The Rembrandt Affair

British actor associated with the “slow food” movement pleaded with her to do more to promote sustainable agriculture. And much to Monique Landesmann’s displeasure, Zoe was even asked by the girls in khaki to hold a Eurasian lynx cub during the presentation on Martin’s efforts to save the world’s most endangered animals. When the cat nuzzled Zoe’s cheek, one hundred fifty men sighed aloud, wishing they could do the same thing.
    Throughout the evening, the handsome Mikhail Danilov was never far from Zoe’s side. He seemed content merely to bask in Zoe’s reflected glow, though he shook many hands, handed out many glossy business cards, and made many vague commitments to future London lunches. He was the perfect escort for a woman like Zoe, confident enough to not feel slighted by the attention paid to her and more than willing to float unseen in the background. Indeed, despite his striking good looks, no one seemed to notice Mr. Danilov’s absence when the three hundred invited guests filed into the grand ballroom for the screening of Martin’s movie.
    The room had been converted into a theater with rows of colored folding chairs arrayed in a rainbow and the ubiquitous logo of the One World foundation projected onto the large screen. An empty lectern stood before it, waiting for Martin to grace it. Zoe took a seat at the back of the room and was immediately joined by the Saudi prince. He touched her thigh while lobbying her to write a piece about some of the exciting developments taking place in the Saudi oil industry. Zoe promised to consider it, then removed the Saudi’s hand as Martin ascended to the lectern to rapt applause.
    It was a performance Zoe had seen several times before in Davos, yet it was utterly compelling nonetheless. Martin was professorial one moment, revolutionary the next. He exhorted his fellow magnates to pursue social justice over pure profit. He spoke of sacrifice and service. He called for open borders and open hearts. And he demanded a world organized by new societal principles, ones based not on material acquisition but on sustainability and dignity. Had Zoe not known the truth about Martin, she might have been spellbound like the other three hundred people in the room. And she might have roared with approval at the conclusion of Martin’s remarks. Instead, she managed only the politest applause and quickly surveyed the room as the lights went out. The One World logo dissolved and was replaced by a fierce orange sun beating down upon a parched desert landscape. A single cello played a haunting melody.
    “Is something wrong, Ms. Reed?” the Saudi prince asked.
    “I seem to have misplaced my date,” Zoe said, recovering quickly.
    “How fortunate for me.”
    Zoe smiled and said, “Don’t you just adore films about the dangers of burning fossil fuel?”
    “Doesn’t everyone?” said the Saudi.
    The parched desert gave way to a submerged coastal village in Bangladesh. Zoe casually glanced at her watch and marked the time. Ninety minutes , Gabriel had said. If Mikhail’s not back in ninety minutes, get into your car and leave . But there was just one problem with that plan. Zoe had no car other than Martin’s limousine. And Zentrum Security was doing the driving.

    I RONICALLY, IT was Martin Landesmann himself, thanks to the compromised mobile phone in his pocket, who had taught the Masterpiece team about the back staircase that led from the service kitchen directly to his private office. He came that way each morning after his hour-long scull on the lake, rising from 1,226 feet above sea level to 1,238. Some mornings, he would pop into his bedroom suite to have a word with Monique, but usually he would proceed directly to his office and enter the eight digits into his keyless lock. Eight digits that would soon be standing between Mikhail and Martin’s most closely guarded secrets.
    Mikhail’s first challenge was getting from the reception rooms into the service kitchen cleanly. His task was made easier by the fact that Martin’s dark-suited security men were standing watch over the doors and corridors leading to sections of the mansion where the guests were not welcome. The entrance to the kitchen was completely unguarded, and the hallway leading to it was heavily trafficked by waiters rushing in both directions. None seemed to give a second look to the lanky blond-haired man who entered the kitchen carrying an empty silver tray. Nor did any of them seem to