Page 91 of The Cellist

“You must have toiled all day on this,” joked Isabel.

“My chef used to work for Alain Ducasse in Paris.”

“What a coincidence. So did mine.”

“Do you have household help in that little hutch of yours in the Old Town?”

“I have a very nice woman from Senegal who straightens up for me every Friday afternoon.”

“You need something larger.”

“I’m thinking about a place in Cologny.”

“Good idea. Perhaps this will help.”

He presented Isabel with a single-page document outlining the terms of his offer. It included a one-time signing bonus of fifty million Swiss francs—the equivalent of $56 million—and a yearly salary of ten million francs. Isabel would earn most of her money, however, through her annual bonuses. The letter promised that they would never be less than eight figures in size.

“I know nothing about the oil business.”

“You won’t be working in that part of the company. In fact, you won’t even have an office in NevaNeft headquarters. Yours will be around the corner on the rue de Rhône.”

“What will I do there?”

“Nominally, you will be the owner of a small investment firm.”

“What will Ireallybe doing?”

Arkady smiled. “Processing.”

Isabel laid the offer letter on the table. “It’s a mistake, Arkady. I’m more valuable to you at GVI.”

“My relationship with Martin has been extremely successful. Those beautiful office towers in America and London are proof of that. But GVI alone can’t handle the volume of processing I require. I need a dozen Martins working around the clock. You will be standing atop the podium with a baton in your hand. You will serve as my kapellmeister.”

Isabel tapped the document with the tip of her forefinger. “It doesn’t mention anything about me sleeping with you.”

“My lawyer advised me not to put it in writing.”

“Is it a job requirement?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“And if I’m not interested?”

“I will be heartbroken, but it will have no impact on our working relationship.” He pushed the letter across the tabletop. “That is yours to keep. Take all the time you need.”

With that, he allowed the matter to drop. Isabel prepared herself to be sexually propositioned but was pleasantly surprised when he asked about her childhood in Trier. He had visited the city in 1985, he claimed, while working as a Soviet diplomat. Isabel listened to Arkady’s lies with false attentiveness, a hand pressed to her chin. She only hoped she was half as convincing. Obviously, she had played her part well. How else to explain the fact that Arkady had offered her a senior position at Kremlin Inc.? Regrettably, she would be unable to accept it, as Kremlin Inc. would soon face an unprecedented period of market turbulence.

They returned to the drawing room for coffee. Arkady satdown at the Bechstein and played theMoonlight Sonata. It was a performance worthy of Murray Perahia or Alfred Brendel.

“You missed your calling,” said Isabel.

“We have that in common, you and I.” He lowered the piano’s fallboard. “Women usually melt when I play that piece. But not you, Isabel.”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s late.”

“Was my playing that bad?”

“It was the perfect end to a lovely evening.”