by Daniel Silva
Shamron turned his gaze toward Uzi Navot. He was seated in a cubicle reserved for the FBI, a secure telephone pressed to his ear. At the other end of the call was the prime minister. It was never pleasant to wake a prime minister--especially when the news involved a looming diplomatic and political disaster--and Shamron could only imagine the tirade Navot was now enduring. He could not help but feel an ache of guilt. Navot had wanted no part of Landesmann and would now be forced to pay the price for Shamron's folly. Shamron would do his best to shield Navot from harm, but he knew how these things went. A head would have to roll. And it was likely to be Navot's.
He looked at the clock again: 05:56:38...Three and a half minutes until Graham Seymour telephoned the Swiss police. Three and a half minutes for the team of computer technicians and specialists to find the bargaining chip Shamron needed to achieve peace with honor. With Chiara peering anxiously over their shoulders, their labors were growing more frantic. Shamron wished he could help in some way. But he barely knew how to turn on a computer, let alone find a document buried in a pile of cybermush. Only the young knew how to do such things, Shamron thought gloomily. Yet more proof he had finally outlived his usefulness.
Another glance at the clock: 05:58:41...Graham Seymour was now watching the time with an intensity matching Shamron's. At his right elbow was a telephone. An hour earlier, Seymour had taken the liberty of storing the DAP's emergency number in the phone's memory. One press of a button was all it would take.
The clock advanced: 05:59:57...05:59:58...05:59:59...06:00:00...
Seymour lifted the receiver and looked at Shamron. "Sorry, Ari, but I'm afraid we've run out of time. I know it's not my call, but you might want to tell Gabriel to start heading for the border."
Seymour jabbed at the speed dial button and lifted the receiver to his ear. Shamron closed his eyes and waited for the words he would no doubt hear for the rest of his life. Instead, he heard the heavy glass door of the fishbowl open with a bang, followed by the triumphant voice of Chiara.
"We've got him, Graham! He's ours now! Hang up the phone! We've got him!"
SEYMOUR KILLED the connection. The receiver, however, was still in his hand.
"What exactly do you have?"
"The next shipment of centrifuges is due to leave Shenzhen in six weeks, arriving in Dubai sometime in mid-March, final payment due upon delivery to Meissner Privatbank of Liechtenstein."
"What's the source?"
"An encrypted temporary file that had once been attached to an e-mail."
"Who were the parties to the e-mail?"
"Ulrich Muller and Martin Landesmann."
"Let me see it."
Chiara handed Seymour a printout of the documents. Seymour examined them, then replaced the receiver.
"You just bought yourself one more hour, Ari."
Shamron turned to Chiara. "Can you get those documents to Gabriel securely?"
"No problem."
THE E-MAIL and supporting documentation were five pages in length. The computer technicians converted them to an encrypted PDF file and fired it to Gabriel over the secure link. It arrived on his computer at the Metropole at 7:05 local time, accompanied by the number for Ulrich Muller's mobile phone and his private e-mail address. Locating them had not been difficult. Both appeared hundreds of times in the memory of Martin's Nokia N900. Gabriel quickly prepared an e-mail to Muller with two PDF attachments and dialed his number. There was no answer. Gabriel killed the connection and dialed again.
ULRICH MULLER was driving past the floodlit Gstaad Palace Hotel when his mobile rang for the first time. Because he did not recognize the number, he did not answer. When the phone immediately rang a second time, he felt he had no choice. He tapped the CALL button and lifted the phone to his ear.
"Ja?"
"Good morning, Ulrich."
"Who is this?"
"Don't you recognize my voice?"
Muller did. He'd heard it on the surveillance tapes from Amsterdam and Mendoza.
"How did you get this number?" he asked.
"Are you driving, Ulrich? It sounds to me as if you're behind the wheel of a car."
"What do you want, Allon?"
"I want you to pull over, Ulrich. There's something you need to see."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm going to send you an e-mail, Ulrich. I want you to look at it carefully. Then I want you to call me back at this number." A pause. "Did your phone capture this number?"
"I have it."
"Good. After you look at the e-mail, call me back. Right away. Otherwise, the next calls I make are to the Swiss Federal Police and the DAP."
"Don't you need my e-mail address, Allon?"
"No, Ulrich, I already have it."
The connection went dead. Muller pulled to the side of the road. Thirty seconds later, the e-mail came through.
Shit...
MULLER DIALED. Gabriel answered right away.
"Interesting stuff, don't you think, Ulrich?"
"I don't know what any of this means."
"Nice try. But before we go any further, I want to know whether my people are alive."
"Your people are fine."
"Where are they?"
"That's none of your concern."
"Everything is my concern, Ulrich."
"They're in my custody."
"Have they been mistreated?"
"They committed a serious crime in Martin Landesmann's home last night. They've been treated accordingly."
"If they've been harmed in any way, I'm going to hold you personally responsible. And your boss."
"Mr. Landesmann knows nothing about this."
"That's very admirable of you to try to take the blame for your employer, but it's not going to work, Ulrich. Not today."
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk to Martin."
"That's impossible."
"It's nonnegotiable."
"I'll see what I can do."
"You'd better, Ulrich. Or the next call I make is to the Swiss Federal Police."
"I need thirty minutes."
"You have five."
ZOE AND MIKHAIL sat face-to-face in the storage facility, each bound to a chair, mouths covered with duct tape. The guards had fled for the warmth of their cars. Before leaving, they had switched off the lights. The darkness was absolute, as was the cold. Zoe wanted to apologize to Mikhail for betraying the operation. Zoe wanted to tend to Mikhail's wounds. And more than anything, Zoe wanted reassurance that someone was looking for them. But none of that was possible. Not with the tape over their mouths. And so they sat in the cold, mute and motionless, and they waited.
MARTIN LANDESMANN'S immense timbered chalet was ablaze with light as Ulrich Muller drove through the security gate and sped quickly up the long drive. A pair of guards stood watch outside the front entrance, shifting from foot to foot in the sharp early-morning cold. Muller walked past them without a word and entered the residence. Landesmann was seated alone before a fire in the great room. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a heavy zippered sweater and holding a crystal snifter filled with cognac. Muller placed a finger to his lips and handed Landesmann the phone. Landesmann scrolled through the two PDF files, his face a blank mask. When he was finished, Muller took back the phone and switched it off before slipping it into the pocket of his overcoat.
"What does he want?" Landesmann asked.
"His people back. He'd also like to have a word with you."
"Tell him to go fuck himself."
"I tried."
"Is he in the country?"
"We'll know soon enough."
Landesmann carried his drink over to the fire. "Get him up here, Ulrich. And make sure he's in a less demanding mood by the time he arrives."
Muller powered on his phone and headed outside. The last sound he heard as he was leaving was a crystal snifter exploding into a thousand pieces.
GABRIEL'S PHONE rang ten seconds later.
&nbs
p; "You cut it very close, Ulrich."
"Mr. Landesmann has agreed to see you."
"A wise move on his part."
"Now, listen carefully--"
"No, Ulrich. You listen. I'll be in the parking lot above the Promenade in Gstaad in ninety minutes. Have your men meet me. And no bullshit. If my people don't hear from me by ten a.m. at the latest, that e-mail you just read goes to every intelligence service, law enforcement agency, justice ministry, and newspaper in the Western world. Are we clear, Ulrich?"
"The Promenade in Gstaad, ninety minutes."
"Well done, Ulrich. Now make sure my people are comfortable. If they're not, you'll make an enemy of me. And that's the last thing you want."
Gabriel killed the connection and quickly typed out a final message to London. Then he packed away the computer and headed for the elevator.
73
CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND
A gust of freezing air scraped at the back of Zoe's neck as the door of the storage facility swung open. She closed her eyes and prayed for the first time in many years. What now? she wondered. Another round of interrogation? Another ride in the trunk of a car? Or had Martin finally decided the time had come to rid the world of another meddlesome reporter? Zoe feared there was no other possible outcome, especially now that she had betrayed the entire operation. Indeed, for the past several minutes she had found herself composing her own obituary. Only the lead eluded her. Martin and his thugs had yet to supply one crucial fact: the cause of her death.
She opened her eyes and looked at Mikhail. His face was illuminated by a shaft of gray light from the open door, and he was staring at the guards intently as they approached Zoe from behind. One of them removed the duct tape from her mouth, carefully this time, while another gently freed her hands and feet. Two other guards did the same for Mikhail while a third applied ointment and bandages to cuts on his face and scalp. The guards gave no explanation for their sudden hospitality, all of which was performed with typical Swiss efficiency. After handing each prisoner a blanket, they departed as suddenly as they had come. Zoe waited until the door was closed before speaking.
"What just happened?"
"Gabriel just happened."
"What are you talking about?"
Mikhail placed a finger to his lips. "Don't say another word."
A WAVE of jubilation and relief washed over the ops center when Gabriel's update flashed across the status screens. Even Graham Seymour, who had been in a state of near catatonia for the past several minutes, managed a brief smile. There were two people in the ops center, however, who seemed incapable of sharing in the joy of the moment. One was Ari Shamron; the other, Chiara Allon. Once again, an operation was in the hands of a man they loved. And once again they had no choice but to wait. And to swear to themselves that this was the last time. The very last time...
THE E63 MOTORWAY stretched eastward, immaculately groomed, empty of traffic. Gabriel kept both hands on the wheel of the Audi and his speed respectable. On the left side of the highway, neatly pruned vineyards advanced like columns of soldiers into the hills of Vaud. On his right lay Lake Geneva, with the Savoy Alps rising in the background. The base of the range was still shrouded in mist, but the highest peaks glowed with the first light of dawn.
He continued past Montreux to Aigle, then turned onto Route 11 and headed into the Vallee des Ormonts. It was a narrow, two-lane road, twisting and full of unexpected switchbacks. A few miles beyond Les Diablerets was the border separating Canton Vaud from Canton Bern. The signs immediately changed to German, as did the architecture of the houses. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to creep over the Bernese Alps, and by the time Gabriel reached the outskirts of Gstaad it was beginning to get light. He drove to the main lot in the center of the village and backed into a space in the far corner. In an hour, the lot would be jammed with cars. But for now it was empty except for a trio of snowboarders drinking beer around a battered VW van.
Gabriel left the engine running and watched the dashboard clock as the ninety-minute deadline he had imposed on Ulrich Muller came and went. He granted Muller a ten-minute grace period before finally reaching for the phone. He was in the process of dialing when a silver Mercedes GL450 sport-utility turned into the lot. It eased past the snowboarders and stopped a few yards from Gabriel's Audi. Inside were four men, all wearing matching dark blue ski jackets emblazoned with the insignia of Zentrum Security. The one in the rear passenger seat climbed out and motioned Gabriel over. Gabriel recognized him. It was Jonas Brunner.
Gabriel shut down the engine, locked his phone in the glove box, and climbed out. Brunner watched with a slightly bemused expression as though taken aback by Gabriel's modest stature.
"I'm told you speak German," Brunner said.
"Better than you," replied Gabriel.
"Are you armed?"
"No."
"Do you have a phone?"
"In the car."
"Radio?"
"In the car."
"What about a beacon?"
Gabriel shook his head.
"I'm going to have to search you."
"I can't wait."
Gabriel climbed into the back of the Mercedes and slid across to the center. Brunner got in after him and closed the door.
"Turn around and get on your knees."
"Here?"
"Here."
Gabriel did as he was told and was subjected to a more-than-thorough search, beginning with his shoes and ending with his scalp. When it was over, he turned around again and sat normally. Brunner signaled the driver, and the SUV eased forward.
"I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, Jonas."
"Shut your mouth, Allon."
"Where are my people?"
Brunner didn't answer.
"How far are we going?"
"Not far. But we have to make a brief stop along the way."
"Coffee?"
"Yes, Allon. Coffee."
"I hope you didn't hurt my girl, Jonas. Because if you hurt her, I'm going to hurt you."
THEY HEADED due east along the edge of a narrow glacial valley. The road ducked in and out of the trees, leaving them in darkness one minute, blinding light the next. The blue-coated guards of Zentrum Security did not speak. Brunner's shoulder was pressing against Gabriel's. It was like leaning against a granite massif. The guard on Gabriel's left was flexing and unflexing his thick hands as if preparing for his solo. Gabriel had no illusions about the stop they were making on their way to see Martin. He wasn't surprised; it was a customary proceeding before a meeting like this, an aperitif before dinner.
At the head of the valley the road turned to a single-lane track before rising sharply up the slope of the mountain. A snow-plow had passed through recently, but the Mercedes was barely able to maintain traction as it headed toward the summit. A thousand feet above the valley floor, it came to a stop next to a secluded grove of fir trees. The two men in front immediately climbed out, as did the one on Gabriel's left. Jonas Brunner made no movement.
"I don't think you'll enjoy this as much as you enjoyed the search."
"Is this the part where your men soften me up a bit before I get taken to see Saint Martin?"
"Just get out of the car, Allon. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can be on our way."
Gabriel sighed heavily and climbed out.
JONAS BRUNNER watched as his three best men marched Gabriel Allon into the trees, then marked the time. Five minutes, he'd told them. Not too much damage, just enough bruising to make him compliant and easy to handle. A part of Brunner was tempted to join in the festivities. He couldn't. Muller wanted an update.
He was dialing Muller's number when a movement in the trees caught his attention. Looking up, he saw a single figure walking purposefully out of the shadows. He glanced at his watch and frowned. He'd ordered his men to be judicious, but two minutes was hardly enough time to do the job right, especially when it involved a man like Gabriel Allon. Then Brunner
looked at the figure closely and realized his mistake. It was not one of his own men coming out of the trees. It was Allon...In his hand was a gun, a SIG Sauer P226, the standard-issue sidearm of Zentrum Security. The Israeli ripped open Brunner's door and pointed the barrel of the gun directly into his face. Brunner didn't even think about reaching for his weapon.
"I'm told you speak German, Jonas, so listen carefully. I want you to give me your gun. Slowly, Jonas. Otherwise, I might be tempted to shoot you several times."
Brunner reached into his jacket, removed his weapon and handed it to the Israeli butt first.
"Give me your phone."
Brunner complied.
"Do you have a radio?"
"No."
"A beacon?"
Brunner shook his head.
"Too bad. You might need one later. Now get behind the wheel."
Brunner did as he was told and started the engine. The Israeli sat behind him, gun to the back of Brunner's head.
"How far are we going, Jonas?"
"Not far."
"No more stops?"
"No."
Brunner slipped the Mercedes into gear and continued up the slope of the mountain.
"Congratulations, Jonas. You just provided me with a weapon and turned yourself into a hostage. All in all, very well played."
"Are my men alive?"
"Two of them are. I'm not so sure about the third."
"I'd like to call for a doctor."
"Just drive, Jonas."
74
CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND
They climbed another thousand feet into the mountains and stopped at the edge of a sunlit ledge of glistening snow and ice high above the valley floor. In the center of the glade was an AW139 helicopter, engines silent, rotors still. Martin Landesmann waited near the tail, eyes concealed by wraparound sunglasses, his expression that of a man who had dropped by on his way to somewhere else. Ulrich Muller hovered anxiously next to him. Gabriel glanced at Jonas Brunner's eyes in the rearview mirror and told him to shut off the engine. Brunner did as he was told.