Page 75 of The Cellist

“No, Isabel. You do not. I asked you to lend your professional expertise to Martin Landesmann and to make an introduction at a crowded reception where you were in absolutely no danger. But I never prepared you to enter Arkady’s world alone.”

“It’s only lunch.”

“It’sneveronly lunch. Arkady will begin testing you the second you walk through his door. He will assume that you are not who you claim to be. Once he has guided you through your usual repertoire, he will take away your sheet music and forceyou to improvise. The recital will not end until he is satisfied that you are not a threat.”

“I’m capable of improvisation.”

He regarded her doubtfully. “I must say, I’ve never heard ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’ played on the cello before. Your tone was quite lovely, but otherwise the performance was less than convincing.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to do another take.”

“There are no second takes, Isabel. Not where Russians are concerned.”

“But in a few hours’ time, Arkady will be under the impression I’m Martin’s lover—isn’t that correct?”

“That is my hope.”

“So why on earth would Martin Landesmann allow his beautiful young girlfriend to attend a luncheon at Arkady’s villa if he didn’t think it was safe?”

Gabriel smiled. “Was that an improvisation on your part?”

She nodded. “What do you think?”

Before he could answer, his phone pulsed with an incoming message. “Your lover’s plane just landed at Le Bourget.”

“What are our plans?”

“A quiet dinner at a bistro around the corner.”

“And then?”

“The small lie to cover the big lie.”

“What’s the small lie?”

“That you are spending the night making love to Martin.”

“And the big one?”

“You’ll be spending it with me.”

38

Île Saint-Louis, Paris

Martin and Isabel walked hand in hand along the lamplit Quai de Bourbon to a brasserie at the foot of the Pont Saint-Louis. On the opposite side of the narrow channel loomed Notre-Dame, its flying buttresses concealed by scaffolding, its spire missing. The Russian who had followed Isabel from Geneva dined at an adjacent restaurant; Yossi Gavish and Eli Lavon, at an establishment across the street. Halfway through his meal, Yossi suddenly declared his coq au vin inedible, provoking a heated confrontation with the outraged chef that soon spilled on to the pavement. Lavon managed to defuse the situation, and the two combatants made their apologies and pledged eternal friendship, much to the delight of the spectators in the surrounding eateries. Gabriel, who monitored the incident via Isabel’s phone, was only sorry he had not witnessedthe performance, for it was one of the better pieces of operational street theater he had heard in some time.

He had instructed Martin to ply Isabel with a glass or two of wine over dinner. They drank Sancerre with their appetizers and with their main course a rather good Burgundy. As they walked back to the apartment, Isabel’s step was languorous, her laughter brighter in the night. The Russian saw them to their door, then made his way across the Pont Marie to a floating café bar on the opposite embankment. His table offered an unobstructed view of Martin’s bedroom window, where Isabel appeared shortly before midnight, wearing only a men’s dress shirt. The Russian snapped several photos with his smartphone—hardly ideal but, when combined with his firsthand visual observations, more than sufficient.

Martin appeared in the window briefly, shirtless, and drew Isabel inside. The Russian at the floating café would have been forgiven for assuming the couple returned to bed. In truth, they made their way to Martin’s splendid dining room, where Gabriel waited in the half-light, his hands resting on the tabletop. He instructed Isabel to sit down in the chair opposite and refused her request to put on additional clothing. Her seminudity made her uncomfortable. It had the same effect on Gabriel. He averted his eyes slightly as he posed his first question.

“What is your name?”

“Isabel Brenner.”

“Your real name.”

“That is my real name.”