by Daniel Silva
IRONICALLY, IT was Martin Landesmann himself, thanks to the compromised mobile phone in his pocket, who had taught the Masterpiece team about the back staircase that led from the service kitchen directly to his private office. He came that way each morning after his hour-long scull on the lake, rising from 1,226 feet above sea level to 1,238. Some mornings, he would pop into his bedroom suite to have a word with Monique, but usually he would proceed directly to his office and enter the eight digits into his keyless lock. Eight digits that would soon be standing between Mikhail and Martin's most closely guarded secrets.
Mikhail's first challenge was getting from the reception rooms into the service kitchen cleanly. His task was made easier by the fact that Martin's dark-suited security men were standing watch over the doors and corridors leading to sections of the mansion where the guests were not welcome. The entrance to the kitchen was completely unguarded, and the hallway leading to it was heavily trafficked by waiters rushing in both directions. None seemed to give a second look to the lanky blond-haired man who entered the kitchen carrying an empty silver tray. Nor did any of them seem to notice when the lanky blond-haired man deposited the same tray on a counter and mounted the back staircase as if it were an everyday occurrence.
Through the magic of global positioning technology, Mikhail knew the route down to the inch. At the top of the stairs, he turned to the right and proceeded thirty-two feet along a dimly lit corridor. Then it was a left, to a pair of double doors leading to the small alcove outside Martin's office. As expected, the doors to the alcove were closed but unlocked.
Mikhail opened one of the doors, slipped through it, and closed it again quickly. The alcove was in pitch-darkness, precisely what he needed to perform the first step of the break-in. He removed a small ultraviolet light from the pouch at the small of his back and switched it on. The ghostly blue beam illuminated the pad for the keyless entry system. More important, the UV light revealed Martin's latent fingerprints on the pad. Five of the numerical keys bore fingerprints—2, 4, 6, 8, 9—along with the unlock button.
Mikhail quickly removed the cover of the keypad, exposing the electronic circuitry, and took a second item from his pouch. The size of an iPod, it had a numbered keypad of its own and a pair of wires with small alligator clips at the ends. Mikhail powered on the device and attached the clips to the exposed wiring of Martin's keyless lock. Then he pressed the same five numbers—2, 4, 6, 8, 9—followed by the enter key. In less than a second, the device fed every possible combination of numbers into the memory chip, and the lock instantly snapped open. Mikhail unclipped the device and replaced the cover on the keypad, then stepped into Martin's office and quietly closed the door. Mounted on the wall was an identical keypad. Mikhail illuminated it briefly with his UV light and pressed the lock button. The dead bolts slammed home with a solid thump.
Like the alcove, the office was in complete darkness. Mikhail had no need of light. He knew that Martin's computer was located precisely thirteen feet away, at roughly two o'clock. Martin had shut it down before leaving the office earlier that evening. All Mikhail had to do was insert his Sony flash drive into one of the USB ports and hold down the F8 key while pressing the power button. With a few keystrokes, the contents of Martin's hard drive were soon flowing through cyberspace at the speed of light. A dialogue box appeared on the screen: TIME REMAINING FOR UPLOAD: 1:14:32...Nothing to do now but wait. He inserted the earpiece of his miniature secure radio and stared at the screen.
"Are they getting it?" Mikhail asked.
"They're getting it," Gabriel replied.
"Don't forget about me here."
"We won't."
Gabriel clipped out. Mikhail sat alone in the darkness, watching the countdown clock on the screen of Martin's computer.
TIME REMAINING FOR UPLOAD: 1:13:47...
THE COMPUTER receiving the feed from Villa Elma was located in the glass-enclosed conference room of the London ops center known as the fishbowl. On its screen was a message identical to the one on Martin's. Shamron was the only one in the room who did not think it was cause for celebration. Experience would not permit it. Nor would the status boards. He had one operative locked in Martin's office, seven operatives sitting in a luxury Geneva hotel, and a Mercedes sedan parked at a gas station in one of the world's most secure neighborhoods. And then, of course, there was the small matter of a famous British reporter who was watching a movie about global warming at the side of a Saudi prince. What could go wrong? Shamron thought, his lighter rotating nervously in his fingertips. What could possibly go wrong?
64
ZURICH
It had been a humbling few months for the tiny Swiss Confederation, as evidenced by the ghostlike silence hanging over Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse that same damp December evening. Having been brought to the brink of insolvency, Switzerland's largest banks had been forced to suffer the indignity of a government bailout. Sensing weakness, foreign tax collectors were now clamoring for Swiss financial institutions to lift the veil of secrecy that had shielded their clients for centuries. The gnomes of Zurich, among the wiliest of God's creatures, had instinctively taken shelter and were waiting patiently for the inclement weather to pass. They did so secure in the knowledge that America's bankers could no longer hold steadfast to their claims of moral superiority. Say what you like about Swiss greed, they assured themselves, but never once had it plunged the entire planet into recession. That would forever be a singularly American achievement.
But economies, like ecosystems, are dynamic, and a threat to one species does not necessarily mean a threat to all. In fact, it can often mean opportunity, as was the case for the enterprise housed in the leaden office building located at the Kasernenstrasse, on the banks of the Sihl Canal. But that was the beauty of corporate security. Trouble tended to be oblivious to the business cycle.
Strangely enough, Ulrich Muller's Kellergruppe did not actually operate from the cellar of Zentrum headquarters. Quite the opposite, it occupied a suite of spacious offices on the top floor, a testament to the significant contribution made by the unit to Zentrum's healthy bottom line. Several senior staff members were on duty that evening, keeping careful watch over a pair of sensitive operations. One was a blackmail job in Berlin; the other, an "account termination" in Mexico City. The Mexico case was particularly critical since it involved a crusading government prosecutor who was poking his nose into matters that didn't concern him. The wet work itself was being handled by a local subcontractor, a professional hit man often used by Mexican drug lords. That was the Kellergruppe's preferred method of operation. Whenever possible, it utilized the services of skilled professionals and career criminals who had no idea whom they were working for. This reduced exposure for the firm and limited potential damage in those rare cases when an operation did not go as planned.
Despite the extreme sensitivity of the Berlin and Mexico City operations, Ulrich Muller was not present at Zentrum headquarters that evening. Instead, for reasons not yet known to him, he was parked in a deserted lot several miles south of the city center along the western shore of the Zurichsee. The location had been chosen by a man named Karl Huber, a former underling of Muller's at the Dienst fur Analyse und Pravention, the Swiss domestic intelligence service. Huber said he had something important he needed to tell Muller. Something that couldn't be discussed over the phone or in an enclosed room. Huber had sounded worried, but Huber usually did.
Muller glanced at his wristwatch, then looked up again to watch a car approaching from the south. Huber, he thought, right on schedule. The car turned into the lot, headlamps doused, and parked a few inches behind Muller's bumper. Muller frowned. As always, Huber's tradecraft was impeccable. A moment later, the DAP man was slumped in Muller's passenger seat, a laptop computer on his lap, looking as though someone had just died.
"What's the problem, Karl?"
"This."
Huber powered on the laptop and clicked on an icon. A few seconds later, Muller heard the voice of Zentr
um's owner having an extremely private conversation with his wife. It was obvious from the quality of the audio that the conversation was being conducted face-to-face and was being picked up by a microphone several feet away. Muller listened only for a moment, then, with a sharp wave of his hand, instructed his former underling to shut it down.
"Where did you get this?"
Huber glanced at the ceiling but said nothing.
"Onyx?"
Huber nodded.
"What's the source?"
"Landesmann's mobile phone."
"Why is the internal security service of Switzerland eavesdropping on the private conversations of Martin Landesmann?"
"We're not. But obviously someone else is. And they've managed to get to more than just his mobile."
"What else?"
"His laptop."
Muller went pale. "What are you seeing?"
"Everything, Ulrich. And I mean everything."
"Onyx?"
Huber nodded. "Onyx."
THE TWO MEN were not referring to the translucent form of quartz, but the signals intelligence service of the Swiss government. A scaled-down version of the National Security Agency's Echelon program, Onyx had the capability to intercept global communications and cellular traffic, as well as activity on the World Wide Web. Shortly after its completion in 2005, Onyx discovered one of the world's most explosive secrets when a ground station high in the Swiss Alps intercepted a fax between the Egyptian foreign minister and his ambassador in London. The fax would eventually help lead to the revelation of the CIA's secret black site prisons for suspected al-Qaeda terrorists. Despite the circumstances, Ulrich Muller couldn't help but marvel at the irony of the situation. Onyx had been conceived and built in order to steal the secrets of Switzerland's adversaries. Now it appeared the system had inadvertently stumbled upon the secrets of the country's most prominent businessman.
"How did Onyx find it?" Muller asked.
"The computers found it. The computers find everything."
"When?"
"Shortly after Martin's hard drive went up on the satellites, the Onyx filtering system hit on several keywords. The material was automatically flagged and delivered to an analyst at Zimmerwald for further investigation. After a few hours of poking around, the analyst discovered that Martin's phone was hot as well. My office was just notified, but Onyx has been monitoring the feed for several days. And the material is being shipped to the DAP for further investigation."
Muller closed his eyes. It was a disaster in the making.
"How long has the phone been compromised?"
"Hard to say." Huber shrugged. "At least a week. Maybe longer."
"And the computer?"
"The staff at Onyx thinks they were hit at the same time."
"What were the keywords that triggered the auto flagging?"
"Keywords having to do with certain goods being shipped to a certain country on the eastern side of the Persian Gulf. Keywords having to do with a certain Chinese company based in Shenzhen called XTE Hardware and Equipment." Huber paused, then asked, "Ever heard of it?"
"No," Muller said.
"Does Landesmann have any connection to it?"
Muller raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize this was an official visit, Karl."
"It isn't."
Muller cleared his throat. "As far as I know, Mr. Landesmann has no interest whatsoever in XTE Hardware and Equipment of Shenzhen, China."
"That's good to hear. But I'm afraid the DAP suspects otherwise."
"What are you talking about?"
"Let's just say there's pressure on the chief to order a full investigation."
"Can you stop it?"
"I'm trying."
"Try harder, Karl. This firm pays you exceedingly well to make sure things like this don't happen to our clients, let alone the boss."
Huber frowned. "Why don't you say that a little louder? I'm not sure the Onyx ground station in the Valais was able to hear you."
Muller made no reply.
"You do have one thing working in your favor," Huber said. "The DAP and the Federal Police are going to be extremely reluctant to open a potentially embarrassing probe at a time like this, especially one involving a man as beloved as your owner. Martin is the patron saint of Switzerland. And you can be sure that his friends in the government will think twice about doing anything that tarnishes his reputation. Martin is good for the country."
"But?"
"There's always the potential it will leak to the press the way the Egyptian fax did. If that happens..." Huber paused. "As you know, these things have a way of taking on a life of their own."
"Zentrum will be most grateful if you can keep this matter out of the press, Karl."
"How grateful?"
"The money will be transferred first thing Monday morning."
Huber closed the laptop. "There's one other thing to keep in mind. Whoever did this is extremely good. And they had help."
"What kind of help?"
"Someone on the inside. Someone with access to Martin's phone and computer. If I were you, I'd start putting together a list of possible suspects. And then I'd handcuff each one to a radiator and find out who's responsible."
"Thank you for the advice, Karl, but we prefer subtler methods."
Huber gave a sardonic smile. "Try telling that to Rafael Bloch."
ULRICH MULLER headed back to the center of Zurich at considerable speed, turning over the implications of what he had just been told. Someone on the inside...Someone with access to Martin's phone and computer...While it was possible Martin had been betrayed by an employee, Muller considered it highly unlikely since all GVI staff were subjected to rigorous background checks and regular security reviews. Muller suspected the traitor was someone much closer to Martin. Someone who was sharing Martin's bed on a regular basis.
He parked in the Kasernenstrasse and headed upstairs. A Kellergruppe operative tried to give Muller an update on the Berlin and Mexico City operations; Muller brushed past without a word and entered his office. His computer was powered on. He hesitated for a few seconds, then called up the guest list for that evening's One World fund-raiser at Villa Elma. The overt side of Zentrum had done a cursory security check on all three hundred of the invitees. Near the bottom of the list, Muller found the name he was looking for. He snatched up his phone and started to dial the number for Martin's mobile. Realizing his mistake, he hung up and dialed Jonas Brunner instead. Brunner answered after three rings, his voice a whisper.
"Where are you?" Muller asked.
"In the ballroom."
"What's that noise?"
"Mr. Landesmann's movie."
Muller swore softly. "Can you see the British reporter?"
Brunner was silent for a few seconds. "She's at the back of the room."
"Is her date with her?"
Another silence, then, "Actually, I can't see him."
"Shit!"
"What's the problem?"
Muller didn't answer directly. Instead, he gave the bodyguard a set of precise instructions, then asked, "How many men do you have there tonight?"
"Forty."
Muller hung up the phone and quickly dialed Zentrum's travel desk.
"I need a helicopter."
"What's your destination?"
"I'll know when I'm airborne."
"How soon do you need it?"
"Now."
65
GENEVA
For a big man, Jonas Brunner was surprisingly quiet on his feet. Not a single head turned as he made his way to Martin's shoulder. Not a single eyebrow rose as he murmured a few words into Martin's ear. Martin appeared momentarily startled by the news, then quickly regained his usual composure and slipped a pale hand into his breast pocket. The Nokia telephone appeared; its screen flared briefly and went dark as the power was extinguished. Martin immediately surrendered it to Brunner, then rose to his feet and followed the security man from the ballroom. By now several of the guests wer
e watching him intently, including the famous British reporter seated next to a Saudi prince of untold wealth. When Martin disappeared from view, she turned back to the film and tried desperately not to show the fear rising inside her. He's probably just bored silly, she told herself, but not with much conviction. Zoe could always tell when Martin was bored. Martin wasn't bored. Martin was furious.
GABRIEL REMOVED his headphones, checked the connection, checked the transmission status, jabbed at his keyboard. Then he looked at Lavon in frustration.
"Are you still hearing audio from Zoe's phone?"
"Loud and clear. Why?"
"Because Martin's just went down."
"Any GPS data?"
"Nothing."
"He probably just switched off his phone."
"Why would he do that?"
"Good question."
"What do we do?"
Gabriel typed four words into his computer and hit SEND. Then he keyed into Mikhail's earpiece.
"It's possible we have a problem."
"What's that?"
Gabriel explained.
"Any advice?"
"Sit tight."
"And if several men come through the door?"
"Pull the USB immediately."
"And do what with it?"
Gabriel clipped out.
GABRIEL'S MESSAGE appeared instantly on the status screens of the London ops center: MARTIN'S PHONE DOWN...ADVISE... Adrian Carter swore softly. Uzi Navot closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.
"People shut off their phones all the time," Graham Seymour suggested.
"That's true," Navot said. "But not Martin. Martin never shuts his phone down."
"It's your man in there, Uzi. That means it's your call."
"How much time left on the feed from Martin's computer?"
"Twenty-one and change."
"What are the chances we have what we need?"
"I'm not an expert, but I'd say they're fifty-fifty."
Navot looked at Shamron. Shamron looked stoically back, as if to say that these are the moments careers are made.