Page 83 of The Cellist

“My favorite kind of deal. Where are you?”

“Across the street.”

“Twenty minutes,” said Anil, and rang off.

It was nearly half past five when he finally emerged from RhineBank’s entrance. As usual, he was dressed entirely inblack, a style he had adopted while still in New York, where he had earned a reputation as one of RhineBank’s most reckless traders. For his reward, he was given control of the global markets division, a position that had allowed him to amass a nine-figure personal fortune. He lived in a vast Victorian mansion in a posh London suburb and commuted to work each morning in a chauffeur-driven Bentley. Born in Northern Virginia, educated at Yale and the Wharton School, he now spoke English with a pronounced British accent. Like his coal-black attire, it was something he put on first thing in the morning.

He sat down at Isabel’s table and ordered an Earl Grey tea. The smell of cologne, hair tonic, and tobacco was overwhelming. It was the smell, Isabel remembered, of RhineBank-London.

He removed the lid from his drink and popped a fresh piece of Nicorette. “You look good, Isabel.”

“Thanks, Anil.” She smiled. “You look like shit.”

“I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did. You were horrible to me when I worked here.”

“It wasn’t personal. You were a pain in the ass.”

“I was only trying to do my job.”

“So was I.” Anil blew on the surface of his tea. “But I hear you got with the program after you moved to the Zurich office. Lothar Brandt told me that you signed every scrap of paper he placed in front of you.”

“And look what that got me,” she murmured.

“A job with Saint Martin Landesmann.”

“Word travels fast.”

“Especially when everyone else who was fired is still seeking gainful employment. Fortunately, we were able to contain the damage to the Zurich office.”

Anil was fond of using the wordwewhen referring to senior management. It was his ambition to one day become a member of the Council of Ten, perhaps even the firm’s chief executive officer. American by birth, Indian by ancestry, he would have to pay for the privilege. Thus his reckless trading habits. Anil was utterly bereft of personal or professional morality. In short, he was the model RhineBank employee.

“How’s your trading book these days?” asked Isabel.

“Not as interesting as it once was. The Council of Ten presented us with a cease-and-desist order after the Zurich massacre. No more dicey Russian trades until the dust settles.”

“Has it?”

“I’ve done a few test runs. Small stuff, mainly. Twenty million here, forty million there. Nickel-and-kopek.”

“And?”

“Smooth as silk. Not a peep from the British regulators or the Americans.”

“Does the Council of Ten know what you’re up to?”

“You know the old saying, Isabel. What Hamburg doesn’t know...” Anil peeled the wrapper from another piece of Nicorette. “I’m about to go into withdrawal, and I’m afraid it won’t be pretty. So why don’t you tell me what this is all about.”

“Global Vision Investments would like to retain the services of RhineBank’s global markets division. In return for these services, we are prepared to be very generous.”

“What kind of services?”

Isabel smiled. “Mirror, mirror on the wall.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Not nickel-and-kopek, Anil. Not even close.”