The Rembrandt Affair

tried to give Müller an update on the Berlin and Mexico City operations; Müller 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, Müller 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?” Müller asked.
    “In the ballroom.”
    “What’s that noise?”
    “Mr. Landesmann’s movie.”
    Müller 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?”
    Müller 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.”
    Müller 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