The Rembrandt Affair

Kempinski and examined his appearance in the decorative smoked-glass mirror. His clothing was simple but elegant: a Brioni tuxedo, a plain-fronted formal shirt, a traditional bow tie. The jacket had been specially fitted to accommodate the two pieces of technical equipment he was carrying at the small of his back. The crisp knot of his bow tie had been a collaborative effort involving three agents of Israeli intelligence and no small amount of preoperational hysteria.
    He leaned closer to the mirror, made an adjustment to his blond forelock, and examined his face. Hard to believe he was the same boy from the derelict apartment blocks of Moscow. A boy who had been beaten and spat upon by Russian brethren every day merely for having been cursed with the name of the patriarch. The boy had moved to Israel with his dissident parents and had learned to fight. But tonight he would fight in a different way, against a man who was supplying the mullahs of Iran with the power to fulfill their wildest fantasies. Tonight he was no longer Mikhail Abramov. Tonight he was a real Russian with a proper Russian name and a great deal of money in his Russian pockets.
    He heard the sound of a door closing just down the corridor. Zoe appeared a few seconds later, looking radiant in her Dior dress. Mikhail kissed her formally on both cheeks for the benefit of the hotel cameras, then stepped back to admire her.
    “Something tells me you’re going to be the center of attention tonight.”
    “Better me than you.”
    Mikhail laughed as he led Zoe into the elevator. In the lobby, Yossi and Rimona were drinking coffee near the gas fire while Dina and Mordecai were talking to the concierge about restaurants. Mikhail offered Zoe his arm and led her toward the entrance. A doorman intercepted them, a concerned look on his face.
    “I’m afraid we have a slight problem, Mr. Danilov.”
    “What’s that?”
    “An overabundance of cars.”
    “Can you be a bit more clear?” Mikhail asked, adopting the impatient tone that comes naturally to the rich, Russian or otherwise. “I’m afraid we’re running late for an important engagement.”
    The doorman turned and pointed through the revolving door toward the S-Class Mercedes. Yaakov was standing at the rear driver’s-side door, hand on the latch, face a blank mask.
    “That’s your car, Mr. Danilov.”
    “So what’s the problem?”
    The doorman pointed to a second Mercedes, a Maybach 62S. Two well-dressed men in dark overcoats were standing near the trunk, hands in their pockets. Mikhail recognized the older of the two from surveillance photographs. It was Jonas Brunner.
    “And that car,” said the doorman, “is for Ms. Reed.”
    “Who sent it?”
    “Mr. Martin Landesmann.”
    “Do me a favor then. Tell those gentlemen that Ms. Reed and I will be traveling to the party together in my car.”
    “They were quite insistent Ms. Reed ride with them.”
    Mikhail instructed Zoe to wait in the lobby, then stepped outside. Jonas Brunner immediately walked over and introduced himself.
    “Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” Mikhail asked.
    “Mr. Landesmann has made arrangements for your travel to Villa Elma. Forgive us for not telling you sooner. It was an oversight on our part.”
    “Us?”
    “I work for Mr. Landesmann.”
    “In what capacity?” Mikhail asked needlessly.
    “I’m a personal aide, of sorts,” Brunner said evasively.
    “I see. Well, please convey to Mr. Landesmann our thanks for his very generous offer, but we’ll be taking our own car.”
    “I’m afraid Mr. Landesmann would be deeply offended to hear that.” Brunner held out his hand toward the Maybach. “Please, Mr. Danilov, I’m sure you and Ms. Reed will find this one very comfortable.”
    Mikhail turned and looked at Zoe, who was watching him through the glass as though she found the entire spectacle faintly amusing. It was not, of course. In fact, it presented Mikhail with his first decision of the evening, far sooner than he had anticipated. To refuse the offer would look suspicious. But to accept meant they would be under Martin’s control from the outset. Mikhail Abramov wanted to insist on taking his own car. But Mikhail Danilov knew he had no choice but to accept. Otherwise, the evening was going to get off to a very tense start. He looked at Brunner and managed a slight smile.
    “We’ll be delighted to ride in your car. Shall I dismiss my driver or will we need him to get back to the