The Rembrandt Affair

reception card, they were instructed to join a short receiving line of jeweled women and envious men.
    Standing at the foot of the spectacular light-strewn fir tree was Saint Martin Landesmann in all his glory. Martin of the careful handshake. Martin of the whispered confidence. Martin of the solicitous nod. Monique and the children seemed like mere accessories, like Martin’s understated Patek Philippe wristwatch and the two Zentrum bodyguards standing with feigned detachment at his back. Monique was taller than Martin by an inch. Her long dark hair was swept directly back from her forehead, and she wore a sleeveless gown that flattered her slender arms. Martin seemed oblivious to her beauty. He had eyes only for his invited guests. And, briefly, for the famous British reporter who was now standing five feet away at the side of a Russian millionaire named Mikhail Danilov. Mr. Danilov handed the reception card to the attendant at the front of the line. Then he lowered his eyes to the marble floor and waited for their names to be called.

    T HERE EXISTS a snapshot of the encounter that followed. Unposed, it was captured by one of the commercial photographers hired for the event and was later stolen from his computer as part of the multinational inquiry conducted at the conclusion of the affair. In retrospect, it was a remarkably accurate predictor of the events that followed. Martin’s expression was curiously dour for such a joyous occasion, and by a trick of the camera angle his gaze appeared fixed on both Mikhail and Zoe at the same time. Monique was looking at neither. In fact, Monique’s elegant head was adroitly turned in the opposite direction.
    The photograph did not reflect the brevity of the encounter, though the audio feed did. Just fifteen seconds in length, it was obtained by not one but two sources—the mobile phone in Zoe Reed’s clutch and the Nokia N900 that, in violation of Monique’s expressed wishes, was tucked into the breast pocket of Martin’s formal jacket. Gabriel listened to the recording three times, then dashed off a message to London as Zoe and Mikhail waded into the party. The orchestra was playing “See, the Conqu’ring Hero Come” by Handel. Even Zoe had to laugh.

    N OT FAR FROM Villa Elma, on the rue de Lausanne, is a small Agip gas station and mini-mart. Like most Swiss service stations, it is exceedingly neat. It also has a small bakery, which, surprisingly, sells some of Geneva’s better bread and pastries. By the time Yaakov arrived, the bread was well past its prime, though the coffee was freshly made. He bought a large cup with milk and sugar, a box of Swiss chocolates, and a pack of American chewing gum, then returned to the Mercedes and settled behind the wheel for the long wait. He was supposed to be sitting inside the walls of Villa Elma with the rest of the limousine drivers. But Martin had necessitated a change in plan. Was his gesture innocent, or had he just sunk the entire operation with one simple maneuver? Whatever the case, Yaakov was certain of one thing. Mikhail and Zoe were now locked inside Martin’s citadel, surrounded by Martin’s bodyguards, and completely at Martin’s mercy. Not exactly the way they’d drawn it up in Highgate. Funny how it always seemed to work out that way.

63
    GENEVA
    I t was Martin’s party, but it was Zoe’s night. Zoe sparkled. Zoe dazzled. Zoe shone. Zoe was incomparable. Zoe was a star. She did not choose this role for herself. It was chosen for her. Zoe stood out that night because she was different. Zoe didn’t own things or buy things. Zoe didn’t lend money or drill for North Sea oil. Zoe wasn’t even rich. But she was beautiful. And she was intelligent. And she was on television. And with a few strokes of her famous pen, she could turn anyone in the room into the next Martin Landesmann, no matter how grievous his private sins.
    She listened a great deal and spoke only when necessary. And if she had opinions, she did not share them since she regarded herself as the last journalist in the world who actually tried to keep her personal politics out of her work. She flirted with the youthful owner of an American software giant, was pawed by a Saudi prince of untold wealth, and dispensed some sage advice to none other than Viktor Orlov, future owner of the Financial Journal. A reclusive Milanese billionaire offered to throw open the gates of his business empire to Zoe in exchange for a favorable story; a famous