Gabriel Allon 10 - The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  "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 Napoleon 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

  ILE 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 Martin 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?"

  "I know everything, Zoe. Haven't you learned that by now?"

  Zoe felt her cheeks begin to burn. She gave an overly bright smile and said, "You always say that, darling. But I'm actually beginning to believe it."

  "You should. You should also know your newspaper is in worse shape than you think. Jason has a lifeboat waiting for him at Latham headquarters. But I'm afraid the rest of the Journal's management will have to fend for itself, along with the editorial staff."

  "How much longer can we stay afloat?"

  "Without a buyer or a massive infusion of cash...not long."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "Because Latham approached me last week and asked whether I'd be willing to take the Journal off its hands."

  "You're joking." His expression made clear he wasn't. "That would make our relationship more complicated than it already is, Martin."

  "Don't worry, Zoe. I said I wasn't interested. Media is a rather small portion of our overall investment picture at the moment, and I have no interest in taking on a newspaper that's bleeding to death." He held up his mobile phone. "How do you expect people to pay for something when you're giving it away for free?"

  "And the Journal?"

  "I suspect you'll get a lifeline."

  "From whom?"

  "Viktor Orlov."

  Zoe recognized the name. Viktor Orlov was one of the original Russian oligarchs who had made billions gobbling up the valuable assets of the old Soviet state while ordinary Russians were struggling for survival. Like most of the first-generation oligarchs, Viktor had worn out his welcome in Russia. He now lived in London in one of the city's most valuable homes.

  "Viktor got his British passport a few months ago," Martin said. "Now he wants a British newspaper to go with it. He thinks owning the Journal will grant him the social standing in London he craves most. He also wants to use it as a club to beat his old adversaries in the Kremlin. If he succeeds in getting his hands on it, your publication will never be the same."

  "And if he doesn't buy us?"

  "The paper could fold in short order. But remember, Zoe, you didn't hear that from me."

  "I never hear anything from you, darling."

  "I certainly hope not."

  Zoe laughed in spite of herself. She was surprised at how easily she had fallen into the familiar, comfortable pattern of their relationship. She tried not to resist these feelings, just as she tried not to think about the mobile phone at Martin's elbow or the notebook computer resting on the island in the kitchen.

  "How well do you know Viktor?"

  "Well enough." Martin jabbed at his food. "He forced me to invite him to the fund-raiser at Villa Elma next week."

  "How did he manage that?"

  "By writing a million-euro check to One World. I don't care for Viktor or the way he does business, but at least you'll have a chance to rub shoulders with your new owner." He looked at her seriously. "You are still planning to come, aren't you, Zoe?"

  "I suppose that depends on whether I'll be safe there."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Your wife, Martin. I'm talking about Monique."

  "Monique lives her life, and I live mine."

  "But she might not enjoy seeing your life paraded in front of her wearing a Dior evening gown with the most scandalous neckline I've ever seen."

  "You got my gift?"

  "Yes, Martin, I did. And you absolutely shouldn't have."

  "Of course I should have. And I expect you to be wearing it next week."

  "I'm sure my date will enjoy it very much."

  He looked down at his plate and casually asked who Zoe was planning to bring to the party.

  "Jason was hoping to come again, but I haven't decided yet."

  "Maybe you could bring someone other than one of your old lovers."

  "Jason and I weren't lovers, Martin. We were a mistake."

  "But he obviously still cares for you a great deal."

  She gave him a playful look. "Martin Landesmann, I do believe you're jealous."

  "No, Zoe, I'm not. But I don't want to be deceived, either."

  Her expression turned serious. "If you're wondering whether there's another man in my life, there isn't, Martin. For better or worse, there's only you."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "Very sure. And if you're interested, I'd be more than willing to prove it."

  "Finish your dinner, Zoe."

  Zoe smiled. "I am finished."

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, in the safe flat on the other side of the Seine, Gabriel sat hunched over his computer, fists to his temples, eyes closed, listening. Somewhere inside him, buried beneath a thousand lies and the scar tissue of countless wounds, there was an ordinary man who wanted desperately to lower the volume. Professionalism would not allow it. It was for her own good, he told himself. For her own protection. Sorry, Zoe. Had to be done.

  To distract himself, Gabriel walked to the window, night-vision binoculars pressed to his eyes, and checked the disposition of his troops. Yaakov was in his Peugeot. Oded was in his Renault. Mordecai was in his Ford van. Mikhail and Yossi were drinking beer with a group of young toughs along the quay. Rimona and Dina were sitting astride a pair of motor scooters near the Hotel de Ville. He gave them each a tap on the shoulder by way of encrypted radio. They replied one by one, crisp and alert, Gabriel's soldiers of the night.

  The last stop of Gabriel's battlefield tour was the entrance of the cream-colored apartment house at 21 Quai de Bourbon, where one of Martin's Zentrum bodyguards was pacing slowly in the lamplight. I know how you feel, thought Gabriel. The waiting can be hell.

  52

  ILE SAINT-LOUIS, PARIS

  Moonlight shone through the uncurtained window and cast a rhombus of pale blue light across the tangled satin sheets of Martin Landesmann's enormous bed. Zoe lay very still, listening to the wet hiss of the early-morning traffic moving along the Seine. Somewhere two drunken lovers were having a noisy quarrel. Martin's breathing ceased momentarily, then resumed its normal rhythm. Zoe looked at the clock on the bedside table. It had not changed since the last time she checked it: 3:28...

  She looked carefully at Martin. After complet
ing the act of love for a second time, he had retreated with marital discretion to his usual side of the bed and fallen into a satisfied slumber. His pose had not changed in nearly an hour. Bare to the hips, he was lying prone, with his legs in something akin to a running position and one hand stretched longingly toward Zoe. In sleep, his face had assumed a peculiar childlike innocence. Zoe felt compelled to look away. In the street the lovers' quarrel had ended, replaced now by male voices murmuring in German. It was nothing, she assured herself. Just the 3:30 a.m. shift change at Zentrum Security.

  Don't think about the bodyguards, Gabriel had reminded her on the final night in Highgate. We'll worry about the bodyguards. All you have to worry about is Martin. Martin is your responsibility...

  Martin still hadn't moved. Neither had Zoe. Only the clock.

  3:32...

  Once you start, move quietly but quickly. Don't creep around like a cat burglar...

  She closed her eyes and pictured the location of the four items she would need to complete her assignment. Two of the items--her mobile phone and the USB flash drive--were tucked into her handbag, which lay on the floor next to the bed. Martin's Nokia was still on the dining-room table; the Sony computer was still on the kitchen counter.

  Visualize your actions before you take them. Once you get his phone and computer in a secure location, follow my instructions to the letter, and Martin will have no more secrets...

  She reached into her bag, took hold of her phone and the flash drive, and slipped quietly from the bed. Her clothing lay scattered across the floor. Ignoring it, she padded quickly toward the door, her heart banging against her breastbone, and stepped into the hallway. Though Gabriel had advised against it, she couldn't help but take one final look at Martin. He appeared to still be sleeping soundly. She closed the door halfway and made her way silently through the apartment to the dining room. Their dishes were still on the table, as was Martin's telephone. She snatched it up and headed to the kitchen, dialing her own mobile as she moved. Gabriel answered after a single ring.