“Then I suppose we’ll need to think of an extrajudicial way to prevent him from leaving the country.”
“Such as?”
“Close the airport, of course.”
“That would effectively ground the Russian president’s aircraft.”
“Exactly.”
“There will be diplomatic repercussions.”
“We can only hope.”
Rousseau sought bureaucratic shelter. “It’s not something I can do on my own. I need the approval of higher authority.”
“How much higher?”
“For something like this... Élysée Palace.”
“How does the French president feel about his Russian counterpart these days?”
“He loathes him.”
“In that case, will you allow me to make a suggestion?”
“By all means.”
“Call the palace, Paul.”
Which is precisely what Rousseau did, at 12:27 a.m. The French president was celebrating the New Year with a few close friends. Much to Rousseau’s surprise, he was not opposed to the idea of grounding his Russian counterpart’s plane. In fact, he rather liked it.
“Call the tower at Chambéry,” he said to Rousseau. “Tell them you’re acting on my behalf.”
“The tower will have to give the Russian pilots a reason for the delay.”
“Switch off the airport’s radar. The runway lights, too. That way, the pilots won’t try something stupid.”
“And if they do?”
“I’m sure you and Allon will think of something,” said the French president, and the line went dead.
55
Rue de Nogentil, Courchevel
Isabel’s Jaeger-LeCoultre wristwatch was frozen at 10:47, its crystal smashed. Therefore, she did not know the precise amount of time that had elapsed since Arkady had taken his leave. She reckoned it had been at least twenty-five minutes, for that was the approximate running time of Brahms’s Cello Sonata in E Minor. She thought her imaginary performance of the piece was rather remarkable, given the fact her left forearm, having been crushed beneath the shoe of Felix Belov, had likely suffered at least a hairline fracture.
At the conclusion of the recital, she opened her eyes and saw the Russian leaning in the doorway of the dressing room, watching her intently. “What were you doing just now?” he asked.
“Playing the cello.”
“On your arm?”
“Very good, Fletcher.”
He entered the dressing room, slowly. “Were you playing Haydn, by any chance?”
“Brahms.”
