Page 93 of The Cellist

“In a suitcase, I suppose.”

“Warm or cold?”

“Cold,” said Anna. “And wet.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“Meet me at Geneva Airport at noon. Martin has agreed to let us borrow his plane.”

“Noontoday?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Cello or no cello?”

“Cello,” replied Anna before ringing off. “Definitely cello.”

Isabel closed her eyes and tried to sleep a little longer, but it was no use; the sun was streaming through her window, and her thoughts were spinning. She doubted Anna’s unexpected call had been as spontaneous as it sounded. In fact, Isabel was all but certain it had something to do with the invitation Arkady had extended after his performance of Beethoven’sMoonlight Sonata. She had been holding her phone at the time, and the signal meter indicated it had reconnected to the cellular grid. Others had been listening.

In the kitchen, Isabel brewed a pot of coffee and watched thelatest election news from America. The outgoing president’s lawyers were reportedly preparing a last-ditch appeal to the US Supreme Court to overturn the results in the pivotal battleground state of Pennsylvania. It was, said one legal analyst, the last desperate act of a desperate man.

Isabel switched off the television. Showered and dressed, she packed enough clothing for a stay of several days in a cold, wet climate. At 11:45, observed by two employees of the Haydn Group, she maneuvered the suitcase and her cello into the back of an Uber on the rue de l’Hôtel-de-Ville. Because it was a Sunday, the drive to the private terminal at Geneva Airport was only ten minutes. Anna was aboard Martin’s Gulfstream, her mobile phone to her ear.

“My agent,” she whispered, and continued the conversation until the plane was airborne and the connection was lost. Isabel’s phone readno serviceas well. Anna nevertheless placed both their devices in a signal-blocking pouch and sealed the Velcro flap.

“Since when do you travel with a Faraday bag?”

Anna smiled but made no reply.

“Where are we going?” asked Isabel.

“My villa in Portugal.”

“Just the two of us?”

“No. Our mutual friend will be there, too.”

“May I ask a question?”

“It’s a long story, Isabel.”

“Does it have a happy ending?”

Anna smiled sadly. “No such luck.”

An Audi sedan was waiting for them at the FBO at Lisbon Airport. Much to Isabel’s dismay, Anna insisted on driving. As they hurtled recklessly northward along the A8, she spoke without pause about her career, her failed marriages, her disastrous love affairs, and her lifelong struggle with bipolar disorder—all for the benefit of Isabel’s phone, which was resting on the center console, fully charged and connected to Portugal’s MEO mobile cellular network.

“And what about you?” asked Anna at last. “Tell me about your work for Martin.”

“We’re buying everything in sight.”

“I read something about a skyscraper in Miami.”

“And Chicago and London, too.” Isabel glanced at the speedometer. “Don’t you think you should slow down a bit?”

“Faster, you say?”

By the time they reached the Costa de Prata, the sun was a fiery orange disk suspended above a copper sea. Anna’s villa occupied a wooded hilltop overlooking the fishing village of Torreira. She flashed through the open security gate and a moment later braked to a halt in the gravel forecourt, where an elderly man waited in the fading afternoon light. With his white hair and saddle-leather skin, he reminded Isabel of Pablo Picasso. He seemed relieved that they had arrived from Lisbon in one piece.