Page 82 of The Cellist

“Sorry, Arkady. The deal’s off.”

“Don’t you think you should consult with Martin before walking away from a billion-dollar payday?”

“Martin will do whatever I tell him.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Isabel opened the lid of the decorative signal-blocking box,but Arkady closed it with a sharpcrackbefore she could remove her phone. “Please sit down.”

“I’m leaving.”

“How do you intend to get back to Geneva?”

“I’ll call an Uber.” She managed a smile. “They’re all the rage.”

“That won’t be easy without your phone, will it?” His hand was still resting on the lid of the box. “Besides, you haven’t had lunch.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.” Isabel fished the prospectus from her bag and dropped it on the table. “What’s it going to be, Arkady?”

“I need a few days to think it over.”

Isabel looked at her wristwatch. “You have one minute.”

Arkady’s voice was the first Gabriel and his team heard when Isabel’s phone, after an absence of twenty-seven minutes, reconnected with the Swisscom cellular network. Curiously, the Russian oligarch was gently chastising her for having rushed through an important passage of Beethoven’sMoonlight Sonata. The phone’s geolocation and altitude data indicated they were still in his office, as did the video images captured by its camera. It focused briefly on Isabel’s face as she checked her text messages. There was nothing in her expression to suggest she was under duress, though it was evident from the unstable quality of the shot that her hand was trembling slightly.

She dropped the phone into the darkened void of her Vuitton handbag and followed Arkady downstairs to the villa’s terrace, where they circulated through the all-Russian crowd. Arkadyintroduced Isabel as “an associate,” a description that covered all manner of sins. The Gazprom chairman Oleg Zhirinovsky was delighted; Mad Maxim Simonov, the nickel king, clearly smitten. He invited Isabel to join him aboard his yacht, the appropriately namedMischief, for his annual summer cruise of the Mediterranean. Isabel wisely declined.

At three fifteen she informed Arkady that she had numbers to crunch—a legitimate investment opportunity in a Norwegian e-commerce firm—and needed to be getting back to Geneva. Reluctantly, he saw her to her car. The driver dropped her at the Temple de la Madeleine and, followed by two operatives of the Haydn Group, she walked to the Place du Bourg-de-Four. Upstairs in her apartment, she performed Bach’s Cello Suite in D Minor. All six movements. No sheet music. Not a single mistake.

Part Three

Adagio Cantabile

41

Geneva–London

Three days after the luncheon at Arkady Akimov’s palace in Féchy, the inhabitants of the ancient lakeside city of Geneva held their collective breath as America went to the polls. The Republican incumbent seized what appeared to be a commanding early advantage in the key battleground states of Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania, only to see his lead evaporate as early votes and mail-in ballots were tabulated. Visibly shaken, he appeared before supporters in the White House East Room early Wednesday morning and, astonishingly, demanded that state election officials cease counting ballots. The counting nevertheless continued, and on Saturday the television networks declared the Democrat the victor. Millions of Americans poured into the streets in a spontaneous eruptionof joy and utter relief. To Isabel, it looked as though they were celebrating the fall of a tyrant.

On Monday, life in Geneva resumed largely as normal, though with a new government-imposed mask mandate owing to a sudden spike in coronavirus cases. Isabel worked from her apartment in the Old Town until late morning and then flew to London aboard Martin’s Gulfstream, the smaller of his two private jets. Upon arrival at London City Airport, she endured a cursory check of her German passport before settling into the back of a waiting limousine. It bore her westward to the Fleet Street offices of RhineBank-London, her former place of employment.

Directly opposite the building was a café where Isabel had often taken her lunch. Masked, she took a table on the pavement and ordered coffee. At half past four, she checked the FTSE 100 index and saw that London share prices had closed down nearly two percent. Consequently, she waited until 4:45 before ringing Anil Kandar.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I’m well, Anil. How are you?”

“Have you seen our stock price lately?”

“I believe it’s just under ten. Hold on, I’ll check.”

“What’s on your mind, Isabel?”

“Money, Anil. Lots of money.”

“You have my attention.”

“It’s not something I can discuss on the phone.”