The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  “I don’t know much about him, Jonas. I bumped into him at a reception. He came on very strong. He bought me expensive gifts. He took me to nice restaurants. He treated me very well. In hindsight…”

  “What, Zoe?”

  “Maybe none of it was real. Maybe I was deceived by him.”

  Brunner stroked the inflamed skin of her cheek. Zoe recoiled.

  “I’d like to believe you, Zoe, but I can’t let you go without corroborating your story. As a good reporter, you surely understand why I need a second source.”

  “In a few minutes, my editor is going to be calling to ask about the party. If he doesn’t hear from me—”

  “He’ll assume you’re having a wonderful time and leave a message on your voice mail.”

  “More than three hundred people saw me here tonight, Jonas. And unless you let me out of here very soon, not one of them is going to see me leave.”

  “But that’s not true, Zoe. We all saw you leave, including Mrs. Landesmann. The two of you had a very pleasant conversation shortly before you and Mr. Danilov got into your car and returned to your hotel.”

  “Are you forgetting that we don’t have a car, Jonas? You brought us here.”

  “That’s true, but Mr. Danilov insisted on having his own driver pick him up. I assume his driver is also an intelligence officer.” Brunner gave her a humorless smile. “Allow me to present you with the facts of life, Zoe. Your friend committed a serious crime on Swiss soil tonight, and spies don’t go running to the police when things go wrong. Which means you could vanish from the face of the earth and no one will ever know what happened.”

  “I told you, Jonas, I hardly—”

  “Yes, yes, Zoe,” Brunner said mockingly, “I heard you the first time. But I still need that second source.”

  Brunner motioned with the flashlight, prompting several of his men to enter. They covered Zoe’s mouth with duct tape again, then wrapped her in thick woolen blankets and bound her so tightly that even the slightest movement was impossible. Enveloped now in a suffocating blackness, Zoe could see but one thing—the terrible vision of Mikhail lying on the floor of the cellar, bound, unconscious, his shirt soaked in blood.

  One of the guards asked Zoe if she could breathe. This time, she made no response. The foot soldiers of Zentrum Security seemed to find that amusing, and Zoe heard only laughter as she was lifted from the ground and borne slowly from the cellar as if to her own grave. It was not a grave where they placed her but the trunk of a car. As it moved forward, Zoe began to shake uncontrollably. There is no safe house in Highgate, she told herself. No girl named Sally. No tweedy Englishman named David. No green-eyed assassin named Gabriel Allon. There was only Martin. Martin whom she had once loved. Martin who now was sending her into the mountains of Switzerland to be killed.

  68

  GENEVA

  The exodus of guests from Villa Elma began as a trickle at midnight, but by quarter past it had become a torrent of steel and tinted glass. As Shamron had predicted, Martin and his men held a distinct advantage since nearly all the cars leaving the party were black and of German manufacture. Roughly two-thirds headed left toward central Geneva while the remaining third turned right toward Lausanne and Montreux. Positioned in three separate vehicles along the road, Gabriel’s team watched the passing vehicles for anything out of the ordinary. A car with two men in the front seat. A car traveling at an unusually high rate of speed. A car riding a bit low on its rear axle.

  Twice pursuits were undertaken. Twice pursuits were quickly called off. Dina and Mordecai gave needless chase to a BMW sedan for several miles along the lakeshore while Yossi and Rimona briefly shadowed a Mercedes SL coupe as its occupants wandered Geneva apparently searching for the next party. From his holding point at the gas station, Yaakov saw nothing worth chasing. He just sat with his hands wrapped tightly around the wheel, berating himself for ever letting Zoe and Mikhail out of his sight. Yaakov had spent years running informants and spies in the worst hellholes of the West Bank and Gaza without getting a single one killed. And to think he was about to suffer the first loss of his career here, along the tranquil shores of Lake Geneva. Not possible, he thought. Madness…

  But it was possible, and the likelihood of such an outcome seemed to increase with each whispered transmission flowing from Gabriel’s desperate team to the new command center at the Hôtel Métropole. It was Eli Lavon who communicated directly with the team and Lavon who filed the updates to London. Gabriel monitored the radio traffic from his outpost in the window. His gaze was fixed on the lights of Villa Elma burning like bonfires on the far shore of the lake.

  Shortly after one a.m., the lights were extinguished, signaling the official conclusion of Martin’s annual gala. Within minutes, Gabriel heard the beating of rotors and saw the running lights of a helicopter descending slowly toward Martin’s lawn. It remained there scarcely more than a minute, then rose once again and turned eastward over the lake. Lavon joined Gabriel at the window and watched the helicopter disappear into the darkness.

  “Do you suppose Mikhail and Zoe are on that bird?”

  “They could be,” Gabriel conceded. “But if I had to guess, I’d say that’s Martin and Monique.”

  “Where do you think they’re going?”

  “At this hour…I can think of only one place.”

  AS IT turned out, it took just fifteen minutes for Graham Seymour to get the two Office computer technicians from the safe house in Highgate to Grosvenor Square. They were quickly joined by four cybersleuths from MI5, along with a team of Iran analysts from the CIA and MI6. Indeed, by midnight London time, more than a dozen officers from four intelligence services were huddled around the computer in the fishbowl, watched over intently by Chiara. As for the four most senior members of Operation Masterpiece, they remained at their posts, staring glumly at the messages streaming across the status boards.

  “Looks as if our boy has decided to flee the scene of the crime,” Seymour said, face buried in his hands. “Do you think there’s any way Mikhail and Zoe are still inside that mansion?”

  “I suppose there’s always a chance,” said Adrian Carter, “but Martin doesn’t strike me as the sort to leave a mess lying around. Which means the clock is now definitely ticking.”

  “That’s true,” said Shamron. “But we have several things working in our favor.”

  “Really?” asked Seymour incredulously, gesturing toward the status boards. “Because from where I sit, it looks as though Zoe and Mikhail are about to disappear without a trace.”

  “No one’s going to disappear.” Shamron paused, then added gloomily, “At least, not right away.” He laboriously lit a cigarette. “Martin isn’t stupid, Graham. He’ll want to know exactly who Mikhail and Zoe are working for. And he’ll want to know how much damage has been done. Getting information like that takes time, especially when a man like Mikhail Abramov is involved. Mikhail will make them work for it. That’s what he’s trained to do.”

  “And what if they decide to take a shortcut?” asked Seymour. “How long do you expect Zoe to be able to hold up?”

  “I’m afraid I have to side with Graham,” said Carter. “The only way we’re going to get them back is to make a deal.”

  “With whom?” asked Navot.

  “At this point, our options are rather limited. Either we call Swiss security or we deal directly with Martin.”

  “Have you ever stopped to consider they might be the same thing? After all, this is Switzerland we’re talking about. The DAP exists not only to protect the interests of the Swiss Confederation but of its financial oligarchy as well. And not necessarily in that order.”

  “And don’t forget,” Shamron said, “Landesmann owns Zentrum Security, which is filled with former officers of the DAP. That means we can’t go to Martin on bended knee. If we do, he’ll be able to rally the Swiss government to his defense. And we could lose everything we’ve worked for.”

  “The centrifuges?” Seymour drew a h
eavy breath and stared at the row of digital clocks at the front of the ops center. “Let me make something very clear, gentlemen. Her Majesty’s Government has no intention of allowing harm to come to a prominent British subject tonight. Therefore, Her Majesty’s Government will go to the Swiss authorities independently, if necessary, to secure a deal for Zoe’s release.”

  “A separate peace? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you my patience has limits.”

  “May I remind you, Graham, that you’re not the only one with a citizen at risk? And may I also remind you that by going to the DAP you will be exposing our entire operation against Martin?”

  “I’m aware of that, Ari. But I’m afraid my girl trumps your agent. And your operation.”

  “I didn’t realize we were the only ones involved in this,” Navot said acidly.

  Seymour made no response.

  “How long will you give us, Graham?”

  “Six a.m. London time, seven a.m. Geneva.”

  “That’s not long.”

  “I understand,” Seymour said. “But it’s all the time you have.”

  Shamron turned to Navot.

  “I’m afraid the Geneva team has outlived its usefulness. In fact, at this point they’re our biggest liability.”

  “Withdrawal?”

  “Immediate.”

  “They’re not going to like it.”

  “They don’t have a choice.” Shamron pointed at the technicians and analysts crowded around the computers in the fishbowl. “For the moment, our fate is in their hands.”

  “And if they can’t find anything by six o’clock?”

  “We’ll make a deal.” Shamron crushed out his cigarette. “That’s what we do. That’s what we always do.”

  IN THE finest tradition of Office field commands, the message that arrived on Gabriel’s computer twenty seconds later was brief and entirely lacking in ambiguity. It came as no surprise—in fact, Gabriel had already instructed the team to prepare for such an eventuality—but none of that made the decision any easier.

  “They want us out.”

  “How far out?” asked Eli Lavon.

  “France.”

  “What are we supposed to do in France? Light candles? Keep our fingers crossed?”

  “We’re supposed to not get arrested by the Swiss police.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving here without Zoe and Mikhail,” Lavon said. “And I don’t think any of the others will agree to leave, either.”

  “They don’t have a choice. London has spoken.”

  “Since when have you ever listened to Uzi?”

  “The order didn’t come from Uzi.”

  “Shamron?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “I assume the order applies to you as well.”

  “Of course.”

  “And is it your intention to disregard it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I thought that would be your answer.”

  “I recruited her, Eli. I trained her and I sent her in there. And there’s no way I’m going to let her end up like Rafael Bloch.”

  Lavon could see there was no use arguing the point. “You know, Gabriel, none of this would have happened if I’d stopped you from going to Argentina. You’d be watching the sunset in Cornwall tonight with your pretty young wife instead of presiding over another deathwatch in yet another godforsaken hotel room.”

  “If I hadn’t gone to Argentina, we would have never discovered that Saint Martin Landesmann built his empire upon the looted wealth of the Holocaust. And we would have never discovered that Martin was compounding his sins by doing business with a regime that talks openly about carrying out a second Holocaust.”

  “All the more reason you should have an old friend watching your back tonight.”

  “My old friend has been ordered to evacuate. Besides, I’ve given him enough gray hairs for two lifetimes.”

  Lavon managed a fleeting smile. “Just do me a favor, Gabriel. Martin may have managed to beat us tonight. But whatever you do, don’t give him an opportunity to run up the score. I’d hate to lose my only brother over a shipload of centrifuges.”

  Gabriel said nothing. Lavon placed his hands on either side of Gabriel’s head and closed his eyes. Then he kissed Gabriel’s cheek and slipped silently out the door.

  THE MERCEDES-BENZ S-Class sedan with a sticker price far in excess of a hundred thousand dollars slid gracefully to the curb outside the Hôtel Métropole. It had been purchased in order to ferry a striking young couple to a glamorous party. Now it was being used as a lifeboat, certainly one of the most expensive in the long and storied history of the Israeli intelligence services. It paused long enough to collect Lavon, then swung an illegal U-turn and headed across the Pont du Mont-Blanc, the first leg of its journey toward the French border.

  Gabriel watched the taillights melt into the darkness, then sat down at his computer and reread the last encrypted dispatch from the ops center. Six a.m. London time, seven a.m. Geneva time…After that, Graham Seymour was planning to press the panic button and bring the Swiss into the picture. That left Gabriel, Navot, and Shamron just two and a half hours to strike a deal on better terms. Terms that didn’t include exposing the operation. Terms that wouldn’t allow Martin and his centrifuges to wriggle off Gabriel’s hook.

  In London, the computer technicians and analysts were searching the contents of Martin’s hard drive for a bargaining chip. Gabriel already had one of his own—a list of names and account numbers hidden for sixty years inside Portrait of a Young Woman, 104 by 86 centimeters, by Rembrandt van Rijn. Gabriel laid the three pages of fragile onionskin carefully on the desk and photographed each with the camera of his secure mobile phone. Then he typed a message to London. Like the one he had received just a few minutes earlier, it was brief and entirely lacking in ambiguity. He wanted Ulrich Müller’s telephone number. And he wanted it now.

  69

  GSTAAD, SWITZERLAND

  The Swiss ski resort of Gstaad lies nestled in the Alps sixty miles northeast of Geneva in the German-speaking canton of Bern. Regarded as one of the most exclusive destinations in the world, Gstaad has long been a refuge for the wealthy, the celebrated, and those with something to hide. Martin Landesmann, chairman of Global Vision Investments and executive director of the One World charitable foundation, fell into all three categories. Therefore, it was only natural Martin would be drawn to it. Gstaad, he said in the one and only interview he had ever granted, was the place he went when he needed to clear his head. Gstaad was the one place where he could be at peace. Where he could dream of a better world. And where he could unburden his complex soul. Since he assiduously avoided traveling to Zurich, Gstaad was also a place where he could hear a bit of his native Schwyzerdütsch—though only occasionally, for even the Swiss could scarcely afford to live there anymore.

  The comfortably well-off are forced to make the ascent to Gstaad by car, up a narrow two-lane road that rises from the eastern end of Lake Geneva and winds its way past the glaciers of Les Diablerets, into the Bernese Oberland. The immensely rich, however, avoid the drive at all costs, preferring instead to land their private jets at the business airport near Saanen or to plop directly onto one of Gstaad’s many private helipads. Martin preferred the one near the fabled Gstaad Palace Hotel since it was only a mile from his chalet. Ulrich Müller stood at the edge of the tarmac, coat collar up against the cold, watching as the twin-turbine AW139 sank slowly from the black sky.

  It was a large aircraft for private use, capable of seating a dozen comfortably in its luxurious custom-fitted cabin. But on that morning only eight people emerged—four members of the Landesmann family surrounded by four bodyguards from Zentrum Security. Well-attuned to the moods of the Landesmann clan, Müller could see they were a family in crisis. Monique walked several paces ahead, arms draped protectively around the shoulders of Alexander and Charlotte, and disappeared into a waiting Mercedes SUV. Mart
in walked over to Müller and without a word handed him a stainless steel attaché case. Müller popped the latches and looked inside. One Bally wallet with credit cards and identification in the name of Mikhail Danilov. One room key from the Grand Hotel Kempinksi. One ultraviolet flashlight. One Sony USB flash drive. One electronic device with a numeric keypad and wires with alligator clips. One miniature radio and earpiece of indeterminate manufacture.

  There are many myths about Switzerland. Chief among them is the long-held but misplaced belief that the tiny Alpine country is a miracle of multiculturalism and tolerance. While it is true four distinct cultures have coexisted peacefully within Switzerland’s borders for seven centuries, their marriage is much more a defensive alliance than a union of true love. Evidence of that fact was the conversation that followed. When there was serious business to be done, Martin Landesmann would never dream of speaking French. Only Swiss German.

  “Where is he?”

  Müller tilted his head to the left but said nothing.

  “Is he conscious yet?” asked Landesmann.

  Müller nodded

  “Talking?”

  “Says he’s ex-FSB. Says he works as an independent contractor for Russian private security companies and was hired by a consortium of Russian oligarchs to steal your most closely held business secrets.”

  “How did he get to my mobile phone and laptop?”

  “He claims to have done it from the outside.”

  “How does he explain Zoe?”

  “He says he learned of your relationship through surveillance and decided to exploit it in order to gain access to the party tonight. He says he deceived her. He claims she knows nothing.”

  “It’s plausible,” Landesmann said.

  “Plausible,” Müller conceded. “But there’s something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The way he fought my men. He’s been trained by an elite unit or intelligence service. He’s no FSB thug. He’s the real thing, Martin.”