“Trust me, it gets old.”
“Like me.” She probed at the skin along her jawline. “I don’t suppose you could do a little work on me before the recital on Saturday night.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a minute to spare.”
“Will you finish it in time?”
“That depends on how many more questions you intend to ask me.”
“Actually, I have only one more.”
“You want to know what happened to the Englishman who was hired to kill us that night in Venice.”
“Yes.”
“He’s talking to the girl in the next room,” said Gabriel.
“The dishy one with the lovely suntan?” Anna sighed. “Must you make a joke about everything?”
33
Kunsthaus, Zurich
To reach the entrance of the Kunsthaus museum, repository of Switzerland’s largest and most important collection of paintings and other objets d’art dating to the thirteenth century, one did not traverse a historic square or scale monumental steps of stone. One merely crossed a small esplanade off the Heimplatz, which at eight o’clock on Saturday evening was ablaze with television lights and the logo of the One World Global Alliance for Democracy. The museum’s director had implored attendees of the gala to utilize public transportation so as to reduce the event’s carbon footprint. With the exception of four young women who alighted from a Number 5 streetcar, none complied. Most hovered for a moment outside the museum’s portico to allow their photographs to be taken by the press. And a few, including the CEO of Credit Suisse,consented to brief interviews. Martin held forth for nearly ten minutes while Monique dazzled in a gown by Dior Haute Couture. Not surprisingly, it was the dress, with its dramatic neckline, that was soon trending on social media.
Christopher Keller, in a dark suit and tie, clipboard in hand, observed the parade of money and temporary beauty from his post in the lobby. The laminated badge affixed to his lapel identified him as Nicolas Carnot and his place of employment as Global Vision Investments. It was Monsieur Carnot, at half past four that afternoon, much later than the museum’s director would have preferred, who had deliveredThe Lute Playerto its new home. At present, the painting was under armed guard in a room near the event hall. In an adjacent room, also under armed guard, was Anna Rolfe. Monsieur Carnot had left strict instructions with the museum’s staff that under no circumstances—saveperhapsthe outbreak of nuclear war—was she to be disturbed before the performance.
Christopher’s phone pulsed with an incoming message. It concerned the whereabouts of the evening’s secret guest of honor, the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov. Having traveled to Zurich from his home on Lake Geneva by executive helicopter, Mr. Akimov was now approaching the Kunsthaus in a fleet of hired limousines. Through his representative, a certain Ludmilla Sorova, he had requested two additional tickets to the gala for his security detail. His request had been denied, and it had been made clear to Mr. Akimov that bodyguards were not considered appropriate to the occasion.
Another prosperous-looking couple entered the lobby—the Basel-based pharmaceutical magnate Gerhard Müller and his underfed wife, Ursula. Christopher placed a proper schoolboytick mark next to their names on his list and, looking up again, spotted a procession of three matching Mercedes S-Class sedans drawing up outside in the Heimplatz. From the first and third cars emerged a sextet of bodyguards. All veterans of elitespetsnazunits, all with blood on their hands. And all armed, thought Christopher, who was not. He had only his clipboard and his pen and a laminated badge that identified him as Nicolas Carnot, a name he had dredged up from his complicated past.
He had his ironic half smile, too, which he donned like body armor as Arkady Akimov and his wife, Oksana, alighted from the second Mercedes. The phalanx of bodyguards escorted them across the esplanade to the entrance of the museum. Much to Christopher’s relief, they made no attempt to follow them into the lobby.
There he was able to regard them at his leisure. Arkady Akimov, the sickly boy from Baskov Lane, was now a trim, linear figure of upright bearing and imperious demeanor, with thinning silver hair combed carefully over his broad Russian pate, and smooth skin stretched tightly over his square Russian cheekbones. The mouth was small and unsmiling, the eyes were hooded and observant. They were the eyes, thought Christopher, of a Moscow Center–trained hood. They swept over him without pause before settling approvingly on Oksana. In Christopher’s professional estimation, Arkady regarded his beautiful young wife as little more than a possession. Heaven help her if she ever crossed him. He would kill her and find another.
The Arkady Akimovs followed the Gerhard Müllers toward the event hall along a designated path that took them past some of the museum’s most popular attractions, including works byBonnard, Gauguin, Monet, and Van Gogh. Christopher, armed with his clipboard and badge, headed to the venue by a direct route. White-jacketed waiters were serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres to the early arrivals in the foyer. Inside the hall, neat ranks of auditorium chairs were arrayed before a rectangular raised platform, upon which stood a concert grand piano and a baize-covered display pedestal. Technicians from the museum’s production department were making a final adjustment to the microphones and the lighting.
Christopher slipped through a doorway at the left side of the stage and instantly heard the muted sound of Anna Rolfe’s violin, a simple D-minor scale played over two octaves. The security guard posted outside her door was making small talk with the unflappable Nadine Rosenberg, Anna’s longtime accompanist. Isabel was in a room across the hall. Gowned, her hair professionally styled, she was contemplating her reflection in the lighted mirror over her dressing table. Her 1790 William Forster II cello was propped on a stand in the corner.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Remarkably calm for someone who’s about to share a billing with Anna Rolfe.”
“Trust me, it’s all an act.”
“Any last questions?”
“What happens if he doesn’t approach me after the performance?”
“I suppose you’ll have to improvise.”
She lifted the cello from its stand and played the melody of “Someday My Prince Will Come.” Christopher hummed the tune as he headed through the event hall to the foyer. The crowd of invited dignitaries had broken into opposing camps,one surrounding Martin Landesmann, the other Arkady Akimov. Tray-bearing waiters shuttled between the two blocs, but otherwise a cold peace prevailed. It was, thought Christopher, an altogether perfect start to the evening.
In the Erlenbach safe house, Gabriel and Eli Lavon were observing the same scene on an open laptop computer. The video feed arrived to them courtesy of Unit 8200, which had seized control of the museum’s security system and internal audiovisual network—all with the knowledge and tacit approval of the Swiss intelligence service.
Shortly before eight p.m., the doors of the event hall were opened from within, and a ceremonial bell was rung. Because the invited guests were all terribly rich and unused to following instructions, they ignored it. Indeed, by the time they were all settled in their assigned seats, Gabriel’s carefully planned program was already running twenty minutes behind schedule. Martin and Monique, the event’s sponsors and hosts, occupied two chairs in the center of the first row. Arkady and Oksana Akimov, having donated twenty million Swiss francs to the One World Global Alliance for Democracy, had also been granted preferential seating. Martin, as instructed, acted as though the Russian and his wife were invisible.
At last, the museum’s director stepped onto the stage and spoke at length regarding the importance of art and culture in an age of conflict and uncertainty. His remarks were only slightly less sedative than those delivered by the chief conservator Ludwig Schenker on the subject of Artemisia Gentileschi and the unlikely rediscovery ofThe Lute Player, little of whichbore any resemblance to the truth. Martin was for once mercifully taciturn. At his command, two curators placed the painting atop the pedestal, and Monique and the director removed the white veil with a flourish. In the event hall of the Kunsthaus, the applause was rapturous. In the Erlenbach safe house, it was brief but genuine nonetheless.
