The Rembrandt Affair

'Talking?'

'Says he's ex-FSB. Says he works as an independent contractor for Russian private security companies and was hired by a consortium of Russian oligarchs to steal your most closely held business secrets.'

'How did he get to my mobile phone and laptop?'

'He claims to have done it from the outside.'

'How does he explain Zoe?'

'He says he learned of your relationship through surveillance and decided to exploit it in order to gain access to the party tonight. He says he deceived her. He claims she knows nothing.'

'It's plausible,' Landesmann said.

'Plausible,' Muller conceded. 'But there's something else.'

'What's that?'

'The way he fought my men. He's been trained by an elite unit or intelligence service. He's no FSB thug. He's the real thing, Martin.'

'Israeli?'

'I think so.'

'If that's true, what does it say about Zoe?'

'She may be telling the truth. She may know nothing. But it's also possible they recruited her. Using an agent in place, especially a woman, is consistent with their operating doctrine. It's possible she's been spying on you from the beginning.'

Landesmann glanced over toward the cars, where his family was waiting with visible impatience. 'How much material has Onyx managed to intercept?'

'Enough to raise eyebrows.'

'Can it be contained?'

'I'm working on it. But if a friendly service like the DAP is suspicious about what they're seeing, imagine how the material must look to an intelligence agency that doesn't have your best interests at heart.'

'You're my chief security adviser, Ulrich. Advise me.'

'The first thing we need to do is find out who we're dealing with and how much they know.'

'And then?'

'One thing at a time, Martin. But do me one favor. Stay off the phone for the rest of the night.' Muller glanced at the black sky. 'Onyx is listening. And you can be sure everyone else is as well.'

70 CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

Zoe did not know where they were taking her, of course. She only knew that the road they were now traveling was winding and that they were gaining altitude. The first fact was readily apparent by the violent lurching of the car, the second by the fact her ears were popping at regular intervals. To make matters worse, her abdomen ached where she had been struck, and she was intensely nauseated. Zoe was only grateful that she had been far too nervous to eat at Martin's party. Otherwise, it was quite possible she would have vomited into her duct-tape gag long ago and choked to death without Martin's bodyguards knowing a thing.

Her discomfort was made worse by the cold. The temperature seemed to be dropping by degrees with each passing minute. During the first part of the drive, the cold had been manageable. Now, in spite of the heavy blankets binding her body, it was eating away at her bones. She was so cold that she was no longer shivering. She was in agony.

In an attempt to ease her suffering, she played mind games. She wrote an article for the Journal, reread her favorite passages from Pride and Prejudice, and relived the moment in the bar of the Belvedere Hotel in Davos when Jonas Brunner had asked whether she would like to have a drink with Mr. Landesmann. But in this adaptation, she politely told Brunner to sod off and resumed her conversation with the African finance minister, now the most profoundly interesting exchange she had ever had in her life. This incarnation of Zoe Reed never met Martin Landesmann, never interviewed him, never slept with him, never fell in love with him. Nor was she ever scooped up by MI5 outside the London studios of CNN or taken to a safe house in Highgate. There is no safe house in Highgate, she reminded herself. No girl named Sally. No tweedy Englishman named David. No green-eyed assassin named Gabriel Allon.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden slowing of the car. The road was much rougher now. In fact, Zoe doubted whether it was a road at all. The car lost traction, regained it, then fishtailed wildly for several seconds before finally staggering to a stop. The engine went dead, and Zoe heard four doors open and close in rapid succession. Then the trunk popped open, and she felt herself rise into the frigid air. Again they carried her on their shoulders like pallbearers carrying a coffin. Her journey was shorter this time, a few seconds, no more. Zoe could hear them sawing away at the duct tape. Then they rolled her twice to free her from the blankets.

Though not blindfolded, Zoe could see nothing. The place where they had taken her was black as pitch. They lifted her again, carried her a short distance, and placed her in a chair with no arms. Again they bound her with duct tape, this time to the back of the chair. Then lights came on, and Zoe screamed.

71 CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

Mikhail's position was a mirror image of Zoe's—hands and feet bound, torso secured to a straight-backed chair, duct tape over his mouth. He was fully conscious now and, judging from the blood flowing from his mouth, he had recently been struck. His tuxedo jacket had been removed; his shirt was torn in several places and soaked with blood. The contents of his wallet lay scattered on the cement floor at his feet, along with the USB flash drive and the ultraviolet light. Zoe tried not to look at the items. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the tall, middle-aged man standing halfway between her and Mikhail. He was wearing a dark blue banker's suit and a woolen overcoat. The hair was Germanic blond going to gray, the expression on his face one of mild distaste. In one hand was a gun, in the other Mikhail's miniature radio. The gun had blood on it. Mikhail's blood, she thought. But that made sense. The man in the dark blue suit didn't look like the sort who liked to use his fists. He also looked vaguely familiar. Zoe was certain she had seen him somewhere before in close proximity to Martin. But in her current state she couldn't recall where it had been.

She glanced quickly around. They were in a commercial storage facility of some sort. It was cheaply made of corrugated metal and stank of dirty motor oil and rust. The overhead lights buzzed. For a moment, Zoe allowed herself to wonder whether Rafael Bloch had spent time in this same place before his body was taken across the border and dumped in the French Alps. Then she forced the thought from her mind. Rafael Bloch? Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. She looked at Mikhail. He was staring directly at her as if trying to communicate something. Zoe held his gaze for as long as she could bear it, then looked down at her hands. This movement seemed to prompt the well-dressed man into action. He came over and ripped the duct tape from her mouth. Zoe gave an involuntary scream of pain and immediately regretted it.

'Who are you?' she snapped. 'And why in God's name am I here?'

'You know why you're here, Zoe. In fact, thanks to your associate, Mr. Danilov, we all know why you're here.'

He spoke English with only the faintest accent and with the precision of a timepiece.

'Are you crazy? I'm here because Martin—'

'No, Zoe. You're here because you're a spy. And you came to Geneva to steal private documents and correspondence from Mr. Landesmann's computer, a very serious crime here in Switzerland.'

'I presume kidnapping and assault are as well.'

The man in the suit smiled. 'Ah, the famous Zoe Reed wit. It's good to know that at least something about