“Another lost cause.”
“I’ll have my lawyer deliver the prospectus.”
Arkady smiled. “I don’t deal with lawyers.”
Isabel returned to the conference room at the stroke of 3:45 p.m. It appeared as though nothing had changed since she left. Now, as then, one man was seated and another was standing, though it was Arkady, not Martin, who was on his feet. The air between them was charged with the electricity of their final exchange.
Isabel escorted Arkady to the lifts and bade him a pleasant evening. Returning to the conference room, she found Martin standing contemplatively at the window, as though posing for a One World Foundation promotional video.
“How did it go?”
“Arkady Akimov would like us to launder and conceal eleven and a half billion dollars.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” Martin answered. “I’m afraid there’s one more thing.”
At seven fifteen that evening, while tidying up her already spotless desk, Isabel received a text message from a number she didn’t recognize, instructing her to purchase some wine on her way home. The sender was good enough to suggest a shop on the boulevard Georges-Favon. The proprietor recommended a Bordeaux of moderate price but exceptional vintage and placed it in a plastic bag, which Isabel carried through the quiet streets of the Old Town to the Place du Bourg-de-Four. The vagrant was in his usual spot near the wellhead. He appeared oblivious to the fact he was holding his sign upside down.
Isabel dropped a few coins in his cup and crossed the square to the entrance of her building. Upstairs, she opened the wineand poured a glass. Once again, her cello beckoned, but this time she ignored it, for her thoughts were elsewhere. The oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov had invited her to attend a luncheon on Saturday at his villa in Féchy. And she was now under surveillance by the private Russian intelligence service known as the Haydn Group.
37
Geneva–Paris
Martin rang Isabel at half past seven the following morning while she was attempting to revive herself with a pulverizing shower after a largely sleepless night.
“I’m sorry to call so early, but I wanted to catch you before you left for the office. I hope it’s not a bad time.”
“Not at all.” It was the day’s first lie. Isabel was certain there would be more to come. “Is there a problem?”
“An opportunity, actually. But I’m afraid it will require you to travel to Paris this afternoon.”
“What a shame.”
“Not to worry. I promise to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”
“How long will I be away?”
“Probably one night, but you should pack for two, just to be on the safe side. I’ll tell you the rest when you arrive.”
With that, the call went dead. Isabel finished showering, then checked the weather forecast for Paris. It was nearly identical to Geneva’s, chilly and gray but no chance of rain. She packed accordingly and slipped her passport into her handbag. Her clothing for the day, a tailored pantsuit, hung from the back of her bedroom door. Dressed, she ordered an Uber and headed downstairs to the Place du Bourg-de-Four.
There was no sign of the vagrant, but two male employees of the Haydn Group were breakfasting at one of the cafés. One of the men, the darker-haired of the two, followed Isabel to the rue de l’Hôtel-de-Ville, where her car was waiting. When she arrived at GVI headquarters, Martin was gaveling the morning meeting to order. Nearly one hour in duration, it included no discussion of a lucrative offer by the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov to launder and conceal eleven and a half billion dollars’ worth of looted Russian state assets in the West.
At the conclusion of the meeting, Martin summoned Isabel to his office to explain why she would soon be leaving for Paris. A breakfast meeting at the Hôtel Crillon with an innovative French entrepreneur—or so Martin claimed. He gave Isabel some materials to review on the train and a key to an apartment. The address was handwritten on a notecard bearing his initials, as was the eight-digit passcode for the street-level entrance. Isabel memorized the information and then fed the notecard into Martin’s shredder.
Her train departed the Gare de Cornavin at half past two. The dark-haired operative from the Haydn Group, havingfollowed her on foot to the station, accompanied her on the three-hour journey to the Gare de Lyon. A waiting car delivered her to 21 Quai de Bourbon, an elegant residential street on the northern flank of the Île Saint-Louis.
The apartment was on the uppermost floor, the fifth. With Martin’s key in hand, she stepped from the lift, only to find the door ajar. Gabriel waited in the entrance hall, a forefinger pressed to his lips.
He relieved Isabel of her bag and drew her inside. “Forgive me for deceiving you,” he said, closing the door without a sound. “But I’m afraid there was no other way.”
The sitting room was in darkness. He threw a wall switch, and a constellation of overhead recessed lighting extinguished the gloom. The decor surprised Isabel. She had expected grandeur, a miniature Versailles. Instead, she found herself in a showplace of affected casual elegance. It was no one’s primary residence—or even secondary, she thought. It was a comfortable crash pad for those occasions when its very rich owner found himself in Paris for a few days.
“Yours?” she asked.
“Martin’s, actually.”
