The Rembrandt Affair

police escort…twenty minutes.”
    “Ten would be better.”
    Seymour reached for a phone. Shamron went quietly to Navot’s side.
    “May I make one other suggestion, Uzi?”
    “Please.”
    “Get Gabriel, Eli, and the rest of the team out of the Kempinski before the Swiss police come knocking.”

    T HE STEPS were built of stone and spiraled downward into the bowels of the old mansion. Zoe’s feet never touched them. Five of Zentrum’s finest bore her into the gloom, one man for each extremity, one to smother her cries for help. They carried her in the supine position with her head leading the way, so that she was able to see the faces of her tormentors. She recognized all of them from her previous life. Her life before revelation. Her life before truth. Her life before Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg, Germany, and XTE Hardware and Equipment of Shenzhen, China. Her life before Gabriel …
    The stairs emptied into a passageway with damp walls and an arched ceiling. Zoe had the sensation of floating through an Alpine tunnel. There was no light at the end of it, only the wet stench of the lake. Zoe began to thrash violently. One of the guards responded by squeezing her neck in a way that seemed to paralyze her entire body.
    At the end of the passageway, they hurled her to the ground and restrained her with silver duct tape, ankles first, wrists next, finally her mouth. Then a single immense bodyguard hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her down another passage and into a small, darkened room that smelled heavily of mold and dust. There he placed Zoe on her feet and asked whether she was able to breathe. When she responded in the affirmative, he drove a huge fist into her abdomen. She folded like a pocketknife and collapsed to the stone floor, struggling for breath.
    “How about now? Can you breathe now, Ms. Reed?”
    She couldn’t. Zoe couldn’t breathe. Zoe couldn’t see. Zoe couldn’t even seem to hear. All she could do was writhe in agony and watch helplessly as lights exploded in her oxygen-starved brain. She did not know how long her contortions lasted. She only knew that at some point she became aware of the fact she was not alone. Lying facedown on the ground next to her—unconscious, tightly bound, wet with blood—was Mikhail. Zoe laid her head on his shoulder and tried to rouse him, but Mikhail made no movement. Then her body began to convulse with an uncontrollable fear, and tears flowed onto her cheeks.

    A T THAT same moment, Jonas Brunner was standing alone in his office, staring down at the items on his desk. One Bally wallet with credit cards and identification in the name Mikhail Danilov. One room key from the Grand Hotel Kempinksi. One ultraviolet flashlight. One Sony USB flash drive. One small electronic device with a numeric keypad and wires with alligator clips. One miniature radio and earpiece of indeterminate manufacture. Taken together, the items added up to only one possible conclusion. The man now lying bleeding and unconscious in the cellar of Villa Elma was a professional. Brunner picked up his phone and shared that opinion with Ulrich Müller, who was now airborne over Canton Zurich.
    “How long was he alone in the office?”
    “We’re not sure. Perhaps an hour, maybe more.”
    “What was the state of the computer?”
    “It was on and connected to the Internet.”
    “Where are they now?”
    Brunner answered.
    “Can you get them out of the house with no one noticing?”
    “No problem.”
    “Be careful, Jonas. He didn’t do this alone.”
    “What do we do after we get them off the property?”
    “I have a few questions I’d like to ask them. In private.”
    “Where should we take them?”
    “East,” Müller said. “You know the place.”
    Brunner did. “What about Monique and Martin?” he asked.
    “As soon as the last guest leaves, I want them in the helicopter.”
    “Monique isn’t going to be happy.”
    “Monique doesn’t have a choice.”
    The line went dead. Brunner sighed and hung up the phone.

    G IVEN THE jet-setting nature of the Kempinski’s clientele, changes in itinerary were the norm rather than the exception. Regardless, the wave of early departures swamping the reception desk that evening was unusual. First there was an American couple who claimed to have a child in distress. Then there was a pair of Brits who argued bitterly from the time they stepped off the elevator until the moment they finally climbed into their rented Volvo. Five