The Rembrandt Affair

thought. But what about Zoe?

    J ONAS B RUNNER and his security staff worked from an office on the ground floor of the mansion not far from the service kitchen. He led Martin Landesmann inside and dialed Ulrich Müller’s number in Zurich.
    “Why did you tell me to turn off my phone?”
    “Because it’s compromised.”
    “Compromised?”
    “Your mobile is broadcasting your life to the world, Martin. So is your computer.”
    Landesmann’s already pale face drained of color. “Who did this?”
    “I’m not sure yet. But I think they may have come to your party tonight for a second helping.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    Müller relayed his suspicions. Landesmann listened in silence, then slammed down the phone.
    “What do you want me to do, Mr. Landesmann?”
    “Find that Russian.”
    “And Zoe?”
    “Give me a few of your men. I’ll take care of Zoe.”

    I T DID NOT take Brunner more than a few minutes to confirm that Mikhail Danilov, companion of Zoe Reed, was not present in the ballroom for the screening of One World’s newest production. The length of Mr. Danilov’s absence was unclear, as was his present location, though it didn’t take long for Brunner to decide where to begin his search.
    Wisely, he chose not to go alone, bringing with him four of his most impressively built men. They climbed the back staircase as nonchalantly as possible; once out of sight, each man drew a SIG Sauer P226. At the top of the stairs, they proceeded wordlessly down the hallway, footfalls muted by lush carpeting. Thirty-two feet later, they stopped and turned to the left. The doors leading to the alcove were closed. They yielded without a sound. Brunner slipped inside and paused before the keyless lock, his right hand hovering over the pad. This was the point where the silent approach ended. But there was no choice. Brunner punched in the eight digits and pressed ENTER . Then he placed his hand on the latch and waited for the dead bolts to snap open.

    M ARTIN RETURNED to the ballroom as the film was nearing its conclusion and sat next to Monique.
    “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said softly, his gaze focused on the screen.
    “Perhaps this might not be the best time or place, Martin.”
    “Actually, I’m afraid it is.”
    Monique looked at him. “What have you done?”
    “I need your help, Monique.”
    “And if I refuse?”
    “We can lose everything.”

    T HE MAN who sprang at Jonas Brunner and his men like a predatory cat had two advantages. One was the advantage of sight—after nearly an hour in the office, his eyes were accustomed to the gloom—while the other was training. Yes, Brunner and his men were all Swiss Army veterans, but the lanky Russian with eyes the color of glacial ice was ex-Sayeret Matkal and therefore expert in the ways of Krav Maga, the official martial art of the Israeli military and intelligence services. What it lacks in beauty it more than makes up for in efficiency and sheer brutality. Its doctrines are simple: continuous motion and constant attack. And once the battle is joined, it does not end until the opponent is on the ground and in need of serious medical attention.
    The Russian fought bravely and in near silence. He broke two noses with palm strikes, fractured a cheekbone with an adroit elbow, and left a larynx so damaged its owner would speak with a rasp for the rest of his life. Eventually, though, he was overwhelmed by the greater numbers and combined weight of his opponents. After rendering him defenseless, Brunner and his men pummeled their opponent viciously until he lapsed into unconsciousness, at which point there arose a great swell of applause from one floor below. Brunner briefly imagined it was for him. It wasn’t, though. The One World documentary had just ended, and Saint Martin was basking in the adulation of his guests.

    G ABRIEL DID NOT hear the applause, only the violent struggle that preceded it. Next came the voice of Jonas Brunner ordering his men to take Mr. Danilov quietly down to the cellar. When the signal from the radio vanished from the airwaves, Gabriel didn’t bother trying to reestablish contact. Instead, he dialed Zoe’s number and closed his eyes. Answer your phone, Zoe. Answer your damn phone.

    Z OE WAS filing slowly out of the ballroom when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she was greeted by the unexpected sight of Monique Landesmann, a pleasant smile on her face. Zoe felt her cheeks begin to