“Where were you born?”
“In Trier.”
“When did you receive your first cello?”
“When I was eight.”
“Your father gave it to you?”
“My mother.”
“You competed in the ARD International Music Competition when you were nineteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“You won a second prize for your performance of Brahms’s Cello Sonata in E Minor?”
“Third prize. And it was the F Major.”
“How long have you been working for Israeli intelligence?”
“I don’t work for Israeli intelligence. I work for Martin Landesmann.”
“Is Martin working for Israeli intelligence?”
“No.”
“Are you involved in a sexual relationship with Landesmann?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in love with Landesmann?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“You would have to ask him.”
Gabriel’s questions ceased.
“How did I do?”
“If your wish is to die on Saturday afternoon, you did just fine. If, however, you wish to survive your lunch at Arkady’s villa, we have a great deal of work to do. Now tell me your name.”
“It’s Isabel.”
“Why did you give those documents to Nina Antonova?”
“I didn’t.”
“How long have you been working for Gabriel Allon?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“You’re lying, Isabel. And now you’re dead.”
The next mock interrogation was worse than the first, and the one after that was the equivalent of a signed confession. But by four that morning—with a few valuable insights from a criminal who had managed to convince the world he was a saint—Isabel lied with the ease and confidence of a highly trained intelligence officer. Even Gabriel, who was looking for any excuse to press the kill switch, had to admit she was more than capable of answering a few questions at a luncheon party. He was under no illusions, however, about her ability to stand up under sustained KGB-style pressure. If Arkady and his thugs strapped her to a chair, she was to immediately revert to her first fallback, that she had been coerced into working for British intelligence while she was working for RhineBank in London. And if that didn’t work, she was to offer them Gabriel’s name.
