Gabriel Allon 10 - The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  "So will every other man in the room."

  Gabriel walked over to the desk. Zoe's phone was lying on the blotter. He picked it up, pressed the power button, and held it until the screen turned to black.

  "Is there something you need to tell me about my phone?" Zoe asked.

  "It's just a precaution."

  "Yes," she said, her tone sardonic. "And I came all the way to Geneva to bask in the glow of Martin Landesmann for a few hours."

  Gabriel placed the phone on the desk again but said nothing.

  "Just make sure you switch it off when this is over." She sat on the edge of the bed. "You never told me what you call it."

  "What's that?"

  "The procedure we carried out on Martin's phone and computer."

  "I was born in the late seventeenth century, Zoe. Even I don't know the proper name for it."

  "And the slang?"

  "Some techs refer to it as backdooring, rooting, or popping. We like to call it owning."

  "Meaning?"

  "If we can get our hands on the target's phone, we own it. If we can get inside his bank accounts, we own them. If we can get to his home security system, we can own that, too. And if Mikhail can get inside Martin's office tonight..."

  "Then we can find the centrifuges?"

  Gabriel was struck by Zoe's use of the pronoun we. "Yes," he said with a nod of his head. "If we're lucky, we might be able to find the centrifuges."

  "What are the odds?"

  "Hard to say."

  "I assume this isn't the first time your service has done something like this."

  Gabriel hesitated, then answered. "There's been a not-so-secret war going on here in Europe for some time, Zoe. It involves the Iranians and European high-tech firms. And the computers of the bad guys are one of our greatest weapons."

  "For example?"

  "I'm not going to give you an example."

  "How about a hypothetical?"

  "All right. Let's say a hypothetical Iranian nuclear scientist goes to a hypothetical conference in Berlin. And let's say our hypothetical scientist has notes on his hypothetical computer on how to build a nuclear warhead."

  "Then it might be difficult to keep a straight face when the Iranian president declares his program is strictly peaceful."

  "That's correct."

  "And are they building a warhead?"

  "Without question," Gabriel said. "And they're getting closer every day. But to be an effective nuclear power, they need a steady supply of highly enriched uranium. And for that, they need centrifuges. Good ones. Centrifuges that don't break down. Centrifuges that spin at a reliable speed. Centrifuges that aren't contaminated."

  "Martin's centrifuges," Zoe said softly.

  Gabriel was silent. Zoe glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

  "Unless you intend to help me get dressed, I think I'll have to ask you to leave now."

  "In a minute." Gabriel sat. "Remember, Zoe, when Mikhail makes his move, it's important you not appear to be alone or in any way unattached. Latch onto someone. Strike up a conversation. The worst thing you can do is be quiet or look nervous. Be the opposite of nervous. Be the life of the party. Do you understand?"

  "I think I can manage that."

  Gabriel smiled briefly, then his expression turned serious. "Now tell me again what happens if Mikhail gets caught."

  "I'm to disown him. I'm to say he deceived me into bringing him. And then I'm to leave the party as quickly as possible."

  "Even if it means leaving Mikhail behind."

  She was silent for a moment. "Please don't make me say it."

  "Say it, Zoe."

  "Even if it means leaving Mikhail behind."

  "Don't hesitate, Zoe. And don't look back. If one of Martin's guards tries to grab you, make a scene so everyone in the party knows there's a problem. Martin will have no choice but to let you leave." Gabriel paused, then asked, "Do you understand, Zoe?"

  She nodded.

  "Say it."

  "I'll make a bloody scene. And I'll leave Mikhail behind."

  "Very good. Any questions?"

  Zoe shook her head. Gabriel rose and gave her the phone.

  "Turn it on when I leave. And keep it close tonight."

  Gabriel started toward the door.

  "Actually, I do have one question, Mr. Allon."

  He stopped and turned.

  "What happened in that field outside London?"

  "There is no field outside London. And there is no safe house in Highgate, either. The mind is like a basin, Zoe. Pull the plug, and the memory drains away."

  Gabriel slipped out the door without another word. Zoe switched on her mobile and began to dress.

  AMONG THE MANY logistical challenges faced by the team had been the acquisition of a suitable car to ferry Zoe and Mikhail to the party. An attempt was made to rent a vehicle in Geneva, but that proved impossible because Martin's other guests had already snatched up every luxury sedan in the canton. That left a hasty purchase as the only option. Gabriel handled the chore himself, choosing a black fully loaded S-Class Mercedes, which he paid for in full with a certified check from one of Navot's operational accounts in Zurich. When news of the procurement reached Highgate, Shamron flew into a seething rage. Not only had the Office just spent one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for a car but a German car at that.

  It eased gracefully into the Kempinski's circular drive at 6:15 that evening with Yaakov behind the wheel, looking as though he were guiding an oil tanker through treacherous seas. After successful completion of the maneuver, he informed the doorman that he was there to collect Mr. Danilov. The doorman called Mr. Danilov, who in turn called Ms. Reed and Mr. Albright of Markham Capital Advisers. Mr. Albright immediately dispatched a secure message to his superiors in London that read DEPARTURE IMMINENT. Then he looked at his computer screen. A red light was blinking in the southeast corner of Villa Elma, 1,238 feet above sea level.

  61

  MAYFAIR, LONDON

  The message from Geneva flashed on the screens of the CIA ops center beneath Grosvenor Square. Seated in their usual places in the back row were Graham Seymour, Adrian Carter, and Ari Shamron. In a significant break with tradition, they were joined that evening by two additional members of the Masterpiece team. One was Uzi Navot, the other was Chiara Allon. All five were staring at the message screens like stranded airline passengers waiting for a long-delayed flight. Shamron was already nervously turning over his old Zippo lighter in his fingertips. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left...

  "Does anyone know the definition of the word imminent?"

  "Ready to take place," offered Graham Seymour.

  "Hanging threateningly over one's head," added Adrian Carter.

  Shamron frowned heavily and looked at Chiara, who responded by typing a few characters into her laptop computer. A moment later, a new message appeared on the display screens at the front of the room.

  DEPARTURE IN PROGRESS...

  "What was the problem?" Shamron asked.

  "Zoe's zipper was stuck."

  "Who fixed it?"

  "Mr. Albright of Markham Capital Advisers."

  Shamron smiled. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left...

  MIKHAIL STOOD outside the elevators on the sixth floor of the Grand Hotel Kempinski and examined his appearance in the decorative smoked-glass mirror. His clothing was simple but elegant: a Brioni tuxedo, a plain-fronted formal shirt, a traditional bow tie. The jacket had been specially fitted to accommodate the two pieces of technical equipment he was carrying at the small of his back. The crisp knot of his bow tie had been a collaborative effort involving three agents of Israeli intelligence and no small amount of preoperational hysteria.

  He leaned closer to the mirror, made an adjustment to his blond forelock, and examined his face. Hard to believe he was the same boy from the derelict apartment blocks of Moscow. A boy who had been beaten and spat upon by Russian brethren every day merely for having b
een cursed with the name of the patriarch. The boy had moved to Israel with his dissident parents and had learned to fight. But tonight he would fight in a different way, against a man who was supplying the mullahs of Iran with the power to fulfill their wildest fantasies. Tonight he was no longer Mikhail Abramov. Tonight he was a real Russian with a proper Russian name and a great deal of money in his Russian pockets.

  He heard the sound of a door closing just down the corridor. Zoe appeared a few seconds later, looking radiant in her Dior dress. Mikhail kissed her formally on both cheeks for the benefit of the hotel cameras, then stepped back to admire her.

  "Something tells me you're going to be the center of attention tonight."

  "Better me than you."

  Mikhail laughed as he led Zoe into the elevator. In the lobby, Yossi and Rimona were drinking coffee near the gas fire while Dina and Mordecai were talking to the concierge about restaurants. Mikhail offered Zoe his arm and led her toward the entrance. A doorman intercepted them, a concerned look on his face.

  "I'm afraid we have a slight problem, Mr. Danilov."

  "What's that?"

  "An overabundance of cars."

  "Can you be a bit more clear?" Mikhail asked, adopting the impatient tone that comes naturally to the rich, Russian or otherwise. "I'm afraid we're running late for an important engagement."

  The doorman turned and pointed through the revolving door toward the S-Class Mercedes. Yaakov was standing at the rear driver's-side door, hand on the latch, face a blank mask.

  "That's your car, Mr. Danilov."

  "So what's the problem?"

  The doorman pointed to a second Mercedes, a Maybach 62S. Two well-dressed men in dark overcoats were standing near the trunk, hands in their pockets. Mikhail recognized the older of the two from surveillance photographs. It was Jonas Brunner.

  "And that car," said the doorman, "is for Ms. Reed."

  "Who sent it?"

  "Mr. Martin Landesmann."

  "Do me a favor then. Tell those gentlemen that Ms. Reed and I will be traveling to the party together in my car."

  "They were quite insistent Ms. Reed ride with them."

  Mikhail instructed Zoe to wait in the lobby, then stepped outside. Jonas Brunner immediately walked over and introduced himself.

  "Do you mind telling me what this is all about?" Mikhail asked.

  "Mr. Landesmann has made arrangements for your travel to Villa Elma. Forgive us for not telling you sooner. It was an oversight on our part."

  "Us?"

  "I work for Mr. Landesmann."

  "In what capacity?" Mikhail asked needlessly.

  "I'm a personal aide, of sorts," Brunner said evasively.

  "I see. Well, please convey to Mr. Landesmann our thanks for his very generous offer, but we'll be taking our own car."

  "I'm afraid Mr. Landesmann would be deeply offended to hear that." Brunner held out his hand toward the Maybach. "Please, Mr. Danilov, I'm sure you and Ms. Reed will find this one very comfortable."

  Mikhail turned and looked at Zoe, who was watching him through the glass as though she found the entire spectacle faintly amusing. It was not, of course. In fact, it presented Mikhail with his first decision of the evening, far sooner than he had anticipated. To refuse the offer would look suspicious. But to accept meant they would be under Martin's control from the outset. Mikhail Abramov wanted to insist on taking his own car. But Mikhail Danilov knew he had no choice but to accept. Otherwise, the evening was going to get off to a very tense start. He looked at Brunner and managed a slight smile.

  "We'll be delighted to ride in your car. Shall I dismiss my driver or will we need him to get back to the hotel?"

  "We'll bring you back at the end of the party, Mr. Danilov."

  Mikhail turned and gestured for Zoe to come outside. Brunner opened the rear door of the Maybach and smiled.

  "Good evening, Ms. Reed."

  "Good evening, Jonas."

  "You look lovely this evening."

  "Thank you, Jonas."

  YAAKOV WATCHED the Maybach turn into the darkened Quai de Mont-Blanc, then lifted his wrist mic to his lips.

  "Did you hear that?"

  "I heard it," replied Gabriel."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Follow them. Carefully."

  THIRTY SECONDS LATER, a new message flashed on the screens at Grosvenor Square. Shamron glared at Navot.

  "How much did that car cost me, Uzi?"

  "One hundred and twenty-five thousand, boss."

  "And how much did Mikhail donate to Martin's foundation?"

  "A hundred thousand."

  "I once stole a Russian MiG for less than that, Uzi."

  "What would you like me to do, boss?"

  "Make sure that car survives the night. I want my money back."

  62

  GENEVA

  They headed north along the shoreline through the drowsy elegance of Geneva's diplomatic quarter. Zoe sat behind the driver, hands folded in her lap, knees leaning to one side. Mikhail sat behind Jonas Brunner and stared silently at the lake.

  "Your first time in Geneva, Mr. Danilov?"

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  "You seem very interested in the lake."

  "I've always been very fond of the lake."

  "So you come often then?"

  "A couple of times a year."

  "For business?"

  "Is there any other reason to come to Geneva?"

  "Some people come for holiday."

  "Really?"

  And do you interrogate all Mr. Landesmann's guests, Herr Brunner? Or only the friends of his mistress?

  If Zoe was thinking the same thing, her expression did not show it. She turned her large brown eyes fondly toward Mikhail, then stared straight ahead. They were approaching the Botanical Gardens. The Palace of Nations floated past like a giant luxury liner and was swallowed by the mist. Mikhail looked out the window again and saw Brunner's eyes watching him in the side mirror.

  "Mr. Landesmann asked me to thank you for the generous donation you made to One World. He intends to speak with you personally, if he has a chance."

  "That's really not necessary."

  "Try telling that to Mr. Landesmann."

  "I will," Mikhail said jovially.

  Brunner didn't seem to understand the irony. He turned robotically, his cross-examination apparently at an end, and murmured a few words in German into his wrist mic. They had left the diplomatic quarter and were speeding now along the rue de Lausanne. Towering hedgerows and stone walls lined both sides of the road, concealing some of the world's costliest and most exclusive real estate. The gates seemed to grow grander the farther they moved from central Geneva, though none matched the imposing elegance of the entrance of Villa Elma. A two-story stucco guardhouse stood just to the right, its turret poking vigilantly above the groomed hedge. Limousines lined the shoulder of the road, waiting to be admitted by the clipboard-wielding foot soldiers of Zentrum Security. Brunner motioned for the driver to go around.

  Seeing the approaching Maybach, the guards stepped aside and allowed it to pass unchecked through the gate. Directly ahead, at the apex of a long, tree-lined drive, Villa Elma glowed like a wedding cake. Another line of limousines stretched from the entrance, tailpipes gently smoking. This time, Brunner ordered the driver to join the queue. Then he looked over his shoulder at Zoe.

  "When you're ready to leave, Ms. Reed, just tell one of the security guards and we'll have the car brought around." He glanced at Mikhail. "Enjoy your evening, Mr. Danilov."

  "I intend to."

  The car came to a stop at the entrance of the mansion. Mikhail climbed out and offered Zoe his hand.

  "What just happened there?" Zoe whispered as they headed toward the entrance.

  "I believe your friend Martin Landesmann just marked his territory."

  "Is that all it was?"

  "We're here, aren't we?"

  She gave his arm a brief squeeze. "You handled that v
ery well, Mr. Danilov."

  "Not nearly as well as you, Ms. Reed."

  They stepped into the soaring entrance hall and were immediately set upon by a phalanx of attendants in formal attire. One relieved Mikhail of his overcoat while a second saw to Zoe's wrap. Then, after being presented with an embossed reception card, they were instructed to join a short receiving line of jeweled women and envious men.

  Standing at the foot of the spectacular light-strewn fir tree was Saint Martin Landesmann in all his glory. Martin of the careful handshake. Martin of the whispered confidence. Martin of the solicitous nod. Monique and the children seemed like mere accessories, like Martin's understated Patek Philippe wristwatch and the two Zentrum bodyguards standing with feigned detachment at his back. Monique was taller than Martin by an inch. Her long dark hair was swept directly back from her forehead, and she wore a sleeveless gown that flattered her slender arms. Martin seemed oblivious to her beauty. He had eyes only for his invited guests. And, briefly, for the famous British reporter who was now standing five feet away at the side of a Russian millionaire named Mikhail Danilov. Mr. Danilov handed the reception card to the attendant at the front of the line. Then he lowered his eyes to the marble floor and waited for their names to be called.

  THERE EXISTS a snapshot of the encounter that followed. Unposed, it was captured by one of the commercial photographers hired for the event and was later stolen from his computer as part of the multinational inquiry conducted at the conclusion of the affair. In retrospect, it was a remarkably accurate predictor of the events that followed. Martin's expression was curiously dour for such a joyous occasion, and by a trick of the camera angle his gaze appeared fixed on both Mikhail and Zoe at the same time. Monique was looking at neither. In fact, Monique's elegant head was adroitly turned in the opposite direction.

  The photograph did not reflect the brevity of the encounter, though the audio feed did. Just fifteen seconds in length, it was obtained by not one but two sources--the mobile phone in Zoe Reed's clutch and the Nokia N900 that, in violation of Monique's expressed wishes, was tucked into the breast pocket of Martin's formal jacket. Gabriel listened to the recording three times, then dashed off a message to London as Zoe and Mikhail waded into the party. The orchestra was playing "See, the Conqu'ring Hero Come" by Handel. Even Zoe had to laugh.