Tzamarot Ayalon, Tel Aviv
Not far from King Saul Boulevard, in the Tel Aviv district known as Tzamarot Ayalon, there stands a colony of thirteen new luxury high-rise apartment towers. In one of the buildings, the tallest, was an Office safe flat. The current occupant played the cello day and night, much to the exasperation of her neighbor, a multimillionaire software magnate. The magnate, who was used to getting his way, complained to the building’s management, and management complained to Housekeeping. Gabriel retaliated by arranging for the young cellist to take daily lessons from Israel’s most sought-after instructor. He was not concerned about a security breach. The instructor’s daughter worked as an analyst for Research.
He was leaving as Gabriel arrived. “She played quite beautifully today,” he said. “Her tone is truly remarkable.”
“How about her mood?”
“Could be better.”
She was seated before a westward-facing window, her cello between her knees, the light of the setting sun on her face. It bore no trace of the ordeal she had suffered at the hands of Felix Belov, apart from a bit of trapped blood, the result of a subconjunctival hemorrhage, in one eye. Gabriel was envious of her recuperative powers. It was her youth, he assured himself.
She looked up suddenly, surprised by his presence. “How long have you been listening?”
“Hours.”
She lowered her bow and rubbed her neck.
“How are you feeling?”
She moved aside the cello and raised her shirt, revealing a huge magenta-and-garnet-colored bruise.
Gabriel winced. “Does it still hurt?”
“Only when I laugh.” She lowered the shirt. “I suppose it could have been worse. Every time I close my eyes, I see his body lying in the snow.”
“Do you want to talk to someone?”
“I thought I was.”
“You had every right to do what you did, Isabel. It will take time, but one day you will forgive yourself for having the courage to save your own life.”
“According to the newspapers, he’s missing.”
“I believe I read something about that, too.”
“Will his body ever turn up?”
“If it does, it won’t be in France.”
“His English was flawless,” said Isabel. “I still find it hard to believe he was actually Russian.”
“I’m sure his many American readers would agree with you.”
She frowned. “What American readers?”
“Felix Belov was the chief of the Haydn Group’s U.S.A. desk. My cyber specialists are analyzing the hard drives as we speak. The entire Russian playbook for information operations directed against the West, all at our fingertips.” He paused. “And all because of you.”
“How have you managed to keep my name out of the press?”
“Quite easily, actually. The only people who know about you are Martin and the Russians.”
“What about Anil Kandar?”
“He’s been told that if he so much as mentions your name, he’ll spend the next two centuries in prison.”
“And how long ismysentence?” she asked.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in hiding until I’m certain the Russian president’s desire for vengeance has receded.”
