The Rembrandt Affair (27 page)

64

ZURICH

I
t 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 Zentrum'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
every
thing."

"Onyx?"

Huber nodded. "Onyx."

T
HE 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."

U
LRICH
M
ULLER
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

F
or 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 were 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.

G
ABRIEL 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.

G
ABRIEL'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.

"I want better odds than fifty-fifty," Navot said.

"So we wait?"

Navot nodded. "We wait."

M
IKHAIL MOVED
quietly to the window, parted the curtain a fraction of an inch, and peered into Martin's garden. It was twenty feet down with a guard patrolling the perimeter. But that didn't matter. The office windows were bulletproof and didn't open. Mikhail returned to the desk and checked the status box on Martin's computer screen:
18:26...18:25...18:24
...

Sitting tight,
he thought.
But what about Zoe?

J
ONAS
B
RUNNER
and his security staff worked from an office on the ground floor of the mansion not far from the service kitchen. He led Martin Landesmann inside and dialed Ulrich Muller's number in Zurich.

"Why did you tell me to turn off my phone?"

"Because it's compromised."

"Compromised?"

"Your mobile is broadcasting your life to the world, Martin. So is your computer."

Landesmann's already pale face drained of color. "Who did this?"

"I'm not sure yet. But I think they may have come to your party tonight for a second helping."

"What are you talking about?"

Muller relayed his suspicions. Landesmann listened in silence, then slammed down the phone.

"What do you want me to do, Mr. Landesmann?"

"Find that Russian."

"And Zoe?"

"Give me a few of your men. I'll take care of Zoe."

I
T DID NOT
take Brunner more than a few minutes to confirm that Mikhail Danilov, companion of Zoe Reed, was not present in the ballroom for the screening of One World's newest production. The length of Mr. Danilov's absence was unclear, as was his present location, though it didn't take long for Brunner to decide where to begin his search.

Wisely, he chose not to go alone, bringing with him four of his most impressively built men. They climbed the back staircase as nonchalantly as possible; once out of sight, each man drew a SIG Sauer P226. At the top of the stairs, they proceeded wordlessly down the hallway, footfalls muted by lush carpeting. Thirty-two feet later, they stopped and turned to the left. The doors leading to the alcove were closed. They yielded without a sound. Brunner slipped inside and paused before the keyless lock, his right hand hovering over the pad. This was the point where the silent approach ended. But there was no choice. Brunner punched in the eight digits and pressed
ENTER
. Then he placed his hand on the latch and waited for the dead bolts to snap open.

M
ARTIN RETURNED
to the ballroom as the film was nearing its conclusion and sat next to Monique.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said softly, his gaze focused on the screen.

"Perhaps this might not be the best time or place, Martin."

"Actually, I'm afraid it is."

Monique looked at him. "What have you done?"

"I need your help, Monique."

"And if I refuse?"

"We can lose everything."

T
HE MAN
who sprang at Jonas Brunner and his men like a predatory cat had two advantages. One was the advantage of sight--after nearly an hour in the office, his eyes were accustomed to the gloom--while the other was training. Yes, Brunner and his men were all Swiss Army veterans, but the lanky Russian with eyes the color of glacial ice was ex-Sayeret Matkal and therefore expert in the ways of Krav Maga, the official martial art of the Israeli military and intelligence services. What it lacks in beauty it more than makes up for in efficiency and sheer brutality. Its doctrines are simple: continuous motion and constant attack. And once the battle is joined, it does not end until the opponent is on the ground and in need of serious medical attention.

The Russian fought bravely and in near silence. He broke two noses with palm strikes, fractured a cheekbone with an adroit elbow, and left a larynx so damaged its owner would speak with a rasp for the rest of his life. Eventually, though, he was overwhelmed by the greater numbers and combined weight of his opponents. After rendering him defenseless, Brunner and his men pummeled their opponent viciously until he lapsed into unconsciousness, at which point there arose a great swell of applause from one floor below. Brunner briefly imagined it was for him. It wasn't, though. The One World documentary had just ended, and Saint Martin was basking in the adulation of his guests.

G
ABRIEL DID NOT
hear the applause, only the violent struggle that preceded it. Next came the voice of Jonas Brunner ordering his men to take Mr. Danilov quietly down to the cellar. When the signal from the radio vanished from the airwaves, Gabriel didn't bother trying to reestablish contact. Instead, he dialed Zoe's number and closed his eyes.
Answer your phone, Zoe. Answer your damn phone.

Z
OE WAS
filing slowly out of the ballroom when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she was greeted by the unexpected sight of Monique Landesmann, a pleasant smile on her face. Zoe felt her cheeks begin to burn but managed a smile of her own.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced, Zoe." Monique extended her hand. "Martin's told me so much about you. He admires your work a great deal."

"If there were more businessmen like your husband, Mrs. Landesmann, I'm afraid I wouldn't have much to write about."

Zoe was not sure from where she summoned these words, but they seemed to please Monique.

"I hope you enjoyed the film. Martin's very proud of it."

"He should be."

Monique placed a jeweled hand lightly on Zoe's arm. "There's something I need to discuss with you, Zoe. Might we have a brief word in private?"

Zoe hesitated, unsure of what to do, then agreed.

"Wonderful," said Monique. "Come this way."

She led Zoe across the ballroom through a pair of towering doors, then down a marble hallway lit by chandeliers. At the end of the hallway was a small, ornate parlor that looked like something Zoe had seen on a tour of Versailles. Monique paused at the doorway and, with a smile, gestured for Zoe to enter. Zoe never saw the hand that immediately clamped over her mouth or the one that ripped the clutch from her grasp. She tried to struggle, but it was useless. She tried to scream but could barely breathe. As the bodyguards carried Zoe from the room, she managed to twist her head around and cast a pleading glance toward Monique. But Monique never saw it. She had already turned and was making her way back to the party.

M
ARTIN WAS
standing at the center of the main reception room, surrounded as usual. Monique went to his side and slipped an arm proprietarily around his waist.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Everything's fine, darling," she whispered, kissing his cheek. "But if you ever betray me again, I'll destroy you myself."