The Rembrandt Affair

of headphones and staring intently into a laptop computer. Lavon’s was receiving a stream from the compromised phone of Zoe Reed while Gabriel’s was taking in the feed from Martin Landesmann’s. Zoe was watching the hourly news bulletin on the BBC. Martin was discussing security arrangements for the party with Jonas Brunner, his personal bodyguard.
    The meeting concluded at 5:03. Martin conferred briefly with his chief party planner, then headed upstairs to the room located in the southeast corner of Villa Elma, 1,238 feet above sea level. Gabriel heard the now-familiar eight atonal beeps as Martin entered the security code into the keyless lock—eight digits that would soon be standing between Mikhail and Martin’s most closely guarded secrets. A few seconds later came the sound of the office door opening and closing, followed by the clatter of Martin’s fingers over the keyboard of his computer. It seemed Martin had a bit of work to do before the party. So did Gabriel. He handed his headphones to Eli Lavon and stepped into the corridor.

    A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the latch. Gabriel knocked twice, paused, then knocked twice again. Zoe opened the door a few seconds later and peered at him over the security bar.
    “What can I do for you?” she asked, feigning irritation.
    “You can let me in, Zoe. We swept your room while you were gone. You’re clean.”
    Zoe unlocked the door and stepped aside. She was barefoot and wearing only a white hotel bathrobe.
    “Is that what you’re planning to wear tonight?” asked Gabriel.
    “I prefer it to that dress Martin bought me.”
    “He might be disappointed if you don’t wear it.”
    “So will every other man in the room.”
    Gabriel walked over to the desk. Zoe’s phone was lying on the blotter. He picked it up, pressed the power button, and held it until the screen turned to black.
    “Is there something you need to tell me about my phone?” Zoe asked.
    “It’s just a precaution.”
    “Yes,” she said, her tone sardonic. “And I came all the way to Geneva to bask in the glow of Martin Landesmann for a few hours.”
    Gabriel placed the phone on the desk again but said nothing.
    “Just make sure you switch it off when this is over.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “You never told me what you call it.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The procedure we carried out on Martin’s phone and computer.”
    “I was born in the late seventeenth century, Zoe. Even I don’t know the proper name for it.”
    “And the slang?”
    “Some techs refer to it as backdooring, rooting, or popping. We like to call it owning.”
    “Meaning?”
    “If we can get our hands on the target’s phone, we own it. If we can get inside his bank accounts, we own them. If we can get to his home security system, we can own that, too. And if Mikhail can get inside Martin’s office tonight…”
    “Then we can find the centrifuges?”
    Gabriel was struck by Zoe’s use of the pronoun we. “Yes,” he said with a nod of his head. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to find the centrifuges.”
    “What are the odds?”
    “Hard to say.”
    “I assume this isn’t the first time your service has done something like this.”
    Gabriel hesitated, then answered. “There’s been a not-so-secret war going on here in Europe for some time, Zoe. It involves the Iranians and European high-tech firms. And the computers of the bad guys are one of our greatest weapons.”
    “For example?”
    “I’m not going to give you an example.”
    “How about a hypothetical?”
    “All right. Let’s say a hypothetical Iranian nuclear scientist goes to a hypothetical conference in Berlin. And let’s say our hypothetical scientist has notes on his hypothetical computer on how to build a nuclear warhead.”
    “Then it might be difficult to keep a straight face when the Iranian president declares his program is strictly peaceful.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “And are they building a warhead?”
    “Without question,” Gabriel said. “And they’re getting closer every day. But to be an effective nuclear power, they need a steady supply of highly enriched uranium. And for that, they need centrifuges. Good ones. Centrifuges that don’t break down. Centrifuges that spin at a reliable speed. Centrifuges that aren’t contaminated.”
    “ Martin ’s centrifuges,” Zoe said softly.
    Gabriel was silent. Zoe glanced at the clock on the nightstand.
    “Unless you intend to help me get dressed, I