The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  “Find that Russian.”

  “And Zoe?”

  “Give me a few of your men. I’ll take care of Zoe.”

  IT DID NOT take Brunner more than a few minutes to confirm that Mikhail Danilov, companion of Zoe Reed, was not present in the ballroom for the screening of One World’s newest production. The length of Mr. Danilov’s absence was unclear, as was his present location, though it didn’t take long for Brunner to decide where to begin his search.

  Wisely, he chose not to go alone, bringing with him four of his most impressively built men. They climbed the back staircase as nonchalantly as possible; once out of sight, each man drew a SIG Sauer P226. At the top of the stairs, they proceeded wordlessly down the hallway, footfalls muted by lush carpeting. Thirty-two feet later, they stopped and turned to the left. The doors leading to the alcove were closed. They yielded without a sound. Brunner slipped inside and paused before the keyless lock, his right hand hovering over the pad. This was the point where the silent approach ended. But there was no choice. Brunner punched in the eight digits and pressed ENTER. Then he placed his hand on the latch and waited for the dead bolts to snap open.

  MARTIN RETURNED to the ballroom as the film was nearing its conclusion and sat next to Monique.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said softly, his gaze focused on the screen.

  “Perhaps this might not be the best time or place, Martin.”

  “Actually, I’m afraid it is.”

  Monique looked at him. “What have you done?”

  “I need your help, Monique.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “We can lose everything.”

  THE MAN who sprang at Jonas Brunner and his men like a predatory cat had two advantages. One was the advantage of sight—after nearly an hour in the office, his eyes were accustomed to the gloom—while the other was training. Yes, Brunner and his men were all Swiss Army veterans, but the lanky Russian with eyes the color of glacial ice was ex-Sayeret Matkal and therefore expert in the ways of Krav Maga, the official martial art of the Israeli military and intelligence services. What it lacks in beauty it more than makes up for in efficiency and sheer brutality. Its doctrines are simple: continuous motion and constant attack. And once the battle is joined, it does not end until the opponent is on the ground and in need of serious medical attention.

  The Russian fought bravely and in near silence. He broke two noses with palm strikes, fractured a cheekbone with an adroit elbow, and left a larynx so damaged its owner would speak with a rasp for the rest of his life. Eventually, though, he was overwhelmed by the greater numbers and combined weight of his opponents. After rendering him defenseless, Brunner and his men pummeled their opponent viciously until he lapsed into unconsciousness, at which point there arose a great swell of applause from one floor below. Brunner briefly imagined it was for him. It wasn’t, though. The One World documentary had just ended, and Saint Martin was basking in the adulation of his guests.

  GABRIEL DID NOT hear the applause, only the violent struggle that preceded it. Next came the voice of Jonas Brunner ordering his men to take Mr. Danilov quietly down to the cellar. When the signal from the radio vanished from the airwaves, Gabriel didn’t bother trying to reestablish contact. Instead, he dialed Zoe’s number and closed his eyes. Answer your phone, Zoe. Answer your damn phone.

  ZOE WAS filing slowly out of the ballroom when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she was greeted by the unexpected sight of Monique Landesmann, a pleasant smile on her face. Zoe felt her cheeks begin to burn but managed a smile of her own.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, Zoe.” Monique extended her hand. “Martin’s told me so much about you. He admires your work a great deal.”

  “If there were more businessmen like your husband, Mrs. Landesmann, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have much to write about.”

  Zoe was not sure from where she summoned these words, but they seemed to please Monique.

  “I hope you enjoyed the film. Martin’s very proud of it.”

  “He should be.”

  Monique placed a jeweled hand lightly on Zoe’s arm. “There’s something I need to discuss with you, Zoe. Might we have a brief word in private?”

  Zoe hesitated, unsure of what to do, then agreed.

  “Wonderful,” said Monique. “Come this way.”

  She led Zoe across the ballroom through a pair of towering doors, then down a marble hallway lit by chandeliers. At the end of the hallway was a small, ornate parlor that looked like something Zoe had seen on a tour of Versailles. Monique paused at the doorway and, with a smile, gestured for Zoe to enter. Zoe never saw the hand that immediately clamped over her mouth or the one that ripped the clutch from her grasp. She tried to struggle, but it was useless. She tried to scream but could barely breathe. As the bodyguards carried Zoe from the room, she managed to twist her head around and cast a pleading glance toward Monique. But Monique never saw it. She had already turned and was making her way back to the party.

  MARTIN WAS standing at the center of the main reception room, surrounded as usual. Monique went to his side and slipped an arm proprietarily around his waist.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Everything’s fine, darling,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. “But if you ever betray me again, I’ll destroy you myself.”

  66

  MAYFAIR, LONDON

  A chapel silence had fallen over the London ops center by the time Gabriel’s last message arrived. Adrian Carter and Graham Seymour, Anglicans both, sat with heads bowed and eyes closed as if in prayer. Shamron and Navot stood shoulder to shoulder, Navot with his wrestler’s arms folded across his chest, Shamron with his cigarette lighter twirling anxiously between his fingertips. Chiara was in the fishbowl, scrolling through the contents of Martin Landesmann’s hard drive.

  “Martin wouldn’t dare kill them in the house,” said Carter.

  “No,” Shamron agreed. “First he’ll have them driven into the Alps. Then he’ll kill them.”

  “Perhaps your team can intercept them on the way out of Villa Elma,” Seymour said.

  “May I remind you that there are almost two hundred black luxury automobiles lined up in Martin’s drive, all of which will be departing at roughly the same time? And then, of course, Martin has access to the lake and several very fast boats.” Shamron paused. “Anyone know where we can get a boat on a freezing December night in Geneva?”

  “I have friends in the DAP,” Carter said without much conviction. “Friends who’ve occasionally been helpful in our efforts against al-Qaeda.”

  “They’re your friends,” Navot said, “not ours. And I can assure you that the DAP would love nothing more than to rub our noses in a very big pile of shit.”

  “Consider the alternative, Uzi. It might be better for you and your service to lose a little face than one of your best agents and one of Britain’s most famous journalists.”

  “This isn’t about pride, Adrian. This is about keeping several of my best people out of a Swiss jail.”

  “If I handle it, they might not have to go to jail.”

  “Have you forgotten the name of the man who’s sitting in a room in the Grand Hotel Kempinski right now?” Greeted by silence, Navot continued, “I’m not willing to place the fate of Gabriel and the rest of the team in the hands of your friends from the DAP. If there’s a deal that has to be made, we’ll do it ourselves.”

  “It’s your show, Uzi. What do you suggest?”

  Navot turned to Shamron.

  “How much of Martin’s hard drive did we get before the feed was intercepted?” Shamron asked.

  “Roughly ninety percent.”

  “Then I’d say the odds of finding something interesting just increased dramatically. If I were you, I’d get our computer technicians down here from Highgate and tell them to start looking through that data as if their lives depended on it.”

  Navot glanced at Seymour an
d asked, “How long will it take to get them here?”

  “With a police escort…twenty minutes.”

  “Ten would be better.”

  Seymour reached for a phone. Shamron went quietly to Navot’s side.

  “May I make one other suggestion, Uzi?”

  “Please.”

  “Get Gabriel, Eli, and the rest of the team out of the Kempinski before the Swiss police come knocking.”

  THE STEPS were built of stone and spiraled downward into the bowels of the old mansion. Zoe’s feet never touched them. Five of Zentrum’s finest bore her into the gloom, one man for each extremity, one to smother her cries for help. They carried her in the supine position with her head leading the way, so that she was able to see the faces of her tormentors. She recognized all of them from her previous life. Her life before revelation. Her life before truth. Her life before Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg, Germany, and XTE Hardware and Equipment of Shenzhen, China. Her life before Gabriel…

  The stairs emptied into a passageway with damp walls and an arched ceiling. Zoe had the sensation of floating through an Alpine tunnel. There was no light at the end of it, only the wet stench of the lake. Zoe began to thrash violently. One of the guards responded by squeezing her neck in a way that seemed to paralyze her entire body.

  At the end of the passageway, they hurled her to the ground and restrained her with silver duct tape, ankles first, wrists next, finally her mouth. Then a single immense bodyguard hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her down another passage and into a small, darkened room that smelled heavily of mold and dust. There he placed Zoe on her feet and asked whether she was able to breathe. When she responded in the affirmative, he drove a huge fist into her abdomen. She folded like a pocketknife and collapsed to the stone floor, struggling for breath.

  “How about now? Can you breathe now, Ms. Reed?”

  She couldn’t. Zoe couldn’t breathe. Zoe couldn’t see. Zoe couldn’t even seem to hear. All she could do was writhe in agony and watch helplessly as lights exploded in her oxygen-starved brain. She did not know how long her contortions lasted. She only knew that at some point she became aware of the fact she was not alone. Lying facedown on the ground next to her—unconscious, tightly bound, wet with blood—was Mikhail. Zoe laid her head on his shoulder and tried to rouse him, but Mikhail made no movement. Then her body began to convulse with an uncontrollable fear, and tears flowed onto her cheeks.

  AT THAT same moment, Jonas Brunner was standing alone in his office, staring down at the items on his desk. One Bally wallet with credit cards and identification in the name Mikhail Danilov. One room key from the Grand Hotel Kempinksi. One ultraviolet flashlight. One Sony USB flash drive. One small electronic device with a numeric keypad and wires with alligator clips. One miniature radio and earpiece of indeterminate manufacture. Taken together, the items added up to only one possible conclusion. The man now lying bleeding and unconscious in the cellar of Villa Elma was a professional. Brunner picked up his phone and shared that opinion with Ulrich Müller, who was now airborne over Canton Zurich.

  “How long was he alone in the office?”

  “We’re not sure. Perhaps an hour, maybe more.”

  “What was the state of the computer?”

  “It was on and connected to the Internet.”

  “Where are they now?”

  Brunner answered.

  “Can you get them out of the house with no one noticing?”

  “No problem.”

  “Be careful, Jonas. He didn’t do this alone.”

  “What do we do after we get them off the property?”

  “I have a few questions I’d like to ask them. In private.”

  “Where should we take them?”

  “East,” Müller said. “You know the place.”

  Brunner did. “What about Monique and Martin?” he asked.

  “As soon as the last guest leaves, I want them in the helicopter.”

  “Monique isn’t going to be happy.”

  “Monique doesn’t have a choice.”

  The line went dead. Brunner sighed and hung up the phone.

  GIVEN THE jet-setting nature of the Kempinski’s clientele, changes in itinerary were the norm rather than the exception. Regardless, the wave of early departures swamping the reception desk that evening was unusual. First there was an American couple who claimed to have a child in distress. Then there was a pair of Brits who argued bitterly from the time they stepped off the elevator until the moment they finally climbed into their rented Volvo. Five minutes later came a meek figure with disastrous hair who requested a taxi to the Gare de Cornavin, followed soon after by a trim man with gray temples and green eyes who said nothing while the receptionist prepared his bill. He endured a five-minute wait for his rented Audi A6 with admirable patience, though he was obviously annoyed by the delay. When the car finally came, he tossed his bags into the backseat and gave the valet a generous tip before driving away.

  It was not the first time the staff of the Kempinski had been misled by guests, but the scale of the deception foisted upon them that night was unprecedented. There was no child in distress and no source of genuine anger between the bickering couple with British passports. In fact, only one of them was actually British, and that had been a long time ago. Within ten minutes of departing the hotel, both couples had taken up positions along the rue de Lausanne, along with the driver of the very expensive S-Class Mercedes sedan. As for the man with green eyes and gray temples, his destination was the Hôtel Métropole—though by the time he arrived at the check-in counter he was no longer Jonathan Albright of Greenwich, Connecticut, but Heinrich Kiever of Berlin, Germany. Upon entering his room, he hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door and immediately established secure communications with his newly redeployed team. Eli Lavon arrived ten minutes later.

  “Any change?” he asked.

  “Just one,” said Gabriel. “The first guests are starting to leave.”

  67

  GENEVA

  Zoe thought she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Whether it was five men or five hundred, she could not tell. She lay motionless on the damp floor, her head still propped against Mikhail’s shoulder. The duct tape around her wrists had cut off her circulation, and her hands felt as though a thousand needles were pricking them. She was shaking with cold and fear. And not just for herself. Zoe reckoned she had been locked in the cellar for at least an hour, and Mikhail had yet to regain consciousness. He was still breathing, though, deeply, steadily. Zoe imagined she was breathing for him.

  The footfalls drew closer. Zoe heard the heavy door of the room swing open and saw the beam of a flashlight playing over the walls. Eventually, it found her eyes. Behind it, she recognized the familiar silhouette of Jonas Brunner. He examined Mikhail with little concern, then tore the duct tape from Zoe’s mouth. She immediately began to scream for help. Brunner silenced her with two hard slaps across the face.

  “What in God’s name are you doing, Jonas? This is—”

  “Exactly what you and your friend deserve,” he said, cutting her off. “You’ve been lying to us, Zoe. And if you continue to lie, you’re only going to make your situation worse.”

  “My situation? Are you mad, Jonas?”

  Brunner only smiled.

  “Where’s Martin?”

  “Mr. Landesmann,” Brunner said pointedly, “is busy saying good night to his guests. He asked me to see you out. Both of you.”

  “See us out? Look at my friend, Jonas. He’s unconscious. He needs a doctor.”

  “So do several of my best men. And he’ll get a doctor when he tells us who he’s working for.”

  “He works for himself, you idiot! He’s a millionaire.”

  Brunner gave another smile. “You like men with money, don’t you, Zoe?”

  “If it wasn’t for men with money, Jonas, you’d be writing parking tickets in some shitty little village in the Alps.”

  Zoe never saw the blow coming. A s
weeping backhand, it drove her head sideways into Mikhail’s blood-soaked neck. Mikhail seemed to stir, then went motionless again. Zoe’s cheek radiated with pain, and she could taste blood in her mouth. She closed her eyes, and for an instant it seemed Gabriel was speaking quietly into her ear. You’re Zoe Reed, he was saying. You make mincemeat of people like Martin Landesmann. No one tells you what to do. And no one ever lays a hand on you. She opened her eyes and saw Brunner’s face floating behind the glow of the flashlight.

  “Who do you work for?” he asked.

  “The Financial Journal of London. Which means you just slapped the wrong fucking girl, Jonas.”

  “Tonight?” Brunner asked as if addressing a dull pupil. “Who are you working for tonight, Zoe?”

  “I’m not working tonight, Jonas. I came here at Martin’s invitation. And I was having a wonderful time until you and your thugs grabbed me and locked me in this godforsaken room. What the hell is going on?”

  Brunner studied her for a moment, then looked at Mikhail. “You’re here because this man is a spy. We found him in Mr. Landesmann’s office during the film. He was stealing material from Mr. Landesmann’s computer.”

  “A spy? He’s a businessman. An oil trader of some sort.”

  Brunner held a small silver object before her eyes. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  “It’s a flash drive, Jonas. Most people have one.”

  “That’s true. But most people don’t have these.” Brunner held up an ultraviolet flashlight, a device with wires and alligator clips, and a miniature radio with an earpiece. “Your friend is a professional intelligence officer, Zoe. And we believe you are, too.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Jonas. I’m a reporter.”

  “So why did you bring a spy into Mr. Landesmann’s home tonight?”

  Zoe stared directly into Brunner’s face. The words she spoke were not hers. They had been written for her by a man who did not exist.