The Rembrandt Affair

minutes later came a meek figure with disastrous hair who requested a taxi to the Gare de Cornavin, followed soon after by a trim man with gray temples and green eyes who said nothing while the receptionist prepared his bill. He endured a five-minute wait for his rented Audi A6 with admirable patience, though he was obviously annoyed by the delay. When the car finally came, he tossed his bags into the backseat and gave the valet a generous tip before driving away.
    It was not the first time the staff of the Kempinski had been misled by guests, but the scale of the deception foisted upon them that night was unprecedented. There was no child in distress and no source of genuine anger between the bickering couple with British passports. In fact, only one of them was actually British, and that had been a long time ago. Within ten minutes of departing the hotel, both couples had taken up positions along the rue de Lausanne, along with the driver of the very expensive S-Class Mercedes sedan. As for the man with green eyes and gray temples, his destination was the Hôtel Métropole—though by the time he arrived at the check-in counter he was no longer Jonathan Albright of Greenwich, Connecticut, but Heinrich Kiever of Berlin, Germany. Upon entering his room, he hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door and immediately established secure communications with his newly redeployed team. Eli Lavon arrived ten minutes later.
    “Any change?” he asked.
    “Just one,” said Gabriel. “The first guests are starting to leave.”

67
    GENEVA
    Z oe thought she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Whether it was five men or five hundred, she could not tell. She lay motionless on the damp floor, her head still propped against Mikhail’s shoulder. The duct tape around her wrists had cut off her circulation, and her hands felt as though a thousand needles were pricking them. She was shaking with cold and fear. And not just for herself. Zoe reckoned she had been locked in the cellar for at least an hour, and Mikhail had yet to regain consciousness. He was still breathing, though, deeply, steadily. Zoe imagined she was breathing for him.
    The footfalls drew closer. Zoe heard the heavy door of the room swing open and saw the beam of a flashlight playing over the walls. Eventually, it found her eyes. Behind it, she recognized the familiar silhouette of Jonas Brunner. He examined Mikhail with little concern, then tore the duct tape from Zoe’s mouth. She immediately began to scream for help. Brunner silenced her with two hard slaps across the face.
    “What in God’s name are you doing, Jonas? This is—”
    “Exactly what you and your friend deserve,” he said, cutting her off. “You’ve been lying to us, Zoe. And if you continue to lie, you’re only going to make your situation worse.”
    “My situation? Are you mad, Jonas?”
    Brunner only smiled.
    “Where’s Martin?”
    “Mr. Landesmann, ” Brunner said pointedly, “is busy saying good night to his guests. He asked me to see you out. Both of you.”
    “See us out? Look at my friend, Jonas. He’s unconscious. He needs a doctor.”
    “So do several of my best men. And he’ll get a doctor when he tells us who he’s working for.”
    “He works for himself, you idiot! He’s a millionaire.”
    Brunner gave another smile. “You like men with money, don’t you, Zoe?”
    “If it wasn’t for men with money, Jonas, you’d be writing parking tickets in some shitty little village in the Alps.”
    Zoe never saw the blow coming. A sweeping backhand, it drove her head sideways into Mikhail’s blood-soaked neck. Mikhail seemed to stir, then went motionless again. Zoe’s cheek radiated with pain, and she could taste blood in her mouth. She closed her eyes, and for an instant it seemed Gabriel was speaking quietly into her ear. You’re Zoe Reed, he was saying. You make mincemeat of people like Martin Landesmann. No one tells you what to do. And no one ever lays a hand on you. She opened her eyes and saw Brunner’s face floating behind the glow of the flashlight.
    “Who do you work for?” he asked.
    “The Financial Journal of London. Which means you just slapped the wrong fucking girl, Jonas.”
    “Tonight?” Brunner asked as if addressing a dull pupil. “Who are you working for tonight, Zoe?”
    “I’m not working tonight, Jonas. I came here at Martin’s invitation. And I was having a wonderful time until you and your thugs grabbed me and locked me in this