Page 68 of The Cellist

Isabel smiled. “Not at all.”

Two museum security cameras peered into the corner of the foyer where Martin had established his court—one from his right, the other directly overhead. With the first camera, Gabriel and Eli Lavon watched as Isabel Brenner, formerly of RhineBank-Zurich, lately of Global Vision Investments in Geneva, threaded her way through the dense crowd. Several times she was obliged to pause to accept another compliment. None of her well-wishers paid any heed to the silver-haired Russian following in her wake—the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov, childhood friend of Russia’s kleptocratic authoritarian leader, estimated net worth $33.8 billion, according to the most recent estimate byForbesmagazine. For now, at least, he was no one. A nothing man.

When at last Isabel arrived at her destination, Gabriel switched to the second camera, which offered a satellite viewof the stage upon which the evening’s final performance would take place. Once again there was a delay, as the acolytes and admirers gathered around Martin welcomed Isabel elatedly to their midst. Eventually she placed a hand on Martin’s arm, a deliberately intimate gesture the oil trader and oligarch was sure to notice. The phone in the breast pocket of Martin’s tuxedo, handmade by Senszio of Geneva, provided audio coverage.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Martin. But I’d like to introduce you to someone I just met...”

There were no handshakes, only guarded nods of greeting, one billionaire to another. Their conversation was cordial in tone but confrontational in content. At the midway point, the oil trader and oligarch offered Martin a business card, which prompted a final tense exchange. Then the oil trader and oligarch murmured something directly into Martin’s ear and, taking his wife by the hand, withdrew.

The party resumed as though nothing untoward had occurred. But ten kilometers to the south, in a safe house on the shores of Lake Zurich, Eli Lavon’s applause was spontaneous and sustained. Gabriel reset the time code on the recording of the conversation and clicked theplayicon.

“Thank you for the generous contribution to the Global Alliance, Arkady. I’m planning to use it to finance our efforts in Russia.”

“Save your money, Martin. As for the twenty million, it was a small price to pay for the privilege of attending your little soiree tonight.”

“Since when is twenty million a small price?”

“There’s much more where that came from, if you’re interested.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Are you free next week?”

“Next week is bad, but I might have a minute or two to spare the week after.”

“I’m a busy man, Martin.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Making the world safe for democracy?”

“Someone has to do it.”

“You should stick to climate change. How do I reach you?”

“You call the main number at GVI like everyone else.”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you call me instead?”

“What’s that in your hand, Arkady?”

“A businesscard. They’re all the rage.”

“If you’d done your homework, you would know I never accept them. Call Isabel. She’ll set something up.”

“She was quite extraordinary tonight.”

“You should see her with a spreadsheet.”

“Where did you find her?”

“Don’t even think about it, Arkady. She’s mine.”

It was at that instant the oil trader and oligarch leaned forward and spoke directly into Martin’s ear. The din of the reception drowned out the remark, but Martin’s expression suggested it was an insult. Gabriel reset the recording, activated a filter that reduced much of the background noise, and clickedplay. This time the final words of the oil trader and oligarch were clearly audible.

“Lucky you.”

35