“How long will I have to remain in hiding?”
“If you walk away now, not long. But if you take a job with Kremlin Incorporated...” He left the thought unfinished.
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“I’ve never lied to you. Only to Arkady.”
“He believes your lies. Mine, too.”
“Are you improvising again?”
Upstairs, Anna was playing Paganini’s Caprice no. 10. Smiling, Isabel lifted her gaze toward the ceiling. “Don’t you love to listen to her practice?”
“Immensely.”
“Are you lying to me now?”
Gabriel closed his eyes. “Never, Isabel.”
Later that evening, after consuming a traditional Portuguese meal served by a contemptuous Maria Alvarez, Gabriel tried to prepare Isabel for the shock of being in the same room with the most powerful man in the world. A cursory review of press photographs and video revealed the marked change in his appearance in the two decades since his rise to power. Gone were the sunken cheeks and dark circles beneath his eyes. Now he had the waxen face of a corpse on display in a mausoleum. His right arm, broken during a street brawl in Leningrad, hung stiffly at his side when he walked. Intentionally rude and vulgar, he took pleasure in the discomfort of others. Successive American and Western European leaders had emerged from meetings appalled by his conduct. The slouch, the displayed crotch, the dead-eyed stare.
“Like his friend Arkady Akimov, he speaks fluent German, so he will undoubtedly address you in your native language rather than in English, which he speaks poorly. Feel free to wish him a pleasant New Year, but make no other attempt to engage him in conversation. Allow him to ask the questions, and keep your answers brief and to the point. And if you feel nervous, don’t hesitate to say so. He’s a serial killer. He’s used to people being nervous in his presence.”
Isabel’s preparation continued the following morning after Eli Lavon and Christopher Keller arrived from Geneva. Lavon, who spoke both Russian and German, volunteered to portray Vladimir Vladimirovich in a dry run of the encounter. The exercise ended soon after it began, however, when his attempt to appear menacing provoked nothing in Isabel except an expression of pity. Later, following a break for lunch, she breezedthrough several mock interrogations. Gabriel conducted the last. When it was over, he laid his Beretta 9mm on the table.
“And what happens if they start waving one of these around? Or if they hit you with it? What do you do then, Isabel?”
“I tell them everything they want to know.”
“Everything,” Gabriel repeated. “Including my name and phone number. Is that clear?”
She nodded.
“Recite it, please.”
She did as she was told.
“Again, please.”
She sighed. “I reworked RhineBank’s entire balance sheet in less than hour. I can remember a phone number.”
“Humor me.”
Isabel repeated the number accurately and then slumped in her seat, exhausted. What she needed, thought Gabriel, was not additional training but several days of well-deserved rest.
He left her in the hands of Anna Rolfe and turned his attention to the task of moving his operation from Switzerland to the enchanted ski village of Courchevel. Located 135 kilometers south of Geneva, it was an exclusive playground of the beautiful and the rich, especially rich Russians. Arkady’s chalet was on the rue de Nogentil. Housekeeping snared a vacant property on the same street for a mere thirty thousand a night, minimum stay of seven nights, no exceptions during the high season, no refunds in the event of a cancellation. Like the Russian president, Gabriel planned to arrive with a light footprint. With the exception of Christopher Keller, all his personnel would be Israeli, though their passports, drivers’ permits, and credit cards would identify them as anything but.
By Christmas morning the preparations were complete. All that remained was Arkady’s invitation, which Isabel had yet to accept. Once again, Gabriel waited for the Russian billionaire to take the initiative. He passed the holiday quietly with his young wife in Féchy; Isabel, with her friend Anna Rolfe on the Costa de Prata. They walked the windswept beach in midmorning and that evening shared a festive meal with three old friends, including a handsome Englishman who had once been hired to kill Anna during a recital in Venice. It was, she declared, the most enjoyable dinner party she had thrown in many years.
There was no contact from Arkady on Boxing Day, or the day after that. But on Monday the twenty-eighth, he rang Isabel’s mobile and, receiving no answer, left a lengthy message on her voice mail. She waited until late Tuesday morning before calling him back.
“But why not?” asked Arkady, deflated.
“Because I won’t know a soul there, and I don’t speak a word of Russian.”
“The guest list includes plenty of non-Russians. And if you don’t attend, my friend from Moscow will be upset.”
“Who is he, Arkady?”
