Page 37 of The Cellist

He returned to the painting and placed his hand to his chin. “And if you had a chance to do it over again?”

“I’m afraid life doesn’t work that way.”

He licked the tip of his forefinger and rubbed it against the dirty canvas. “Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

19

Erlenbach, Switzerland

He settled Isabel in a place of honor and took up residence before the dormant fireplace. There he recited the basic details of her impressive curriculum vitae, which he and his friends had unearthed from her mobile phone and personal computer. For the benefit of the non-German-speaking members of his audience, he addressed Isabel in English. His accent was faint and entirely unplaceable. His tone was that of an auctioneer presiding over the sale of a painting. The evening’s final lot.

“Isabel Brenner, thirty-four years of age, born in the ancient German city of Trier into a solidly upper-middle-class family. Your father is a prominent lawyer, a man of distinction. Your mother, a devotee of Bach, gave you your first piano lesson at the age of three. But on the occasion of your eighth birthday,she acceded to your wishes and presented you with a cello. Under private instruction, your talent blossomed. At the age of seventeen you were awarded a third prize at the prestigious ARD International Music Competition for your performance of Brahms’s Cello Sonata in E Minor.”

“That’s not true.”

“Where did I go wrong?”

“It was the F-major sonata. And I could play both parts.”

He frowned at the diminutive man who reminded Isabel of a rare-book dealer. The MI6 chief and Swiss intelligence officer were observing the proceedings from their outpost near the windows. The blue-eyed Englishman was scrolling through the contacts in Isabel’s phone. He had not bothered to ask her for the passcode.

“One of Germany’s most sought-after instructors offered to take you on as a pupil,” Gabriel continued. “Instead, you enrolled at Berlin’s Humboldt University, where you studied applied mathematics. You earned your master’s degree at the London School of Economics. While completing your dissertation, you met with a recruiter from RhineBank and were offered a job on the spot. Your starting salary was one hundred thousand pounds a year.”

“Before bonuses,” she pointed out.

“That’s a great deal of money.”

“It was a pittance by RhineBank’s standards, especially in London. But it was three or four times what I would have earned if I was playing the cello in a European orchestra.”

“I thought you wanted to be a soloist.”

“I did.”

“Then why did you study mathematics?”

“I was afraid I wasn’t good enough.”

“You played it safe?”

“I earned degrees from two prestigious institutions of higher learning and secured a high-paying position with one of the world’s largest banks. I don’t think of myself as a failure.”

“Nor should you. I’m only sorry you allowed your extraordinary talent to go to waste.”

“Obviously, it hasn’t.” Her face flushed with anger. “But what about you? Was it always your dream to be a spy?”

“I did not choose this life, Isabel. It was chosen for me.”

“And if you had a chance to do it over again?” she asked provocatively.

“I’m afraid that’s a topic for another discussion. You’re the reason we’re gathered here tonight. You summoned us when you left that message in Bern. You’re the star of the show.”

She surveyed the room. “It’s not exactly the Berliner Philharmonie or Lincoln Center.”

“Neither is RhineBank.”

“But at least there’s never a dull moment.”

“You arrived there in 2010.”