Upstairs, the mood on the trading floor was funereal. Herr Zimmer was sealed in his fishbowl of an office, nearly invisible in a fog of cigar smoke—disabled smoke detectors being one of the most sought-after perquisites of RhineBank seniorexecutives. Seated at his desk, he was engaged in an animated conversation with his speakerphone. Based on his defensive posture, the person at the other end of the line was sitting on the top floor of RhineBank’s headquarters in Hamburg.
Isabel saw to a few routine matters of compliance, and at half past six, after bidding farewell to the girls at reception and the security guards in the lobby, she went into the Talackerstrasse. The ruggedly handsome Englishman who called himself Peter Marlowe joined her aboard a Number 8. In the Römerhofplatz they slid into the backseat of a BMW X5. The crumpled little Israeli eased slowly away from the curb and headed south toward Erlenbach.
“I was beginning to think I’d never see you again,” she said.
“That’s the point, luv.” He smiled. “How was your day?”
“A thrill a minute.”
“It’s about to get a good deal more interesting.”
“Thank goodness.” Isabel looked at the little Israeli behind the wheel. “Is there any way he can drive a bit faster?”
“I’ve tried,” said the Englishman despairingly. “He never listens.”
Isabel laid the fingers of her left hand upon her right arm and played the cello portion of Beethoven’sTriple Concertoas they made their way along the lakeshore. She was nearing the end of the second movement when they arrived at the villa. Gabriel was waiting inside, along with several people who had not been present during her last visit. She counted at least eight new arrivals. One was a beautiful woman who might or might not have been an Arab. The man seated next to her had skin likeporcelain and colorless eyes. A fleshy woman with brownish-blond hair was eyeing Isabel with what appeared to be mild contempt. Or perhaps, she thought, it was merely her natural expression.
Isabel turned to Gabriel. “Friends of yours?”
“You might say that.”
“Are they all Israeli?”
“Would that be a problem?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because many Europeans do not believe the state of Israel has a right to exist.”
“I’m not one of them.”
“Does that mean you would be willing to work with us?”
“I suppose that depends on what you want me to do.”
“I would like you to finish the job you started when you gave those documents to Nina Antonova.”
“How?”
“By helping me to destroy Arkady Akimov and the Haydn Group. It’s a private intelligence service,” Gabriel explained. “And it’s waging war on Western democracy from the sixth floor of Arkady’s office in Geneva.”
“That would explain all the former SVR and GRU officers on the payroll.”
“It would indeed.” Smiling, Gabriel set out on a slow tour of the sitting room. “You’re not the only one here tonight with hidden talent, Isabel.” He stopped next to a tall, balding man who looked like one of her professors from the London School of Economics. “Yossi was a gifted Shakespearean actor when he was at Oxford. He also plays a bit of cello. Not like you, of course.” He pointed toward the Arab-looking woman. “AndNatalie was one of Israel’s top physicians before I sent her to Raqqa to become a terrorist for the Islamic State.”
“Do you want me to become a terrorist, too?”
“No,” replied Gabriel. “A money launderer.”
“I already am.”
“Which is why Global Vision Investments of Geneva would like to hire you.”
“Isn’t that Martin Landesmann’s shop?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Saint Martin? Who hasn’t?”
