by Daniel Silva
"Zentrum will be most grateful if you can keep this matter out of the press, Karl."
"How grateful?"
"The money will be transferred first thing Monday morning."
Huber closed the laptop. "There's one other thing to keep in mind. Whoever did this is extremely good. And they had help."
"What kind of help?"
"Someone on the inside. Someone with access to Martin's phone and computer. If I were you, I'd start putting together a list of possible suspects. And then I'd handcuff each one to a radiator and find out who's responsible."
"Thank you for the advice, Karl, but we prefer subtler methods."
Huber gave a sardonic smile. "Try telling that to Rafael Bloch."
ULRICH MULLER headed back to the center of Zurich at considerable speed, turning over the implications of what he had just been told. Someone on the inside...Someone with access to Martin's phone and computer...While it was possible Martin had been betrayed by an employee, Muller considered it highly unlikely since all GVI staff were subjected to rigorous background checks and regular security reviews. Muller suspected the traitor was someone much closer to Martin. Someone who was sharing Martin's bed on a regular basis.
He parked in the Kasernenstrasse and headed upstairs. A Kellergruppe operative tried to give Muller an update on the Berlin and Mexico City operations; Muller brushed past without a word and entered his office. His computer was powered on. He hesitated for a few seconds, then called up the guest list for that evening's One World fund-raiser at Villa Elma. The overt side of Zentrum had done a cursory security check on all three hundred of the invitees. Near the bottom of the list, Muller found the name he was looking for. He snatched up his phone and started to dial the number for Martin's mobile. Realizing his mistake, he hung up and dialed Jonas Brunner instead. Brunner answered after three rings, his voice a whisper.
"Where are you?" Muller asked.
"In the ballroom."
"What's that noise?"
"Mr. Landesmann's movie."
Muller swore softly. "Can you see the British reporter?"
Brunner was silent for a few seconds. "She's at the back of the room."
"Is her date with her?"
Another silence, then, "Actually, I can't see him."
"Shit!"
"What's the problem?"
Muller didn't answer directly. Instead, he gave the bodyguard a set of precise instructions, then asked, "How many men do you have there tonight?"
"Forty."
Muller hung up the phone and quickly dialed Zentrum's travel desk.
"I need a helicopter."
"What's your destination?"
"I'll know when I'm airborne."
"How soon do you need it?"
"Now."
65
GENEVA
For a big man, Jonas Brunner was surprisingly quiet on his feet. Not a single head turned as he made his way to Martin's shoulder. Not a single eyebrow rose as he murmured a few words into Martin's ear. Martin appeared momentarily startled by the news, then quickly regained his usual composure and slipped a pale hand into his breast pocket. The Nokia telephone appeared; its screen flared briefly and went dark as the power was extinguished. Martin immediately surrendered it to Brunner, then rose to his feet and followed the security man from the ballroom. By now several of the guests were watching him intently, including the famous British reporter seated next to a Saudi prince of untold wealth. When Martin disappeared from view, she turned back to the film and tried desperately not to show the fear rising inside her. He's probably just bored silly, she told herself, but not with much conviction. Zoe could always tell when Martin was bored. Martin wasn't bored. Martin was furious.
GABRIEL REMOVED his headphones, checked the connection, checked the transmission status, jabbed at his keyboard. Then he looked at Lavon in frustration.
"Are you still hearing audio from Zoe's phone?"
"Loud and clear. Why?"
"Because Martin's just went down."
"Any GPS data?"
"Nothing."
"He probably just switched off his phone."
"Why would he do that?"
"Good question."
"What do we do?"
Gabriel typed four words into his computer and hit SEND. Then he keyed into Mikhail's earpiece.
"It's possible we have a problem."
"What's that?"
Gabriel explained.
"Any advice?"
"Sit tight."
"And if several men come through the door?"
"Pull the USB immediately."
"And do what with it?"
Gabriel clipped out.
GABRIEL'S MESSAGE appeared instantly on the status screens of the London ops center: MARTIN'S PHONE DOWN...ADVISE... Adrian Carter swore softly. Uzi Navot closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.
"People shut off their phones all the time," Graham Seymour suggested.
"That's true," Navot said. "But not Martin. Martin never shuts his phone down."
"It's your man in there, Uzi. That means it's your call."
"How much time left on the feed from Martin's computer?"
"Twenty-one and change."
"What are the chances we have what we need?"
"I'm not an expert, but I'd say they're fifty-fifty."
Navot looked at Shamron. Shamron looked stoically back, as if to say that these are the moments careers are made.
"I want better odds than fifty-fifty," Navot said.
"So we wait?"
Navot nodded. "We wait."
MIKHAIL MOVED quietly to the window, parted the curtain a fraction of an inch, and peered into Martin's garden. It was twenty feet down with a guard patrolling the perimeter. But that didn't matter. The office windows were bulletproof and didn't open. Mikhail returned to the desk and checked the status box on Martin's computer screen: 18:26...18:25...18:24...
Sitting tight, he thought. But what about Zoe?
JONAS BRUNNER and his security staff worked from an office on the ground floor of the mansion not far from the service kitchen. He led Martin Landesmann inside and dialed Ulrich Muller's number in Zurich.
"Why did you tell me to turn off my phone?"
"Because it's compromised."
"Compromised?"
"Your mobile is broadcasting your life to the world, Martin. So is your computer."
Landesmann's already pale face drained of color. "Who did this?"
"I'm not sure yet. But I think they may have come to your party tonight for a second helping."
"What are you talking about?"
Muller relayed his suspicions. Landesmann listened in silence, then slammed down the phone.
"What do you want me to do, Mr. Landesmann?"
"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.
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"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 and 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 Muller, 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?"
