“You can play from memory?”
She nodded.
“Were you playing your imaginary cello when you sent this?”
He handed her his mobile phone. Displayed on the screen was a copy of an email regarding a parcel of documents that had been left in a sporting ground in Zurich’s District 3. The sender was someone called Mr. Nobody. The recipient was a well-known Russian investigative reporter named Nina Antonova.
“The Haydn Group had already taken control of Nina’s computer when you sent that,” Felix explained. “I wish to thank you for finally giving us the opportunity to give the traitor Viktor Orlov the miserable death he deserved.”
“What would have happened if Nina had opened that contaminated package on the plane to London?”
“She would have died, along with several people seated around her. But she didn’t open it. She took the package straight to Viktor’s house in Cheyne Walk and placed it on his desk. It was one of the most perfect assassinations in our long and glorious history. The traitor Orlov was finally eliminated, and the meddlesome Nina Antonova was thoroughly discredited.”
“I hope you someday receive the recognition you so richly deserve.”
“I was only the delivery boy,” replied Felix, failing to notice the irony in Isabel’s remark. “Arkady was the one who plannedit. He specialized in false-flag operations and active measures when he worked for the KGB.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.” She tossed the phone into the Jacuzzi. “But one wonders why you’ve chosen this moment to confess your involvement in Viktor Orlov’s murder.”
Upstairs, the music died.
“Party’s over,” said Felix. “Time to take a ride.”
It occurred to Isabel that, with the deafening music switched off, someone might hear her call for help. But the first breath of air had scarcely escaped her lungs when Felix clamped a hand over her mouth. Her attempt at physical rebellion likewise failed. All it took was a bit of pressure to the base of her neck, and her body went limp.
He dragged her from the pool pavilion, past the entrance of a faux English pub. Like the drinking establishments of London, it was empty. Next door was the indoor tennis court, which for some reason was ablaze with light, as was the indoor skating rink and the marquee outside the movie theater. The featured attraction wasFrom Russia with Love.
Beyond the movie theater was an arcade filled with pinball machines and vintage video games, and adjacent to the arcade was a strip club with a stage and a pole. It was a new low, thought Isabel. Not even Anil Kandar, her ethically challenged former colleague from RhineBank-London, had a home strip club.
Finally, they came to the chalet’s enormous six-car garage. Isabel, her dress soaked from the Jacuzzi, shivered in the sudden cold. Only two of the bays were occupied, one with a Mercedes AMG GT coupe, the other with a Range Rover. The door ofthe last bay was open. Outside in the drive was a Lynx snowmobile with a cargo sled attached.
An arctic suit lay on the spotless concrete floor along with a pair of night-vision goggles, a quilted moving blanket, a roll of heavy-duty packing tape, a tarpaulin, and a length of nylon rope. Isabel folded her arms across her chest as Felix wrapped her inside the quilt and bound it with the packing tape. A moment passed, presumably while he changed into his arctic suit. Then he hoisted Isabel over his shoulder and flung her like war dead onto the cargo sled of the Lynx.
She was lying on her back, with her head at the front of the sled. It sagged a few degrees as Felix climbed aboard the saddle and started the engine. As they drew away from the chalet, Isabel screamed for help until her throat gave out. She doubted even Felix was able to hear her. The high-pitched drone of the engine was like a buzz saw.
Her left hand was lying on the upper portion of her right arm. She closed her eyes and tried to play the opening of the Elgar concerto, but it was no use. For once, she could not hear the music in her head. Instead, she reflected upon the set of circumstances, the chain of misadventure and providence, that had placed her in her current predicament. It was the phone call, she thought—the call the Russian president had taken before their meeting. That was when it happened. That was when everything went wrong.
Five minutes after the music stopped, a line of chauffeur-driven luxury motorcars materialized at Arkady Akimov’s door. They set off at regular intervals, one by one, and joined a secondqueue of vehicles at the southern end of the rue de Nogentil. There, by order of the Élysée Palace, the departing guests were subjected to a second search. In none of the cars did the French police find what they were looking for—a German woman, thirty-four years of age, wearing a black Max Mara cocktail dress and carrying a clutch purse by Bottega Veneta.
Gabriel monitored the proceedings from the balcony of the safe house, a phone to his ear. It was connected to Paul Rousseau in Paris. Rousseau was in turn connected to the control tower at Chambéry Airport, which had just experienced an unexplained and catastrophic loss of power. Or so the control tower had informed the flight crew of the Russian president’s Ilyushin Il-96 aircraft.
“Is there any chance they could have smuggled her out of the chalet before the president’s departure?” asked Rousseau.
“Not by the front door, and not by car. She’s either on one of those helicopters or still inside the house.”
“The chief of the SDLP detail says the only additions to the president’s traveling party were Monsieur Akimov and his wife.”
“That leaves the house.”
“Don’t even think about it,” cautioned Rousseau.
“I was hoping your side might handle it.”
“On what grounds?”
“Something innocuous. A complaint from the neighbors, for example.”
“In Courchevel on New Year’s Eve?”
