The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  “Have they been mistreated?”

  “They committed a serious crime in Martin Landesmann’s home last night. They’ve been treated accordingly.”

  “If they’ve been harmed in any way, I’m going to hold you personally responsible. And your boss.”

  “Mr. Landesmann knows nothing about this.”

  “That’s very admirable of you to try to take the blame for your employer, but it’s not going to work, Ulrich. Not today.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to Martin.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s nonnegotiable.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You’d better, Ulrich. Or the next call I make is to the Swiss Federal Police.”

  “I need thirty minutes.”

  “You have five.”

  ZOE AND MIKHAIL sat face-to-face in the storage facility, each bound to a chair, mouths covered with duct tape. The guards had fled for the warmth of their cars. Before leaving, they had switched off the lights. The darkness was absolute, as was the cold. Zoe wanted to apologize to Mikhail for betraying the operation. Zoe wanted to tend to Mikhail’s wounds. And more than anything, Zoe wanted reassurance that someone was looking for them. But none of that was possible. Not with the tape over their mouths. And so they sat in the cold, mute and motionless, and they waited.

  MARTIN LANDESMANN’S immense timbered chalet was ablaze with light as Ulrich Müller drove through the security gate and sped quickly up the long drive. A pair of guards stood watch outside the front entrance, shifting from foot to foot in the sharp early-morning cold. Müller walked past them without a word and entered the residence. Landesmann was seated alone before a fire in the great room. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a heavy zippered sweater and holding a crystal snifter filled with cognac. Müller placed a finger to his lips and handed Landesmann the phone. Landesmann scrolled through the two PDF files, his face a blank mask. When he was finished, Müller took back the phone and switched it off before slipping it into the pocket of his overcoat.

  “What does he want?” Landesmann asked.

  “His people back. He’d also like to have a word with you.”

  “Tell him to go fuck himself.”

  “I tried.”

  “Is he in the country?”

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Landesmann carried his drink over to the fire. “Get him up here, Ulrich. And make sure he’s in a less demanding mood by the time he arrives.”

  Müller powered on his phone and headed outside. The last sound he heard as he was leaving was a crystal snifter exploding into a thousand pieces.

  GABRIEL’S PHONE rang ten seconds later.

  “You cut it very close, Ulrich.”

  “Mr. Landesmann has agreed to see you.”

  “A wise move on his part.”

  “Now, listen carefully—”

  “No, Ulrich. You listen. I’ll be in the parking lot above the Promenade in Gstaad in ninety minutes. Have your men meet me. And no bullshit. If my people don’t hear from me by ten a.m. at the latest, that e-mail you just read goes to every intelligence service, law enforcement agency, justice ministry, and newspaper in the Western world. Are we clear, Ulrich?”

  “The Promenade in Gstaad, ninety minutes.”

  “Well done, Ulrich. Now make sure my people are comfortable. If they’re not, you’ll make an enemy of me. And that’s the last thing you want.”

  Gabriel killed the connection and quickly typed out a final message to London. Then he packed away the computer and headed for the elevator.

  73

  CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

  A gust of freezing air scraped at the back of Zoe’s neck as the door of the storage facility swung open. She closed her eyes and prayed for the first time in many years. What now? she wondered. Another round of interrogation? Another ride in the trunk of a car? Or had Martin finally decided the time had come to rid the world of another meddlesome reporter? Zoe feared there was no other possible outcome, especially now that she had betrayed the entire operation. Indeed, for the past several minutes she had found herself composing her own obituary. Only the lead eluded her. Martin and his thugs had yet to supply one crucial fact: the cause of her death.

  She opened her eyes and looked at Mikhail. His face was illuminated by a shaft of gray light from the open door, and he was staring at the guards intently as they approached Zoe from behind. One of them removed the duct tape from her mouth, carefully this time, while another gently freed her hands and feet. Two other guards did the same for Mikhail while a third applied ointment and bandages to cuts on his face and scalp. The guards gave no explanation for their sudden hospitality, all of which was performed with typical Swiss efficiency. After handing each prisoner a blanket, they departed as suddenly as they had come. Zoe waited until the door was closed before speaking.

  “What just happened?”

  “Gabriel just happened.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Mikhail placed a finger to his lips. “Don’t say another word.”

  A WAVE of jubilation and relief washed over the ops center when Gabriel’s update flashed across the status screens. Even Graham Seymour, who had been in a state of near catatonia for the past several minutes, managed a brief smile. There were two people in the ops center, however, who seemed incapable of sharing in the joy of the moment. One was Ari Shamron; the other, Chiara Allon. Once again, an operation was in the hands of a man they loved. And once again they had no choice but to wait. And to swear to themselves that this was the last time. The very last time…

  THE E63 MOTORWAY stretched eastward, immaculately groomed, empty of traffic. Gabriel kept both hands on the wheel of the Audi and his speed respectable. On the left side of the highway, neatly pruned vineyards advanced like columns of soldiers into the hills of Vaud. On his right lay Lake Geneva, with the Savoy Alps rising in the background. The base of the range was still shrouded in mist, but the highest peaks glowed with the first light of dawn.

  He continued past Montreux to Aigle, then turned onto Route 11 and headed into the Vallée des Ormonts. It was a narrow, two-lane road, twisting and full of unexpected switchbacks. A few miles beyond Les Diablerets was the border separating Canton Vaud from Canton Bern. The signs immediately changed to German, as did the architecture of the houses. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to creep over the Bernese Alps, and by the time Gabriel reached the outskirts of Gstaad it was beginning to get light. He drove to the main lot in the center of the village and backed into a space in the far corner. In an hour, the lot would be jammed with cars. But for now it was empty except for a trio of snowboarders drinking beer around a battered VW van.

  Gabriel left the engine running and watched the dashboard clock as the ninety-minute deadline he had imposed on Ulrich Müller came and went. He granted Müller a ten-minute grace period before finally reaching for the phone. He was in the process of dialing when a silver Mercedes GL450 sport-utility turned into the lot. It eased past the snowboarders and stopped a few yards from Gabriel’s Audi. Inside were four men, all wearing matching dark blue ski jackets emblazoned with the insignia of Zentrum Security. The one in the rear passenger seat climbed out and motioned Gabriel over. Gabriel recognized him. It was Jonas Brunner.

  Gabriel shut down the engine, locked his phone in the glove box, and climbed out. Brunner watched with a slightly bemused expression as though taken aback by Gabriel’s modest stature.

  “I’m told you speak German,” Brunner said.

  “Better than you,” replied Gabriel.

  “Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a phone?”

  “In the car.”

  “Radio?”

  “In the car.”

  “What about a beacon?”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “I’m going to have to search you.”

  “I can’t wait.�
�

  Gabriel climbed into the back of the Mercedes and slid across to the center. Brunner got in after him and closed the door.

  “Turn around and get on your knees.”

  “Here?”

  “Here.”

  Gabriel did as he was told and was subjected to a more-than-thorough search, beginning with his shoes and ending with his scalp. When it was over, he turned around again and sat normally. Brunner signaled the driver, and the SUV eased forward.

  “I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, Jonas.”

  “Shut your mouth, Allon.”

  “Where are my people?”

  Brunner didn’t answer.

  “How far are we going?”

  “Not far. But we have to make a brief stop along the way.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, Allon. Coffee.”

  “I hope you didn’t hurt my girl, Jonas. Because if you hurt her, I’m going to hurt you.”

  THEY HEADED due east along the edge of a narrow glacial valley. The road ducked in and out of the trees, leaving them in darkness one minute, blinding light the next. The blue-coated guards of Zentrum Security did not speak. Brunner’s shoulder was pressing against Gabriel’s. It was like leaning against a granite massif. The guard on Gabriel’s left was flexing and unflexing his thick hands as if preparing for his solo. Gabriel had no illusions about the stop they were making on their way to see Martin. He wasn’t surprised; it was a customary proceeding before a meeting like this, an aperitif before dinner.

  At the head of the valley the road turned to a single-lane track before rising sharply up the slope of the mountain. A snow-plow had passed through recently, but the Mercedes was barely able to maintain traction as it headed toward the summit. A thousand feet above the valley floor, it came to a stop next to a secluded grove of fir trees. The two men in front immediately climbed out, as did the one on Gabriel’s left. Jonas Brunner made no movement.

  “I don’t think you’ll enjoy this as much as you enjoyed the search.”

  “Is this the part where your men soften me up a bit before I get taken to see Saint Martin?”

  “Just get out of the car, Allon. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can be on our way.”

  Gabriel sighed heavily and climbed out.

  JONAS BRUNNER watched as his three best men marched Gabriel Allon into the trees, then marked the time. Five minutes, he’d told them. Not too much damage, just enough bruising to make him compliant and easy to handle. A part of Brunner was tempted to join in the festivities. He couldn’t. Müller wanted an update.

  He was dialing Müller’s number when a movement in the trees caught his attention. Looking up, he saw a single figure walking purposefully out of the shadows. He glanced at his watch and frowned. He’d ordered his men to be judicious, but two minutes was hardly enough time to do the job right, especially when it involved a man like Gabriel Allon. Then Brunner looked at the figure closely and realized his mistake. It was not one of his own men coming out of the trees. It was Allon…In his hand was a gun, a SIG Sauer P226, the standard-issue sidearm of Zentrum Security. The Israeli ripped open Brunner’s door and pointed the barrel of the gun directly into his face. Brunner didn’t even think about reaching for his weapon.

  “I’m told you speak German, Jonas, so listen carefully. I want you to give me your gun. Slowly, Jonas. Otherwise, I might be tempted to shoot you several times.”

  Brunner reached into his jacket, removed his weapon and handed it to the Israeli butt first.

  “Give me your phone.”

  Brunner complied.

  “Do you have a radio?”

  “No.”

  “A beacon?”

  Brunner shook his head.

  “Too bad. You might need one later. Now get behind the wheel.”

  Brunner did as he was told and started the engine. The Israeli sat behind him, gun to the back of Brunner’s head.

  “How far are we going, Jonas?”

  “Not far.”

  “No more stops?”

  “No.”

  Brunner slipped the Mercedes into gear and continued up the slope of the mountain.

  “Congratulations, Jonas. You just provided me with a weapon and turned yourself into a hostage. All in all, very well played.”

  “Are my men alive?”

  “Two of them are. I’m not so sure about the third.”

  “I’d like to call for a doctor.”

  “Just drive, Jonas.”

  74

  CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

  They climbed another thousand feet into the mountains and stopped at the edge of a sunlit ledge of glistening snow and ice high above the valley floor. In the center of the glade was an AW139 helicopter, engines silent, rotors still. Martin Landesmann waited near the tail, eyes concealed by wraparound sunglasses, his expression that of a man who had dropped by on his way to somewhere else. Ulrich Müller hovered anxiously next to him. Gabriel glanced at Jonas Brunner’s eyes in the rearview mirror and told him to shut off the engine. Brunner did as he was told.

  “Give me the key.”

  Brunner removed it and handed it to Gabriel.

  “Put both hands on the wheel, Jonas. And don’t move.”

  Gabriel climbed out and tapped on Brunner’s window with the barrel of the gun. Brunner emerged, hands in the air.

  “Now we walk, Jonas, nice and slow. Don’t do anything to make Martin nervous.”

  “He prefers to be called Mr. Landesmann.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” Gabriel jabbed Brunner in the kidney with the barrel of the gun. “Move.”

  Brunner advanced slowly toward the helicopter, Gabriel two paces behind, the gun at his side. Ulrich Müller managed to maintain a placid expression, but Martin was clearly displeased by the ignominious arrival of his personal security chief. At Gabriel’s command, Brunner stopped ten yards short of his masters. Gabriel raised the gun and pointed it at Müller.

  “Are you armed?” Gabriel asked in German.

  “No.”

  “Open your overcoat.”

  Müller unbuttoned his coat, then opened the sides simultaneously.

  “Now the suit jacket,” said Gabriel.

  Müller did the same thing. No gun. Gabriel glanced at the pilot.

  “What about him?”

  “This isn’t Israel,” Müller said. “This is Switzerland. Helicopter pilots aren’t armed.”

  “What a relief.” Gabriel looked at Martin Landesmann. “And you, Martin? Do you have a gun?”

  Landesmann made no response. Gabriel repeated the question in rapid French. This time, Landesmann gave a superior smile and in the same language said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Allon.”

  Gabriel reverted to German. “I’d ask you to open your coat, Martin, but I know you’re telling the truth. Men like you don’t soil their hands with weapons. That’s what people like Ulrich and Jonas are for.”

  “Are you finished, Allon?”

  “I’m just getting started, Martin. Or is it Saint Martin? I can never remember which you prefer.”

  “Actually, I prefer to be called Mr. Landesmann.”

  “So I’ve been told. I assume you’ve had a chance to review the material I sent earlier this morning?”

  “Those documents mean nothing.”

  “If that were true, Martin, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Landesmann gave Gabriel a withering stare, then asked, “Where did you get it?”

  “The information on your pending sale of centrifuges to the Islamic Republic of Iran?”

  “No, Allon, the other document.”

  “You mean the list? The names? The accounts? The money deposited in your father’s bank?”

  “Where did you get it?” Landesmann repeated, his tone even.

  “I got it from Lena Herzfeld, Peter Voss, Alfonso Ramirez, Rafael Bloch, and a young woman who kept it hidden and safe for many, many years.”

  Landesmann’s face registered no chang
e.

  “Don’t you recognize the names, Martin?” Gabriel glanced at Müller. “What about you, Ulrich?”

  Neither man responded.

  “Let me help,” Gabriel said. “Lena Herzfeld was a young Dutch Jewish girl whose life was traded for a Rembrandt. Peter Voss was a decent man who tried to atone for the sins of his father. Alfonso Ramirez had proof that a small private bank in Zurich was filled with looted Holocaust assets. And Rafael Bloch was the Argentine journalist who uncovered your ties to a German firm called Keppler Werk GmbH.”

  “And the young woman?” asked Landesmann.

  “Oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters.” Gabriel paused. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? You’ve been looking for her for a long time. She was the most dangerous one of all.”

  Landesmann ignored the last remark and asked, “What is it you want, Allon?”

  “Answers,” Gabriel said. “When did you learn the truth? When did you find out that your father had stolen the money that Kurt Voss hid in his bank?”

  Landesmann hesitated.

  “I have the list, Martin. It’s not a secret anymore.”

  “He told me about it a few days before his death,” Landesmann said after another pause. “The money, the painting, the visit from Voss’s wife, Carlos Weber…”

  “Your father admitted to killing Weber?”

  “My father didn’t kill Weber,” Landesmann said. “It was handled for him.”

  “Who did it?”

  Landesmann glanced at Müller. “An earlier version of Ulrich.”

  “They come in handy, don’t they? Especially in a country like Switzerland. Concealing the more repugnant aspects of your past is a national tradition, rather like your chocolates and your clean streets.”

  “They’re not as clean as they used to be,” Landesmann said. “Especially in certain neighborhoods. Too many damn foreigners in the country all the time.”

  “It’s good to know you haven’t forsaken your Swiss German roots entirely, Martin. Your father would be proud.”

  “Actually, it was Father who suggested I leave Zurich. He knew the banks would eventually pay a price for their activities during the war. He thought it might hurt my image.”