Gabriel Allon 10 - The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  "Give me the key."

  Brunner removed it and handed it to Gabriel.

  "Put both hands on the wheel, Jonas. And don't move."

  Gabriel climbed out and tapped on Brunner's window with the barrel of the gun. Brunner emerged, hands in the air.

  "Now we walk, Jonas, nice and slow. Don't do anything to make Martin nervous."

  "He prefers to be called Mr. Landesmann."

  "I'll try to remember that." Gabriel jabbed Brunner in the kidney with the barrel of the gun. "Move."

  Brunner advanced slowly toward the helicopter, Gabriel two paces behind, the gun at his side. Ulrich Muller managed to maintain a placid expression, but Martin was clearly displeased by the ignominious arrival of his personal security chief. At Gabriel's command, Brunner stopped ten yards short of his masters. Gabriel raised the gun and pointed it at Muller.

  "Are you armed?" Gabriel asked in German.

  "No."

  "Open your overcoat."

  Muller unbuttoned his coat, then opened the sides simultaneously.

  "Now the suit jacket," said Gabriel.

  Muller did the same thing. No gun. Gabriel glanced at the pilot.

  "What about him?"

  "This isn't Israel," Muller said. "This is Switzerland. Helicopter pilots aren't armed."

  "What a relief." Gabriel looked at Martin Landesmann. "And you, Martin? Do you have a gun?"

  Landesmann made no response. Gabriel repeated the question in rapid French. This time, Landesmann gave a superior smile and in the same language said, "Don't be ridiculous, Allon."

  Gabriel reverted to German. "I'd ask you to open your coat, Martin, but I know you're telling the truth. Men like you don't soil their hands with weapons. That's what people like Ulrich and Jonas are for."

  "Are you finished, Allon?"

  "I'm just getting started, Martin. Or is it Saint Martin? I can never remember which you prefer."

  "Actually, I prefer to be called Mr. Landesmann."

  "So I've been told. I assume you've had a chance to review the material I sent earlier this morning?"

  "Those documents mean nothing."

  "If that were true, Martin, you wouldn't be here."

  Landesmann gave Gabriel a withering stare, then asked, "Where did you get it?"

  "The information on your pending sale of centrifuges to the Islamic Republic of Iran?"

  "No, Allon, the other document."

  "You mean the list? The names? The accounts? The money deposited in your father's bank?"

  "Where did you get it?" Landesmann repeated, his tone even.

  "I got it from Lena Herzfeld, Peter Voss, Alfonso Ramirez, Rafael Bloch, and a young woman who kept it hidden and safe for many, many years."

  Landesmann's face registered no change.

  "Don't you recognize the names, Martin?" Gabriel glanced at Muller. "What about you, Ulrich?"

  Neither man responded.

  "Let me help," Gabriel said. "Lena Herzfeld was a young Dutch Jewish girl whose life was traded for a Rembrandt. Peter Voss was a decent man who tried to atone for the sins of his father. Alfonso Ramirez had proof that a small private bank in Zurich was filled with looted Holocaust assets. And Rafael Bloch was the Argentine journalist who uncovered your ties to a German firm called Keppler Werk GmbH."

  "And the young woman?" asked Landesmann.

  "Oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters." Gabriel paused. "But you already knew that, didn't you? You've been looking for her for a long time. She was the most dangerous one of all."

  Landesmann ignored the last remark and asked, "What is it you want, Allon?"

  "Answers," Gabriel said. "When did you learn the truth? When did you find out that your father had stolen the money that Kurt Voss hid in his bank?"

  Landesmann hesitated.

  "I have the list, Martin. It's not a secret anymore."

  "He told me about it a few days before his death," Landesmann said after another pause. "The money, the painting, the visit from Voss's wife, Carlos Weber..."

  "Your father admitted to killing Weber?"

  "My father didn't kill Weber," Landesmann said. "It was handled for him."

  "Who did it?"

  Landesmann glanced at Muller. "An earlier version of Ulrich."

  "They come in handy, don't they? Especially in a country like Switzerland. Concealing the more repugnant aspects of your past is a national tradition, rather like your chocolates and your clean streets."

  "They're not as clean as they used to be," Landesmann said. "Especially in certain neighborhoods. Too many damn foreigners in the country all the time."

  "It's good to know you haven't forsaken your Swiss German roots entirely, Martin. Your father would be proud."

  "Actually, it was Father who suggested I leave Zurich. He knew the banks would eventually pay a price for their activities during the war. He thought it might hurt my image."

  "Your father was a clever man." Gabriel was silent for a moment. "You built your empire on a great crime, Martin. Did your conscience ever bother you? Did you ever feel guilty? Did you ever lose a night's sleep?"

  "It wasn't my crime, Allon. It was my father's. And as your own Scripture makes clear, the son will not bear the punishment for the father's iniquity."

  "Unless the son compounds his father's sins by using the stolen fortune as the basis for a lucrative worldwide holding company called Global Vision Investments."

  "I didn't realize Ezekiel contained such a passage."

  Gabriel ignored Landesmann's sarcasm. "Why didn't you come forward, Martin? The original value of the accounts was a drop in the bucket compared to the wealth you created."

  "A drop in the bucket?" Landesmann shook his head. "Do you remember the Swiss banking scandal, Allon? The autumn of 1996? Every day brought a new headline about our collaboration with Nazi Germany. We were being called Hitler's Swiss fences. Hitler's bankers. The jackals were circling. If anyone had ever discovered the truth, GVI would have been torn limb from limb. The litigation would have gone on for years. Decades. The descendants of any Jew in any country where Kurt Voss had operated could have come forward and made a claim against me. The class-action lawyers would have been falling over themselves to sign up clients and file suits. I would have lost everything. And for what? For something my father did a half century earlier? Forgive me, Allon, but I didn't feel it was necessary for me to endure such a fate because of him."

  Landesmann made an impassioned case for his innocence, thought Gabriel. But like most things about him, it was a lie. His father had been driven by greed. And so was Martin.

  "So you did exactly what your father did," Gabriel said. "You kept quiet. You profited wildly from the fortune of a mass murderer. And you continued to look for a lost masterpiece by Rembrandt that had the power to destroy you. But there was one difference. At some point, you decided to become a saint. Even your father wouldn't have had the nerve for that."

  "I don't like to be referred to as Saint Martin."

  "Really?" Gabriel smiled. "That might be the most encouraging thing I've ever heard about you."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because it suggests you might actually have a conscience after all."

  "What are you going to do with that list, Allon?"

  "I suppose that depends entirely on you, Martin."

  75

  CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

  What do you want, Allon? Money? Is that what this is about? A shakedown? How much will it cost me to make this matter go away? A half billion? A billion? Name your figure. I'll write you a check, and we'll call it a morning."

  "I don't want your money," Gabriel said. "I want your centrifuges."

  "Centrifuges?" Landesmann's tone was incredulous. "Where did you get the idea I was selling centrifuges?"

  "From your computers. It's all there in black-and-white."

  "I'm afraid you're mistaken. I own companies that sell dual-use components to trading companies that in turn sell them to other com
panies that may or may not be selling them to a certain manufacturer in Shenzhen, China."

  "A manufacturer that you own through a Chinese partnership."

  "Enjoy trying to prove that in court. I've done nothing illegal, Allon. You can't lay a finger on me."

  "That might be true when it comes to Iran, but there's one thing that hasn't changed. You can still be torn to shreds by the class-action lawyers in America. And I have the evidence to bring you down."

  "You have nothing."

  "Are you really willing to take that chance?"

  Landesmann made no reply.

  "I have a hidden child in Amsterdam, a remorseful son in Argentina, contemporaneous diplomatic cables from Carlos Weber, and a list of names and numbers of accounts from your father's bank. And if you don't agree to cooperate, I'm going to take everything I have to New York City and give it to the most prominent law firm in town. They'll file suit against you in federal court for unjust enrichment and spend years picking through every aspect of your business. I doubt your saintly reputation will hold up under scrutiny like that. I also suspect your friends and protectors in Bern might resent you for reopening the most scandalous chapter in Swiss history."

  "Allow me to impart a sad truth to you, Allon. If I wasn't doing business with the Iranians, one of my competitors would be. Yes, we make all the appropriate noises. But do you think we Europeans truly care whether Iran has a nuclear weapon? Of course not. We need Iranian oil. And we need access to the Iranian market. Even your so-called friends in America are doing a brisk business with the Iranians through their foreign subsidiaries. Face facts, Allon. You are alone. Again."

  "We're not alone anymore, Martin. We have you."

  Though Martin's eyes were concealed by sunglasses, he was now having difficulty maintaining his veneer of confidence. Martin was wrestling, thought Gabriel. Wrestling with his father's sins. Wrestling with the illusion of his own life. Wrestling with the fact that, for all his money and power, Saint Martin had been bested on this morning by the child of a survivor. For a moment, Gabriel considered appealing to Martin's sense of decency. But Martin had none. Martin had only an instinct for self-preservation. And Martin had his greed. Greed had compelled Martin to conceal the truth about the source of his wealth. And greed would make Martin realize he had no choice but to reach for the lifeline Gabriel was offering him.

  "What exactly are you proposing?" Landesmann said at last.

  "A partnership," said Gabriel.

  "What sort of partnership?"

  "A business partnership, Martin. You and me. Together, we're going to do business with Iran. You will get to keep your money and your reputation. Your life will go on as though nothing has changed. But with one important difference. You work for me now, Martin. I own you. You've just been recruited by Israeli intelligence. Welcome to our family."

  "And how long will this partnership last?"

  "As long as we deem necessary. And if you step out of line, I'll throw you to the wolves."

  "And the profits?"

  "Couldn't resist, could you?"

  "This is a business deal, Allon."

  Gabriel looked toward the sky. "I think fifty-fifty sounds fair."

  Landesmann frowned. "Do you see no ethical issue in the intelligence service of the State of Israel profiting from the sale of gas centrifuges to the Islamic Republic of Iran?"

  "Actually, I think I rather like it."

  "How long do I have to consider your offer?"

  "About ten seconds."

  Landesmann raised his sunglasses and looked at Gabriel for a moment in silence. "Your two agents will be dropped off at the base of Les Diablerets in one hour. Call me when you wish to finalize the details of our relationship." He paused. "I assume you have my numbers?"

  "All of them, Martin."

  Landesmann headed toward the door of the helicopter, then stopped.

  "One last question."

  "What's that?"

  "How long was Zoe working for you?"

  Gabriel smiled. "We'll be in touch, Martin."

  Landesmann turned without another word and boarded the helicopter, followed by Muller and Brunner. The cabin door closed, the twin turbines whined, and within seconds Gabriel was awash in a cloud of blowing snow. Martin Landesmann stared at him through the window as if enjoying this one small measure of revenge. Then he ascended into the pale blue sky and vanished into the sun.

  76

  LES DIABLERETS, SWITZERLAND

  Gabriel left Martin's Mercedes SUV in a tow-away zone in central Gstaad and drove to Les Diablerets in the Audi. He parked near the base of the gondola and entered a cafe to wait. It was filled with excited neon-clad skiers oblivious to the bargain that had just been struck on a sunlit glade a few miles away. As Gabriel ordered coffee and bread, he couldn't help but marvel at the incongruity of the scene. He was struck, too, by the fact that, despite his advancing age, he had never once been on skis. Chiara had been begging him for years to take her on a ski vacation. Perhaps he would finally succumb. But not here. Maybe Italy or America, he thought, but not Switzerland.

  Gabriel carried his coffee and bread to the front of the cafe and sat at a table with a good view of the road and parking lot. A dark-haired woman with a young boy asked to join him; together, they watched as the gondola rose like a dirigible and disappeared into the mountains. Gabriel checked the time on his secure mobile phone. The deadline was still ten minutes away. He wanted to call Chiara and tell her he was safe. He wanted to tell Uzi and Shamron he had just closed the deal of a lifetime. But he didn't dare. Not over the air. It was a coup, perhaps the greatest of Gabriel's career, but it was his alone. He'd had accomplices, some willing, some not so willing. Lena Herzfeld, Peter Voss, Alfonso Ramirez, Rafael Bloch, Zoe Reed...

  He glanced at the time again. Five minutes until the deadline. Five minutes until the first test of the Allon-Landesmann joint venture. Nothing to do now but wait. It was a fitting end, he thought. Like most Office veterans, he had made a career of waiting. Waiting for a plane or a train. Waiting for a source. Waiting for the sun to rise after a night of killing. And waiting now for Saint Martin Landesmann to surrender two agents who had very nearly disappeared from the face of the earth. The waiting, he thought. Always the waiting. Why should this morning be any different?

  He turned over the phone, concealing the digital clock, and stared out the window. To help pass the time, he made small talk with the woman, who looked far too much like his mother for Gabriel's comfort, and with the boy, who was not much older than Dani had been on the night of his death in Vienna. And all the while he kept his eyes fastened on the road. And on the morning traffic streaming out of the Oberland. And, finally, on the silver Mercedes GL450 sport-utility vehicle now turning into the parking lot. It was driven by a man wearing a dark blue ski jacket emblazoned with the insignia of Zentrum Security. Two figures, a man and a woman, sat in back. They, too, wore Zentrum jackets. The man's eyes were concealed by large sunglasses. Gabriel turned over his phone and looked at the time. One hour exactly. There were certain advantages to doing business with the Swiss.

  He bade the woman and child a pleasant morning and stepped outside into the sunlight. The Mercedes sport-utility had come to a stop. A striking woman and a lanky man with blond hair were in the process of climbing out. It was the woman who first noticed Gabriel. But in a stroke of professionalism belying her inexperience, she did not call out to him or even acknowledge his presence. Instead, she simply took her companion gently by the arm and led him over to the Audi. Gabriel had the engine running by the time they arrived. A moment later, they were heading down the Vallee des Ormonts, Zoe at Gabriel's side, Mikhail stretched out in the backseat.

  "Lift your glasses," said Gabriel.

  Mikhail complied.

  "Who did that to you?"

  "I never caught their names." Mikhail lowered the glasses and propped his head against the window. "Did you beat him, Gabriel? Did you beat Martin?"

  "No
, Mikhail. You and Zoe beat him. You beat him badly."

  "How much of his computer did I get?"

  "We own him, Mikhail. He's ours."

  "Where to now?"

  "Out of Switzerland."

  "I'm in no condition to fly."

  "So we'll drive instead."

  "No more airplanes, Gabriel?"

  "No, Mikhail. Not for a while."

  PART FIVE

  RECOVERY

  77

  NEW SCOTLAND YARD, LONDON

  Detective Inspector Kenneth Ramsay, chief of Scotland Yard's Art and Antiques Squad, scheduled the news conference for two p.m. Within minutes of the announcement, rumors of a major recovery swept the pressroom. The speculation was fed mainly by the few surviving veterans of the Metropolitan Police beat, who read a great deal of significance into the timing of the news conference itself. An early-afternoon summons nearly always meant the news was flattering since it would leave reporters several hours to research and write their stories. If the news were bad, the veterans postulated, Ramsay would have summoned the press corps hard against their evening deadlines. Or, in all likelihood, he would have released a bland paper statement, the refuge of cowardly civil servants the world over, and slipped out a back door.

  Naturally, the speculation centered around the Van Gogh self-portrait pinched from London's Courtauld Gallery several months earlier, although by that afternoon few reporters could even recall the painting's title. Sadly, not one of the masterpieces stolen during the "summer of theft" had been recovered, and more paintings seemed to be disappearing from homes and galleries by the day. With the global economy mired in a recession without end, it appeared art theft was Europe's last growth industry. In contrast, the police forces battling the thieves had seen their resources cut to the bone. Ramsay's own annual budget had been slashed to a paltry three hundred thousand pounds, barely enough to keep the office functioning. His fiscal straits were so dire he had recently been forced to solicit private donations in order to keep his shop running. Even The Guardian suggested it might be time to close the fabled Art Squad and shift its resources to something more productive, such as a youth crime-prevention program.