“A very important figure in the Kremlin. That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”
Isabel exhaled slowly.
“That sounded like a yes to me,” said Arkady.
“On two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“I will see to my own transportation.”
“It’s not such an easy drive up the mountain.”
“I’m German. I’ll manage.”
“And the other?”
“You will behave yourself, especially when I’m around your wife.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Isabel glanced at Gabriel, who nodded once. “All right, Arkady. You win.”
“Brilliant. I’ve already taken the liberty of booking you the largest suite at the Hôtel Grand Courchevel. The head of reservations is named Ricardo. He promised to take excellent care of you.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“What time is the party?”
“The first guests should begin to arrive around nine. My chalet is on the rue de Nogentil in the Jardin Alpin. It’s the largest in Courchevel,” he boasted before ringing off. “You can’t possibly miss it.”
48
Courchevel, France
It was Jean-Claude Dumas, general manager of the chic K2 Palace, who famously dismissed the clientele of the Hôtel Grand Courchevel as “the elderly and their parents.” Her rooms were thirty in number, modest in size, and discreet in appointment. One did not come to the Grand for gold fixtures and suites the size of football pitches. One came for a taste of Europe as it once was. One came to linger over a Campari in the lounge bar or dawdle over coffee andLe Mondein the breakfast room. But never in ski attire, mind you; guests waited until after breakfast before dressing for the slopes. The hotel’s wireless Internet service, a recent if reluctant addition to her abbreviated list of amenities, was universally regarded as the worst in Courchevel, if not the entire French Alps. Devotees of the Grand rarely complained.
At half past one p.m. on New Year’s Eve, the Grand’s tidy lobby was as silent as a crypt. The lounge bar was closed by government edict, as was the breakfast room, the grill room, the gym, the spa, and the indoor swimming pool. The kitchen was operating on a skeleton crew, with “no contact” room service being the only option for on-premises dining. At present, only two of the Grand’s rooms were occupied. With the resort’s ski lifts shut down and its nightclubs shuttered, Courchevel was a gilded ghost town.
Consequently, most of the resort’s hotels were closed for the all-important winter holidays. But not the proud Grand. For the sake of its longtime seasonal employees, management had refused to surrender to the surging pandemic, even if it meant incurring day-to-day operational losses. Quite unexpectedly, the hotel had been rewarded with an onslaught of New Year’s Eve bookings. It seemed the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov had decided to throw caution to the wind and host a blowout at his monstrous chalet in the Jardin Alpin. Twenty-four of Arkady’s guests had wisely decided to sleep it off at the Grand rather than risk the treacherous drive down the mountain. Regrettably, most were Russians, for whom management did not care. Before the plague, they would have been informed—by polite email or with a phone call from Ricardo the reservations manager—that there was no room at the inn. The harsh economic realities of the day, however, had required the Grand to relax its exacting standards and open its doors to the invaders from the East.
One of Arkady’s guests, however, was a certain Isabel Brenner—German citizen, resident of Geneva, one night ina Deluxe Prestige Suite, very VIP. Or so claimed the abrasive personal assistant who had made the reservation on Arkady’s behalf. Ricardo had pledged to personally look after Madame Brenner’s every need before placing the assistant on eternal hold. For his insolence, he received a call from none other than Arkady himself, who issued a not-so-veiled threat of bodily violence if Madame Brenner’s stay fell short of absolute perfection. Ricardo, a Spaniard from the restive Basque region, had no reason to doubt the authenticity of the billionaire’s warning. Twelve years earlier, a Russian investigative journalist named Aleksandr Lubin had been stabbed to death in Room 237. It was Ricardo, nearly twenty-four hours after the killing, who found the body.
Owing to the hotel’s perilously low current occupancy rate, he had granted Arkady’s guests the option of a two p.m. check-in at no additional charge. Therefore, at the stroke of 1:45, he stepped hesitantly from the grotto of Reception and took up a defensive position just inside the Grand’s double glass doors. He was joined a moment later by the reassuring presence of Philippe, a neatly built former French paratrooper who wore the crossed keys of the International Concierge Institute on his spotless lapel.
Philippe automatically consulted his wristwatch as a Mercedes sedan braked to a halt at the base of the Grand’s front steps. “Maybe this was a mistake,” he said quietly.
“Maybe not,” replied Ricardo as the limousine’s only passenger emerged from the backseat.
Attractive female, mid-thirties, blond hair parted on one side, casually but expensively dressed. The driver was a toweringbrute, more bodyguard than chauffeur. Ricardo pointed out the slight bulge at the left side of his jacket, suggesting the presence of a concealed firearm.
“Ex-military,” declared Philippe.
“Russian?”
“Does he look Russian to you?”
