The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  Having settled on the venue, there was the small matter of the invitees. As Seymour feared, the list of those wishing to attend quickly grew atrociously long—so long, in fact, he felt compelled to remind his brethren it was an intelligence operation they were staging, not a West End premiere. Moreover, since the operation was likely to produce material inappropriate for broad dissemination, it had to be conducted with more than the usual sensitivity. Other agencies would eventually be briefed on the haul, Seymour declared, but under no circumstances could they be present when it was obtained. The guest list would be limited to the three principals—the three members of a secret brotherhood who did the unpleasant chores no one else was willing to do and worried about the consequences later.

  Though the precise location of the CIA’s London ops center was a carefully guarded secret, Graham Seymour knew with considerable certainty that it was located some forty feet beneath the southwest corner of Grosvenor Square. He had always been somewhat amused by this, since on any given day several hundred anxious visa applicants were queued overhead, including the occasional jihadi bent on attacking the American homeland. Because the facility did not officially exist, it had no official name. Those in the know, however, referred to it as the annex and nothing else. Its centerpiece was an amphitheater-like control room dominated by several large video screens capable of projecting images securely from almost anywhere on the planet. Directly adjacent was a glass-enclosed soundproof meeting room known affectionately as the fishbowl, along with a dozen gray cubicles reserved for the alphabet soup of American agencies involved in counterterrorism and intelligence collection. Even Graham Seymour, whose primary task remained counterespionage, could scarcely remember them all. The American security establishment, he thought, was much like American automobiles—large and flashy but ultimately inefficient.

  It was a few minutes after six p.m. by the time Seymour finally gained admittance to the annex. Adrian Carter was seated in his usual chair on the back deck of the control room with Ari Shamron perched at his right, looking as though he were already in the throes of a full-blown nicotine fit. Seymour settled into his usual spot at Carter’s left and fixed his gaze on the video screens. In the center of the display was a static CCTV image of the exterior of the Financial Journal, workplace of their soon-to-be agent in place, Zoe Reed.

  Unlike her colleagues at the Journal, Zoe’s day had been the subject of close scrutiny by the intelligence services of three nations. They knew that it had begun badly with a twenty-minute delay on the dreaded Northern Line tube. They knew she arrived for work at 9:45 looking deeply annoyed, that she lunched with a source at a quaint bistro near St. Paul’s, and that she ducked into a Boots pharmacy on the way back to work to pick up a few personal items, which they were never able to identify. They also knew she had been forced to endure several unpleasant hours with a Journal lawyer because of a threatened libel suit stemming from her Empire Aerospace exposé. And that she was then dragooned into Jason Turnbury’s office for yet another lecture about her expenses, which were even higher than the previous month.

  Zoe finally emerged from Journal headquarters at 6:15, a few minutes later than Gabriel had hoped, and hailed a taxi. By no accident, one pulled to the curb immediately and ferried her at inordinate speed to St. Pancras. She navigated passport control in record time and headed to the boarding platform, where she was recognized by a lecherous City banker who proclaimed himself her biggest fan.

  Zoe feared the man would be seated near her on the train but was relieved when her traveling companion turned out to be the quiet, dark-haired girl from Highgate who called herself Sally. Four other members of the team were also aboard Zoe’s carriage, including an elfin figure with wispy hair she knew as Max and the tweedy Englishman who called himself David. Neither bothered to inform the ops center at Grosvenor Square that Zoe had made her train. CCTV did it for them.

  “So far, so good,” said Shamron, his gaze fastened on the video screens. “All we need now is our leading man.”

  BUT EVEN as Shamron uttered those words, the three spymasters already knew that Martin Landesmann was running alarmingly behind schedule. After starting his day with an hour-long scull across the flat waters of Lake Geneva, he boarded his private jet along with several top aides for the short hop to Vienna. There he visited the offices of a large Austrian chemical concern, emerging at three in the afternoon into a light snow. At which point, the intelligence gods decided to throw a spanner in the works. Because in the time it took Landesmann and his entourage to reach Schwechat Airport, the light snowfall had turned into a full-fledged Austrian blizzard.

  For the next two hours, Saint Martin sat with monastic serenity in the VIP lounge of Vienna Aircraft Services while his entourage worked feverishly to obtain a departure slot. All available weather data pointed to a long delay or perhaps even airport closure. But by some miracle, Martin’s jet received the only clearance that night and by half past five was Paris bound. In accordance with Gabriel’s standing order, no photographs were snapped as Martin and his entourage deplaned at Le Bourget and filed into a waiting convoy of black S-Class Mercedes sedans. Three of the cars headed to the Hôtel de Crillon, one to the graceful cream-colored apartment house on the Île Saint-Louis.

  For Gabriel Allon, standing in the window of the safe flat directly across the river Seine, the arrival of Martin Landesmann was a momentous occasion since it represented the first time he saw his quarry in the flesh. Martin emerged from the back of his car, a smart leather computer bag in one hand, and slipped unaccompanied through the entrance of the building. Martin the man of the people, thought Gabriel. Martin who was a few hours away from being an open book. Like nearly all his public appearances, it had been brief, though the impression it left was indelible. Even Gabriel could not help but feel a certain professional admiration for the completeness of Martin’s cover.

  Gabriel raised his night-vision binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the battlefield. Yaakov was in a Peugeot sedan parked along the river, Oded was in a Renault hatchback wedged into the narrow street at the side of Martin’s building, and Mordecai was in a Ford van parked near the foot of the Pont Marie. All three would maintain a sleepless vigil for the duration of the evening, as would the three men in the black S-Class Mercedes parked outside 21 Quai de Bourbon. One was Henri Cassin, Martin’s usual driver in Paris. The other two were officially licensed bodyguards employed by Zentrum Security. Just then, Gabriel heard a sharp crackle of static. Lowering his binoculars, he turned to Chiara, who was hunched over a laptop computer monitoring the live audio stream from Zoe’s mobile phone.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Chiara shook her head. “It just sounds like the train is passing through a tunnel.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Less than a kilometer north of the station.”

  Gabriel turned toward the window again and raised his binoculars. Martin was now standing at the edge of his rooftop terrace, his gaze fixed on the river, his Nokia phone pressed to his ear. A few seconds later, Gabriel heard a two-note ring emanating from Chiara’s computer, followed by Zoe’s voice.

  “Hello, darling.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The train’s pulling into the station.”

  “How was the trip?”

  “Not bad.”

  “And your day?”

  “Indescribably dreadful.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Lawyers, darling. The bloody lawyers are what’s wrong.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “See you in a few.”

  The connection went dead. Chiara looked up from the computer screen and said, “She’s good.”

  “Yes, she is. But it’s easy to lie on the telephone. Much harder when you’re face-to-face.”

  Gabriel returned to his post at the window. Martin was talking on his mobile phone again, but this time Gabriel could not hear the conversation.


  “Is Zoe off the train yet?”

  “She’s stepping onto the platform right now.”

  “Is she heading in the right direction?”

  “At considerable speed.”

  “Wise girl. Now let’s hope she makes it to her car before anyone can steal her bag.”

  IT HAD always been a mystery to Zoe why the London-to-Paris Eurostar, arguably the most glamorous rail link in the world, terminated in a dump like the Gare du Nord. It was an inhospitable place in the light of day, but at 10:17 on a cold winter’s night it was positively appalling. Paper cups and food wrappers spilled from overflowing rubbish bins, dazed drug addicts wandered aimlessly about, and weary migrant workers dozed on their battered luggage waiting for trains to nowhere. Stepping outside into the darkness of the Place Napoléon III, Zoe was immediately set upon by no fewer than three panhandlers. Lowering her head, she slipped past without a word and climbed into a black sedan with the name REED in the window.

  As the car lurched forward, Zoe felt her heart banging against the side of her rib cage. For an instant, she considered ordering the driver to take her back to the station. Then she peered out the window and saw the comforting sight of a motorcycle ridden by a single helmeted figure. Zoe recognized the shoes. They belonged to the lanky operative with blond hair and gray eyes who spoke with a Russian accent.

  Zoe looked straight ahead and politely fended off the driver’s attempt to engage in conversation. She didn’t want to make small talk with a stranger. Not now. She had more important things on her mind. The two tasks that were the reason for her recruitment. The two tasks that would turn Martin’s life into an open book. She rehearsed one final time, then closed her eyes and tried her best to forget. Gabriel had given her a series of simple exercises to perform. Tricks of memory. Tricks of the trade. Her assignment was made easier by the fact she didn’t have to become someone else. She only had to turn back the hands of time a few days to the moment before she was summoned into Graham Seymour’s car. She had to become Zoe before revelation. Zoe before truth. Zoe who was keeping a secret from her colleagues at the Journal. Zoe who was risking her reputation for a man known to all the world as Saint Martin.

  The mind is like a basin, Zoe. It can be filled and emptied at will…

  And so it was this version of Zoe Reed who alighted from her car and bade good night to her driver. And this Zoe Reed who punched the code into the entry keypad from memory and stepped into the elegant lift. There is no safe house in Highgate, she told herself. No tweedy Englishman called David. No green-eyed assassin named Gabriel Allon. At that moment, there was only Martin Landesmann. Martin who was now standing in the doorway of his apartment with a bottle of her favorite Montrachet in his hand. Martin whose lips were pressing against hers. And Martin who was telling her how much he adored her.

  You just have to be in love with him one more night.

  And after that?

  You go back to your life and pretend none of it ever happened.

  NEWS OF Zoe’s arrival flashed on the screens of the ops center at 9:45 p.m. London time. In contravention of long-standing regulations, Ari Shamron immediately ignited one of his foul-smelling Turkish cigarettes. Nothing to do now but wait. God, but he hated the waiting.

  51

  ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS, PARIS

  He was dressed like the lower half of a gray scale: slate gray cashmere pullover, charcoal gray trousers, black suede loafers. Combined with his glossy silver hair and silver spectacles, the outfit gave him an air of Jesuitical seriousness. It was Martin as he wished to see himself, thought Zoe. Martin as freethinking Euro-intellectual. Martin unbound by notions of conventionality. Martin who was anyone but the son of a Zurich banker named Walter Landesmann. Zoe realized her thoughts were straying into unguarded territory. You know nothing about Walter Landesmann, she reminded herself. Nothing about a woman named Lena Herzfeld, or a Nazi war criminal named Kurt Voss, or a Rembrandt portrait with a dangerous secret. At this moment, there was only Martin. Martin whom she loved. Martin who had removed the cork from the Montrachet and was now pouring the honey-colored wine carefully into two glasses.

  “You seem distracted, Zoe.” He handed her a glass and raised his own a fraction of an inch. “Cheers.”

  Zoe touched her glass to Martin’s and tried to compose herself. “I’m sorry, Martin. Do forgive me. It’s been a perfectly ghastly day.”

  Since ghastly days were not a part of Martin’s repertoire, his attempt to adopt an expression of sympathy fell somewhat short. He drank more wine, then placed the glass on the edge of the long granite-topped island in the center of his glorious kitchen. It was artfully lit by a line of recessed halogen lamps, one of which shone upon Martin like a spotlight. He turned his back to Zoe and opened the refrigerator. It had been well stocked by his housekeeper that afternoon. He removed several white cardboard containers of prepared food and laid them out in a neat row along the counter. Martin, she realized, did everything neatly.

  “I always thought we could talk about anything, Zoe.”

  “We can.”

  “So why won’t you tell me about your day?”

  “Because I have very little time with you, Martin. And the last thing I want to do is burden you with the dreary details of my work.”

  Martin gave her a thoughtful look—the one he always wore when taking a few prescreened questions at Davos—and began opening the lids of the containers. His hands were as pale as marble. Even now, it seemed surreal to watch him engage in so domestic a chore. Zoe realized it was all part of the illusion, like his foundation, his good deeds, and his trendy politics.

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  “To be bored?”

  “You never bore me, Zoe.” He looked up and smiled. “In fact, you never fail to surprise me.”

  His Nokia emitted a soft chime. He removed it from the pocket of his trousers, frowned at the caller ID, and returned it to his pocket unanswered.

  “You were saying?”

  “I might be sued.”

  “By Empire Aerospace?”

  Zoe was genuinely surprised. “You read the articles?”

  “I read everything you write, Zoe.”

  Of course you do. And then she remembered the first awkward moments of her encounter with Graham Seymour. We couldn’t contact you openly, Ms. Reed. You see, it’s quite possible someone is watching you and listening to your phones…

  “What did you think of the articles?”

  “They made for compelling reading. And if the Empire executives and British politicians are truly guilty, then they should be punished accordingly.”

  “You don’t seem convinced.”

  “About their guilt?” He raised an eyebrow thoughtfully and placed a portion of haricots verts at one end of the rectangular serving platter. “Of course they’re guilty, Zoe. I just don’t know why everyone in London is pretending to be surprised. When one is in the business of selling arms to foreign countries, paying bribes to politicians is de rigueur.”

  “Perhaps,” Zoe agreed, “but that doesn’t make it right.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Have you ever been tempted?”

  Martin placed two slices of quiche next to the green beans. “To do what?”

  “To pay a bribe to secure a government contract?”

  He smiled dismissively and added a few slices of stuffed chicken breast to the platter. “I think you know me well enough to answer that question yourself. We’re very choosy about the companies we acquire. And we never go anywhere near defense contractors or arms makers.”

  No, thought Zoe. Only a textile mill in Thailand worked by slaves, a chemical complex in Vietnam that fouled every river within a hundred miles, and a Brazilian agribusiness firm that was destroying the very same rain forests Martin had sworn to defend to his dying breath. And then there was a small industrial plant in Magdeburg, Germany, that was doing a brisk but secret trade with the Iranians, champions of all the principles Ma
rtin held dear. But once again her thoughts were straying onto dangerous ground. Avoid, she reminded herself.

  Martin placed a few slices of French ham on the platter and carried the food into the dining room, where a table had already been set. Zoe paused in the window overlooking the Seine before taking her usual seat. Martin filled her plate decorously with food and added wine to her glass. After serving himself, he asked about the basis of the threatened lawsuit.

  “Malicious disregard for the truth,” Zoe said. “The usual drivel.”

  “It’s a public relations stunt?”

  “Of the worst kind. I have the story nailed.”

  “I know the CEO of Empire quite well. If you’d like me to have a word with him, I’m sure I could make the matter—”

  “Go away?”

  Martin was silent.

  “That might be a little awkward, Martin, but I do appreciate the thought.”

  “Do you have the support of management?”

  “For the moment. But Jason Turnbury is already looking for the nearest foxhole.”

  “Jason isn’t long for his job.”

  Zoe looked up sharply from her plate. “How on earth do you know that?”