by Daniel Silva
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 Hotel Metropole. 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 Muller'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 Schwyzerdutsch--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 Muller 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, Muller 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. Martin walked over to Muller and without a word handed him a stainless steel attache case. Muller 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?"
Muller tilted his head to the left but said nothing.
"Is he conscious yet?" asked Landesmann.
Muller 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," Muller 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."
"Israeli?"
"I think so."
"If that's true, what does it say about Zoe?"
"She may be telling the truth. She may know nothing. But it's also possible they recruited her. Using an agent in place, especially a woman, is consistent with their operating doctrine. It's possible she's been spying on you from the beginning."
Landesmann glanced over toward the cars, where his family was waiting with visible impatience. "How much material has Onyx managed to intercept?"
"Enough to raise eyebrows."
"Can it be contained?"
"I'm working on it. But if a friendly service like the DAP is suspicious about what they're seeing, imagine how the material must look to an intelligence agency that doesn't have your best interests at heart."
"You're my chief security adviser, Ulrich. Advise me."
"The first thing we need to do is find out who we're dealing with and how much they know."
"And then?"
"One thing at a time, Martin. But do me one favor. Stay off the phone for the rest of the night." Muller glanced at the black sky. "Onyx is listening. And you can be sure everyone else is as well."
70
CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND
Zoe did not know where they were taking her, of course. She only knew that the road they were now traveling was winding and that they were gaining altitude. The first fact was readily apparent by the violent lurching of the car, the second by the fact her ears were popping at regular intervals. To make matters worse, her abdomen ached where she had been struck, and she was intensely nauseated. Zoe was only grateful that she had been far too nervous to eat at Martin's party. Otherwise, it was quite possible she would have vomited into her duct-tape gag long ago and choked to death without Martin's bodyguards knowing a thing.
Her discomfort was made worse by the cold. The temperature seemed to be dropping by degrees with each passing minute. During the first part of the drive, the cold had been manageable. Now, in spite of the heavy blankets binding her body, it was eating away at her bones. She was so cold that she was no longer shivering. She was in agony.
In an attempt to ease her suffering, she played mind games. She wrote an article for the Journal, reread her favorite passages from Pride and Prejudice, and relived th
e moment in the bar of the Belvedere Hotel in Davos when Jonas Brunner had asked whether she would like to have a drink with Mr. Landesmann. But in this adaptation, she politely told Brunner to sod off and resumed her conversation with the African finance minister, now the most profoundly interesting exchange she had ever had in her life. This incarnation of Zoe Reed never met Martin Landesmann, never interviewed him, never slept with him, never fell in love with him. Nor was she ever scooped up by MI5 outside the London studios of CNN or taken to a safe house in Highgate. There is no safe house in Highgate, she reminded herself. No girl named Sally. No tweedy Englishman named David. No green-eyed assassin named Gabriel Allon.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden slowing of the car. The road was much rougher now. In fact, Zoe doubted whether it was a road at all. The car lost traction, regained it, then fishtailed wildly for several seconds before finally staggering to a stop. The engine went dead, and Zoe heard four doors open and close in rapid succession. Then the trunk popped open, and she felt herself rise into the frigid air. Again they carried her on their shoulders like pallbearers carrying a coffin. Her journey was shorter this time, a few seconds, no more. Zoe could hear them sawing away at the duct tape. Then they rolled her twice to free her from the blankets.
Though not blindfolded, Zoe could see nothing. The place where they had taken her was black as pitch. They lifted her again, carried her a short distance, and placed her in a chair with no arms. Again they bound her with duct tape, this time to the back of the chair. Then lights came on, and Zoe screamed.
71
CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND
Mikhail's position was a mirror image of Zoe's--hands and feet bound, torso secured to a straight-backed chair, duct tape over his mouth. He was fully conscious now and, judging from the blood flowing from his mouth, he had recently been struck. His tuxedo jacket had been removed; his shirt was torn in several places and soaked with blood. The contents of his wallet lay scattered on the cement floor at his feet, along with the USB flash drive and the ultraviolet light. Zoe tried not to look at the items. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the tall, middle-aged man standing halfway between her and Mikhail. He was wearing a dark blue banker's suit and a woolen overcoat. The hair was Germanic blond going to gray, the expression on his face one of mild distaste. In one hand was a gun, in the other Mikhail's miniature radio. The gun had blood on it. Mikhail's blood, she thought. But that made sense. The man in the dark blue suit didn't look like the sort who liked to use his fists. He also looked vaguely familiar. Zoe was certain she had seen him somewhere before in close proximity to Martin. But in her current state she couldn't recall where it had been.
She glanced quickly around. They were in a commercial storage facility of some sort. It was cheaply made of corrugated metal and stank of dirty motor oil and rust. The overhead lights buzzed. For a moment, Zoe allowed herself to wonder whether Rafael Bloch had spent time in this same place before his body was taken across the border and dumped in the French Alps. Then she forced the thought from her mind. Rafael Bloch? Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. She looked at Mikhail. He was staring directly at her as if trying to communicate something. Zoe held his gaze for as long as she could bear it, then looked down at her hands. This movement seemed to prompt the well-dressed man into action. He came over and ripped the duct tape from her mouth. Zoe gave an involuntary scream of pain and immediately regretted it.
"Who are you?" she snapped. "And why in God's name am I here?"
"You know why you're here, Zoe. In fact, thanks to your associate, Mr. Danilov, we all know why you're here."
He spoke English with only the faintest accent and with the precision of a timepiece.
"Are you crazy? I'm here because Martin--"
"No, Zoe. You're here because you're a spy. And you came to Geneva to steal private documents and correspondence from Mr. Landesmann's computer, a very serious crime here in Switzerland."
"I presume kidnapping and assault are as well."
The man in the suit smiled. "Ah, the famous Zoe Reed wit. It's good to know that at least something about you isn't a lie."
"I'm a reporter, you idiot. And when I get out of here, I'm going to find out who you are and destroy you."
"But you're not really a reporter at all, are you, Zoe? Your job at the Financial Journal is nothing but a cover. Two years ago, you were ordered by your superiors at British intelligence to form a sexual relationship with Mr. Landesmann in order to spy on his business operations. You made contact with Mr. Landesmann by expressing interest in interviewing him. Then, twenty-two months ago, you made contact with him in Davos."
"That's madness. Martin tried to seduce me in Davos. He invited me to his suite for dinner."
"That's not the way Jonas Brunner and the rest of Mr. Landesmann's security detail remember the evening, Zoe. They recall that you were very flirtatious and aggressive. And that's what they'll tell the Swiss police." He paused, then added, "But it doesn't have to come to that, Zoe. The sooner you confess, the sooner we can resolve this unpleasant affair."
"I have nothing to confess other than foolishness. Obviously, I was a fool ever to believe Martin's lies."
"What lies are those, Zoe?"
"Saint Martin," she said, her voice dripping with contempt.
The man was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke again, he did so not to Zoe but to the gun in his hand.
"Say the words, Zoe. Confess your sins. Tell me the truth. Tell me that you're not a real reporter. Tell me that you were ordered by your superiors in London to seduce Mr. Landesmann and steal his private documents."
"I won't say it because it's not true. I loved Martin."
"Did you?" He looked up from the gun as if genuinely surprised, then at Mikhail. "And what about your friend, Mr. Danilov? Are you in love with him, too?"
"I hardly know him."
"That's not what he says. According to Mr. Danilov, you two are working together on the Landesmann case."
"I'm not working with anyone. And I don't know anything about a Landesmann case. I don't know why there would even be a Landesmann case."
"That's not what Mr. Danilov says."
Zoe looked directly at Mikhail for the first time since the interrogation had begun. He held her gaze for a few seconds, then almost imperceptibly shook his head. Zoe's inquisitor noticed. He walked slowly over to Mikhail and struck him hard across the face with the butt of the gun, opening another gash high on his cheek. Then the man took a fistful of Mikhail's hair and pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple. A guard standing on the opposite side took a hasty step backward. The man holding the gun screwed the barrel into Mikhail's skin, then turned his head and looked at Zoe.
"You have one chance to tell the truth, Zoe. Otherwise, Mr. Danilov is going to die. And if he dies, you die. Because we can't have witnesses lying around, can we? Confess your sins, Zoe. Tell me the truth."
Mikhail was wincing with pain. But this time he didn't try to hide his message to Zoe. He was shaking his head violently from side to side, shouting something into the duct tape covering his mouth. This earned him two more blows with the butt of the gun. Zoe closed her eyes.
"Last chance, Zoe."
"Put the gun down."
"Only if you tell me the truth."
"Put the gun down." She opened her eyes. "Put it down, and I'll tell you everything you want to know."
"Tell me now."
"Stop, damn it. You're hurting him."
"I'm going to do much worse if you don't start talking. Tell me the truth, Zoe. Tell me you're a spy."
"I'm not a spy."
"So why did you help them?"
"Because they asked me to."
"Who did?"
"British intelligence."
"Who else?"
"Israeli intelligence."
"Who's in charge of the operation?"
"I don't know."
"Who's in charge, Zoe?"
"I don't know his real name."
"You're lying, Zoe. Tell me his name."
"His name is Gabriel."
"Gabriel Allon?"
"Yes, Gabriel Allon."
"Was he in Geneva tonight?"
"I don't know."
"Answer me, Zoe. Was he in Geneva tonight?"
"Yes."
"Were there others?"
"Yes."
"Tell me their names, Zoe. All of them."
72
MAYFAIR, LONDON
The digital clock at the front of the London ops center read 05:53:17. Less than seven minutes remaining until Graham Seymour's deadline. Shamron stared at the numbers despondently as if trying to mentally blunt their advance. It was odd, he thought, but in his youth time had always seemed to slow to a crawl at moments like these. Now the clock was roaring along at a gallop. He wondered whether it was yet another consequence of growing old. Time was his most implacable foe.
Regrettably, Shamron had lived through many such Office catastrophes and knew how the next few hours were likely to unfold. Once upon a time, the Europeans might have been expected to turn a blind eye. But no more. These days, they no longer had much use for the enterprise known as the State of Israel, and Shamron knew full well that the operation against Martin Landesmann was not going to go over well in the halls of European power. Yes, the British and Americans had been along for the ride, but none of that would matter when the arrest warrants were issued. Not one would bear an American or British name. Only Israeli names. Yossi Gavish, Dina Sarid, Yaakov Rossman, Rimona Stern, Gabriel Allon...They had carried out some of the greatest operations in the history of the Office. But not tonight. Tonight, Saint Martin had beaten them.
