Page 99 of The Cellist

“What about the woman?”

“We’ll know in a minute.”

Thierry the bellman lifted a single piece of luggage from the boot of the Mercedes.

“Russians,” said Ricardo, “never come to Courchevel with only one suitcase.”

“Never,” agreed Philippe.

The woman bade farewell to her driver and started up the steps. Her gaze was vaguely remote, as though she were listening to distant music. It was beautiful music, thought Ricardo. Proper music. Not the EDM technocrap they blasted at deafness-inducing levels every night at Les Caves.

He retreated to the grotto of Reception and watched Philippe fling open the door with more than his usual flourish. The concierge greeted the woman in syrupy French, and she responded in the same language, though it was readily apparent that French was not her native tongue. Ricardo, who typically spent several hours each day on the phone with foreigners, had a well-honed ear for accents. The graceful young woman who seemed to be listening to music only she could hear was a citizen of Germany.

“Madame Brenner?” he asked when she presented herself at the check-in counter.

“How could you tell?”

“Lucky guess.” Ricardo flashed his polished hotelier’s smileand handed her the cardkey to her room. “Monsieur Akimov has seen to all your charges. If there’s anything at all we can do to be of service, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I could use a coffee.”

“I’m afraid the lounge is closed, but there’s a Nespresso in your suite.”

“How’s the gym?”

“Closed.”

“The spa, too?”

Ricardo nodded. “All the public spaces in the hotel are closed by order of the government.”

“I think I’ll take a walk.”

“A fine idea. Thierry will place your bag in your room.”

“Is there a pharmacy nearby?”

“Follow the rue de l’Église down the hill. The pharmacy will be on your right.”

“Merci,” said the woman, and went out.

Ricardo and Philippe stood side by side in the doorway, watching her descent down the steps.

“No wonder Arkady wants us to take such good care of her,” said Ricardo as she disappeared from view.

“You think she’s—”

“His mistress? No way,” said Ricardo. “Not that one.”

A pair of limousines drew up in the street. Four Russians. A mountain of luggage. Not a mask in sight.

Ricardo shook his head. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

“Maybe you’re right,” agreed Philippe.

49

Courchevel, France