The Rembrandt Affair (28 page)

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."

T
HE 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.

A
T 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?"

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," Muller 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.

G
IVEN 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 Hotel Metropole--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

Z
oe 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 sweeping 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.

"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.