.”

Two men were seated in armchairs near one of the windows. One wore the inscrutable expression of a Swiss banker, though the cut and quality of his suit suggested he worked for the government rather than the private sector. The second man looked like a character in an English country-house mystery—villain or protagonist, Isabel could not decide.

Neither appeared to have noticed her arrival. The same was true of the man standing before a still life of fruit and freshlycut flowers, a hand pressed to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. His eyes were an unnatural shade of green. Like jade, thought Isabel. She tried to guess his age, but could not settle on a number. When at last he spoke, it was in German, with the distinct accent of someone who had been raised in Berlin.

“Do you like paintings, Isabel?”

“Good paintings. But not second-rate junk like that.”

“It’s not so bad. It’s just very dirty.” He paused. “Like the bank for which you work. Fortunately, the painting can be restored. I’m not sure the same can be said for your employer.”

“Who do you work for?” she asked. “BaFin or one of the German intelligence services?”

“None of the above. In fact, I’m not even German.”

“You certainly speak like one.”

“I was taught to speak German by my mother. She was born in the Mitte district of Berlin. I, however, was born in Israel. Once upon a time, I would have given you a pseudonym rather than my real name, which is Gabriel Allon. A simple Internet search would reveal that I am the director-general of Israel’s secret intelligence service, but please resist the temptation to type my name in the little white box. There is no such thing as private browsing.”

The two men seated near the window were each staring into a private space, like extras in a stage production. “What about them?” asked Isabel. “Are they Israeli, too?”

“Unfortunately, no. The handsome gray-haired gentleman is Graham Seymour, my counterpart at MI6.”

“And the other one?”

“A senior Swiss intelligence officer. He would prefer to remain anonymous for now. Think of him as a numbered account.”

“They’re rather passé.”

“What’s that?”

“Numbered accounts. Especially for people with real money to hide.”

He approached her slowly. “I must admit, we enjoyed listening to your performance a few nights ago. Bach’s Cello Suite in D Minor. All six movements. And not a single mistake.”

“I made several, actually. I just covered them up well.”

“You’re good at hiding your missteps?”

“Most of the time.”

“We didn’t hear the rustle of sheet music.”

“I don’t need any.”

“You have a good memory?”

“Most musicians do. I’m also rather good at math, which is how I ended up at RhineBank.”

“But why did you stay?”

“For the same reason ninety thousand other people do.”