“What sort of work did you do there?”
“Banking. Like everyone else.”
“Why did you leave this bank of yours and come to Geneva?”
I left because of you, she thought. Then she said, “I was given the sack, if you must know.”
Arkady regarded her reflection in the elevator doors. “What was your crime?”
“They caught me with my hand in the till.”
“How much did you steal?”
She met his reflected gaze and smiled. “Millions.”
“Were you able to keep any of it?”
“Not a centime. In fact, I was living on the streets until Martin came along. He cleaned me up and gave me a job.”
“Perhaps he is a saint, after all.”
When the doors opened, Arkady insisted Isabel depart the carriage first. The hallway along which she led him was hung with photographs of Martin engaged in philanthropic pursuits in the developing world. Arkady offered no commentary on the shrine to Martin’s good works. In fact, Isabel had a nagging suspicion he was at that moment assessing the quality of her ass.
She paused at the conference room door and held out a hand. “This way, Mr. Akimov.”
He brushed past her without a word. Martin appeared distracted by something he was reading on his mobile phone. A single chair stood on each side of the long wooden table,upon which was arrayed an assortment of mineral water. The carefully staged setting seemed more suited to high-stakes East-West summitry than a criminal conspiracy. All that was missing, thought Isabel, was the obligatory handshake for the press photographers.
Instead, the two men exchanged a cheerless, unspoken greeting across the divide of the table. Martin scored the first goal of the contest owing to the fact he was tieless and his opponent was hopelessly overdressed. In an attempt to even the score, Arkady dropped into his chair without first receiving an invitation to sit. Martin, in a shrewd display of boardroom jujitsu, remained on his feet, thus retaining control of the high ground.
He looked at Isabel and smiled. “That will be all for now, Isabel. Thank you.”
“Of course, Martin.”
Isabel went out, closing the door behind her, and returned to her office. The digital clock on her desk read 3:04 p.m. Forty-one minutes, she thought. And not a minute more.
36
Quai du Mont-Blanc, Geneva
Not surprisingly, Martin had resisted the installation of hidden cameras and microphones in the conference room of Global Vision Investments. He acquiesced only after receiving a solemn pledge from Gabriel that the devices—allof them—would be removed at the conclusion of the operation. There were four cameras in all, and six high-resolution microphones. The encrypted feed bounced from a receiver in the telecom closet to the team’s new safe house in diplomatic Champel. They hadn’t bothered with much of a cover story to explain their presence. The local security service was a silent partner in their endeavor.
They received their first update at half past two, when Eli Lavon’s watchers in the Place du Port reported the arrival ofa motorcade—a Mercedes-Maybach sedan and two Range Rovers—at the NevaNeft headquarters. Arkady Akimov stepped from the building’s opaque doorway fifteen minutes later, and at 2:55 p.m. he was listening to Isabel explaining that his security detail was not welcome in the carbon-neutral confines of Global Vision Investments. The transmission from her phone died when she entered the lift, and when the audio feed resumed, she was standing in the door of the conference room. Martin and Arkady were glaring at one another over the table like prizefighters in the center of a ring.
“That will be all for now, Isabel. Thank you.”
“Of course, Martin.”
Isabel withdrew, leaving the two billionaires alone in the conference room. At length, Martin opened one of the bottles of mineral water and slowly poured two glasses.
“Do you think he’ll drink any of it?” asked Eli Lavon.
“Arkady Akimov?” Gabriel shook his head. “Not if it was the last drop of water on earth.”
“If you would prefer,” said Martin, “I have some without gas.”
“I’m not thirsty, thank you.”
“You don’t drink water?”
