Page 61 of The Cellist

“Neither am I.”

Gabriel surveyed the photographs lining the walls. “No,” he said after a moment. “You most certainly are not.”

She was, by any objective standard, the finest violinist of her generation—technically brilliant, passionate and fiery, with a matchless liquid tone that she pulled from her instrument by the sheer force of her indomitable will. She was also prone to immense swings of mood and episodes of personal recklessness, including a hiking accident that had left her with a career-threatening injury to her famous left hand. In Gabriel she had seen a stabilizing force. For a brief time, they were one of those endlessly fascinating couples one reads about in novels, the violinist and the art restorer sharing a villa on the Costa de Prata. Never mind that Gabriel was living under a false identity, or that he had the blood of a dozen men on his hands, or that she was never, under any circumstances, allowed to point a camera in his direction. Were it not for a few Swiss surveillance photos, there would be no proof that Gabriel Allon had ever made the acquaintance of the world’s most famous violinist.

To the best of his knowledge, she had kept him a secret as well. Indeed, a part of Gabriel was surprised she remembered him at all; her love life since their parting had been as tempestuous as her playing. She had been linked romantically to an assortment of moguls, musicians, conductors, artists, actors, and filmmakers. Twice she had married, and twice she had been spectacularly divorced. For better or worse, neither union had produced offspring. She had told a recent interviewer that she was through with love, that she planned to spend the final years of her career in search of perfection. The pandemic had played havoc with her plans. She had not set foot in a studio or on a stage since her appearance at Zurich’s Tonhalle with Martha Argerich. Not surprisingly, she was desperate to perform inpublic again. The adulation of a crowd was for Anna like oxygen. Without it, she would slowly die.

She looked at the ring on his finger. “Still married?”

“Remarried, actually.”

“Did your first wife—”

“No.”

“Kids?”

“Two.”

“She’s Jewish, your wife?”

“A rabbi’s daughter.”

“Is that why you left me?”

“Actually, I found your constant practicing unbearable.” Gabriel smiled. “I couldn’t concentrate on my work.”

“The smell of your solvents was atrocious.”

“Obviously,” said Gabriel archly, “we were doomed from the start.”

“I suppose we’re lucky it ended before someone got hurt.” Anna smiled sadly. “Well, that about covers it. Except, of course, why you showed up at my door after all these years.”

“I’d like to hire you for a recital.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“I’m not paying.”

“Who is?”

“Martin Landesmann.”

“His Holiness? I saw Saint Martin on the television just the other day warning about the end of democracy.”

“He does have a point.”

“But he’s an imperfect messenger, to say the least.” Anna moved to the window, which overlooked the villa’s rear garden.“When I was a child, Walter Landesmann was a frequent visitor to this house. I know exactly where Martin got the money to form that private equity firm of his.”

“You don’t know the half of it. But he’s agreed to help me with a matter of some urgency.”

“Will I be in any danger?”

“None whatsoever.”

“How disappointing.” She turned to face him. “And where will this performance be?”

“The Kunsthaus.”