The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  “We couldn’t contact you openly, Ms. Reed. You see, it’s quite possible someone is watching you and listening to your phones.”

  “Who on earth would be watching me?”

  “Martin Landesmann.”

  Seymour had tried to drop the name as casually as possible. Even so, its impact was instantly visible on Zoe’s face. Her cheeks flushed slightly, then quickly regained their normal complexion. And though she did not realize it, Zoe Reed had just answered two of Gabriel’s most pressing questions. She was embarrassed by her relationship with Martin Landesmann. And she had the ability to handle pressure.

  “Is this some kind of a joke?” she asked, her tone even.

  “I’m the deputy director of MI5, Ms. Reed. I don’t have time for much of anything, let alone jokes. You should know from the outset that Martin Landesmann is the target of an investigation being conducted by the United Kingdom and two of our allies. You should also be assured that you are not a target in any way.”

  “What a relief,” she said. “So why am I here?”

  Seymour advanced cautiously and according to his script. “It’s come to our attention that you and Mr. Landesmann have a close relationship. We would like to borrow your access to Mr. Landesmann to assist us in our investigation.”

  “I interviewed Martin Landesmann once. I hardly think that falls into the category of—”

  Seymour raised his hand, interrupting her. He had been prepared for this. In fact, he had expected nothing less. But the last thing he wanted was to place Zoe in a position where she felt compelled to lie.

  “Obviously, this is not a court of law, Ms. Reed. You are under no legal obligation to talk to us, and I’m certainly not here to pass judgment on anyone. Heaven knows, we’ve all made mistakes, myself included. But having said that, we need to be honest with each other. And I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

  Zoe appeared to give his words careful deliberation. “Why don’t you go first, Mr. Seymour? Be honest with me.”

  She was testing him—Seymour could see that. He seized the opportunity without hesitation, though his tone remained one of clinical detachment.

  “We know that approximately eighteen months ago you obtained an exclusive interview with Mr. Landesmann, the first and only such interview he has ever granted. We know that you are now romantically involved with him. We also know that you spend time together on a regular basis, most recently at his apartment on the Île Saint-Louis in Paris.” Seymour paused. “But none of that is important.”

  This time Zoe made no attempt to deny the facts. Instead, she displayed a flash of her famous temper.

  “Not important?” she snapped. “How long have you been following me?”

  “We’ve never followed you.”

  “So much for honesty.”

  “I am being honest, Ms. Reed. We found out about you by accident. Martin Landesmann was under surveillance when you visited his apartment. Unfortunately, you were swept up in the wash.”

  “Is that a legal term?”

  “It is what it is, Ms. Reed.”

  Zoe dispensed with denials and resorted to righteous indignation, the trusted friend of journalists the world over. “Even if this came into your possession in the manner you claim, you had no right to act upon it or even handle it.”

  “In point of fact, we did. I can show you the Home Secretary’s signature if you like. But that said, we are not interested in your personal life. We asked you here because we have some sensitive information—information we will share with you if you help us.”

  Seymour’s offer of classified intelligence did nothing to mollify Zoe’s anger. “Actually,” she said pointedly, “I think it’s time I had a word with my barrister.”

  “That’s not necessary, Ms. Reed.”

  “How about my publisher?”

  “Latham? I doubt they would react well to being dragged into this.”

  “Really? And how do you think the British public would react to an exposé on how MI5 is spying on reporters?”

  After years of being hounded by the press, Seymour was tempted to point out that the British public was more likely to enjoy reading about her affair with Martin Landesmann than yet another dreary scandal involving MI5. Instead, he lifted his gaze reflectively toward the ceiling and allowed the anger of the exchange to dissipate. In the quiet of the upstairs study, the two men seated before the video monitors had conflicting reactions to the verbal sparring. Nigel Whitcombe feared Zoe was a lost cause, but Gabriel saw her defiance as a positive sign. As Ari Shamron always said, a recruit who agreed too quickly was a recruit who couldn’t be trusted.

  “Unfortunately,” Seymour resumed, “Martin Landesmann is not the man you think he is. That shiny image is nothing but a carefully constructed cover. And you’re not the first to be fooled. He’s involved in money laundering, tax evasion, corporate espionage, and much worse.” Seymour gave Zoe a moment to absorb his words. “Martin Landesmann is dangerous, Ms. Reed. Extremely dangerous. And, present company excepted, he doesn’t care for reporters—not because of some false modesty, but because he doesn’t like people digging into his affairs. One of your fellow journalists discovered that not long ago when he made the mistake of asking Martin the wrong question. That man is now dead.”

  “Martin Landesmann? A murderer? Are you completely mad? Martin Landesmann is one of the most respected and admired businessmen in the world. My God, he’s practically—”

  “A saint?” Seymour shook his head. “I read all about Saint Martin’s good works in your article. But if I were you, I’d hold off on Martin’s canonization until you hear all the evidence. This may be hard to accept at the moment, but he’s deceived you. I’m offering you a chance to hear the truth.”

  Zoe appeared to wrestle for a moment over the word truth. Gazing at her face in the video monitors, Gabriel thought he detected the first signs of doubt in her eyes.

  “You’re not offering me anything,” she shot back. “You’re trying to blackmail me. Do you not see anything remotely unethical about that?”

  “I’ve spent my entire professional life working for the Security Service, Ms. Reed. I’m conditioned to deal not in black-and-white but shades of gray. I see the world not as I would like it to be but as it is. And, for the record, we are not blackmailing you or pressuring you in any way. Quite simply, you have a choice.”

  “What sort of choice?”

  “Option one, you can agree to help us. Your work will be extremely limited in scope and short in duration. No one will ever know a thing—unless you choose to violate the Official Secrets Act, which, obviously, we strongly discourage.”

  “And the second option?”

  “I’ll take you home, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

  She appeared incredulous. “And what happens to all the dirt you and your allies have accumulated? I tell you what will happen to it. It will find its way into a nice little file that will remain within easy reach of powerful fingers. And if I ever step out of line, or do anything to irritate Her Majesty’s Government, the contents of that file will be used against me.”

  “If that were the case, Ms. Reed, we would have used it to prevent you from going to print with the Empire Aerospace scandal. But that’s not the way it works in the real world, only in bad television dramas. The Security Service exists to protect the British people, not oppress them. We aren’t bloody Russians, for God’s sake. And you have my word that the material you refer to will be destroyed the moment you leave here.”

  She hesitated. “And if I stay?”

  “You will be told an extremely compelling story by a very interesting man.” Seymour leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, fingers intertwined. “You have a reputation as a consummate professional, Ms. Reed. I’m counting on that reputation to help us get past any uncomfortable feelings this conversation might have provoked. Everything you think you know about Martin Landesmann is a lie. This is a chance for you to bring down a co
rrupt and dangerous businessman from the inside. It’s also an opportunity for you to help make us all a bit safer.”

  In the upstairs study, Nigel Whitcombe and Gabriel stared at the screens, awaiting her reply. Whitcombe would later say he felt they were doomed. But not Gabriel. He saw in Zoe a kindred spirit, a woman cursed with an exaggerated sense of right and wrong. Whatever she had once felt for Saint Martin was now dissolving under the weight of Seymour’s words. Gabriel could see it in the expression on her telegenic face. And he could hear it in the decisive tone of her voice when she looked Graham Seymour directly in the eyes and asked, “And this very interesting man? Who is he?”

  “He’s connected to a foreign intelligence service. The fact that he is willing to meet with someone in your profession is evidence of how seriously we all take this matter. I should point out in advance that it is quite possible you may recognize him. But under no circumstances are you ever to write about him or the things that he’s about to tell you. And I should add that there’s no point to asking him any questions about himself. He won’t answer them. Ever.”

  “You still haven’t told me what it is you want me to do.”

  “I’ll leave that to him. Shall I bring him in, Ms. Reed? Or shall I take you home?”

  48

  HIGHGATE, LONDON

  Gabriel slipped silently into the room. At first, Zoe seemed unaware of his presence. Then her head turned slowly, and she studied him for a moment with an obvious curiosity, one half of her face illuminated by lamplight, the other concealed by shadow. Her pose was so motionless that for an instant Gabriel imagined he was gazing upon a portrait. Then she rose to her feet and extended a hand. “I’m Zoe,” she said. “Who are you?”

  Gabriel shot a glance at Graham Seymour before accepting the outstretched hand. “I’m a friend, Zoe. I’m also a great admirer of your work.”

  “And you’re evading my question.”

  Seymour was about to intervene, but Gabriel stilled him with a small shake of his head. “I’m afraid that evading questions is an affliction common to men like Graham and me. We demand truthfulness in others while concealing ourselves behind a cloak of lies.”

  “Is it your intention to lie to me tonight?”

  “No, Zoe. If you are prepared to listen to what I have to say, then you will be told only the truth.”

  “I’ll listen. But no commitments beyond that.”

  “Do you have a problem with commitment, Zoe?”

  “No,” she said, holding his gaze. “Do you?”

  “Actually, some people tell me I’m too committed.”

  “Committed to what?”

  “I care about some of the same things you do, Zoe. I don’t like powerful men who prey on the weak. I don’t like men who take things that don’t belong to them. And I certainly don’t like men who do business with regimes that speak openly about wiping my country from the face of the earth.”

  She looked at Seymour, then at Gabriel again.

  “You’re obviously referring to Iran.”

  “I am.”

  “Which means you’re Israeli.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And the other country involved in this operation?”

  “That would be the United States of America.”

  “Lovely.” She sat down again and scrutinized him for a moment without speaking.

  “Is there something you wish to ask me, Zoe?”

  “Your name.”

  “I suspect you already know it.”

  She hesitated, her dark eyes flickering over his face, then said, “You’re Gabriel Allon, the one who rescued the American ambassador’s daughter outside Westminster Abbey.”

  “If memory serves, the two men who rescued Elizabeth Halton were officers of the SO19 division of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “That was the story put out to cover up your role in the operation. The kidnappers demanded that you deliver the ransom money. They’d planned to kill you and Elizabeth Halton together. It was never determined exactly how you were able to escape. There were rumors you tortured the cell leader to death in a field north of London.”

  “You really mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers, Zoe.”

  “Isn’t that the truth.” Her eyes narrowed. “So are the rumors correct, Mr. Allon? Did you really torture that terrorist in order to save Elizabeth Halton’s life?”

  “And what if the answer was yes?”

  “As an orthodox left-wing journalist, I would be predictably appalled.”

  “And if you were Elizabeth Halton?”

  “Then I suppose I would hope the bastard suffered a great deal before you put him out of his misery.” She scrutinized him carefully. “So are you going to tell me what happened in that field?”

  “What field?”

  Zoe frowned. “So you get to know all my darkest secrets and I get to know nothing about you.”

  “I don’t know all your secrets.”

  “Really?” Her tone was sardonic. “What other terrible things would you like to know about me?”

  “For the moment, I don’t want to know anything at all. I just want you to listen to a story. It’s a story about a missing masterpiece by Rembrandt, a fortune in looted Holocaust assets, an Argentine reporter named Rafael Bloch, and a company called Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg, Germany.” Gabriel paused, then added, “A company secretly owned by Martin Landesmann.”

  “Sounds like something that could sell a few newspapers.” She glanced at Graham Seymour. “Am I to assume this is all covered by the Official Secrets Act as well?”

  Seymour nodded.

  “What a pity.”

  Zoe looked at Gabriel and asked him to tell her the rest of it.

  ZOE WAS moved by the story of Lena Herzfeld, fascinated by the torment of Peter Voss, and heartbroken by the deaths of Rafael Bloch and Alfonso Ramirez. But it was the long list of Martin Landesmann’s many sins that horrified her the most. Gabriel could see that the skepticism Zoe displayed earlier in the evening had now given way to anger—an anger that seemed to grow more intense with each new revelation he laid on the table.

  “Are you saying Martin Landesmann is selling critical equipment to the Iranian nuclear program?”

  “That’s what we suspect, Zoe.”

  “Suspect?”

  “As you know, there are few absolutes in intelligence work, but here’s what we’ve discovered. We know Martin is selling high-grade industrial equipment to Iran through its state-sponsored nuclear-smuggling network. We know he’s making a tremendous amount of money doing it. And we know he’s going to a great deal of trouble to keep it a secret. At a time when the Iranians are moving rapidly toward developing a nuclear weapons capability, we can’t afford to be in the dark about anything. It’s essential that we uncover exactly what Martin is selling them.” He paused. “And for that we need you.”

  “Me? Everything I know about Martin’s business is contained in an article that Mr. Seymour now says was inaccurate. What can I possibly do to help you discover what he’s shipping to the Iranians?”

  “More than you realize,” Gabriel said. “But before we get to that, there are a few things I need to know.”

  “Such as?”

  “How did it happen, Zoe? How did you become involved with a man like Martin Landesmann?”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Perhaps social customs are different in Israel, Mr. Allon, but here in Britain there are some things that are still regarded as private—unless you’re a politician or a famous footballer, of course.”

  “I can assure you, Zoe, I have no desire to hear any intimate details about your relationship.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Let’s start with something simple,” he said. “How did you meet?”

  Zoe made a brief show of thought. “It was two years ago, in Davos. Martin had just given his yearly address, and he’d been electrifying. I filed my story from the pressroom, then headed over to the Bel
vedere Hotel. It was the usual scene—movie stars and politicians rubbing shoulders with the world’s richest businessmen. That’s where the real action takes place in Davos, at the cocktail parties and in the bars of the swankiest hotels.”

  “And Martin was there?”

  She nodded. “He and his entourage were having drinks in the corner, protected by a wall of bodyguards. I ordered a glass of wine and immediately found myself in a horrendously boring conversation with a finance minister from Africa about debt relief. After ten minutes, I was ready to slit my wrists. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a blond chap, dark suit, buzz cut, German accent. Said his name was Jonas Brunner. Said he worked for Mr. Landesmann. Said Mr. Landesmann was wondering whether I might join him for a drink. I accepted, of course, and a few seconds later I was seated next to the man himself.”

  “And what did the man want?”

  “I’d been badgering him for months for an interview. He told me he wanted to meet the world’s most persistent woman, or so he said at the time.”

  “Why would any businessman in his right mind want to give you an interview?”

  “It wasn’t going to be that kind of piece. I wanted to do something different from my usual scorched-earth investigations. I wanted to write about a wealthy businessman who was actually doing something decent with his money. I told Martin I wanted my readers to meet the man behind the curtain.”

  “But your conversation that night was off the record?”

  “Completely.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Remarkably, me. Martin wanted to know about my work. My family. My hobbies. Anything but himself.”

  “And you were impressed?”

  “Dazzled, actually. It’s hard not to be. Martin Landesmann is incredibly handsome and wealthy beyond belief. And not many of the men I meet ever want to talk about anything but themselves.”

  “So you were attracted to him?”

  “At the time, I was intrigued. And remember, I was after an interview.”

  “And Martin?”

  She gave a faint smile. “As the evening wore on, he became quite flirtatious—in an understated, subliminal Martin sort of way,” she added. “He finally asked whether I would have dinner with him in the privacy of his suite. He said it would give us a chance to get to know each other better. When I told him that I didn’t think it was appropriate, he seemed quite shocked. Martin isn’t used to people telling him no.”