The Rembrandt Affair

misplaced belief that the tiny Alpine country is a miracle of multiculturalism and tolerance. While it is true four distinct cultures have coexisted peacefully within Switzerland’s borders for seven centuries, their marriage is much more a defensive alliance than a union of true love. Evidence of that fact was the conversation that followed. When there was serious business to be done, Martin Landesmann would never dream of speaking French. Only Swiss German.
    “Where is he?”
    Müller tilted his head to the left but said nothing.
    “Is he conscious yet?” asked Landesmann.
    Müller nodded
    “Talking?”
    “Says he’s ex-FSB. Says he works as an independent contractor for Russian private security companies and was hired by a consortium of Russian oligarchs to steal your most closely held business secrets.”
    “How did he get to my mobile phone and laptop?”
    “He claims to have done it from the outside.”
    “How does he explain Zoe?”
    “He says he learned of your relationship through surveillance and decided to exploit it in order to gain access to the party tonight. He says he deceived her. He claims she knows nothing.”
    “It’s plausible,” Landesmann said.
    “Plausible,” Müller conceded. “But there’s something else.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The way he fought my men. He’s been trained by an elite unit or intelligence service. He’s no FSB thug. He’s the real thing, Martin.”
    “Israeli?”
    “I think so.”
    “If that’s true, what does it say about Zoe?”
    “She may be telling the truth. She may know nothing. But it’s also possible they recruited her. Using an agent in place, especially a woman, is consistent with their operating doctrine. It’s possible she’s been spying on you from the beginning.”
    Landesmann glanced over toward the cars, where his family was waiting with visible impatience. “How much material has Onyx managed to intercept?”
    “Enough to raise eyebrows.”
    “Can it be contained?”
    “I’m working on it. But if a friendly service like the DAP is suspicious about what they’re seeing, imagine how the material must look to an intelligence agency that doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”
    “You’re my chief security adviser, Ulrich. Advise me.”
    “The first thing we need to do is find out who we’re dealing with and how much they know.”
    “And then?”
    “One thing at a time, Martin. But do me one favor. Stay off the phone for the rest of the night.” Müller glanced at the black sky. “Onyx is listening. And you can be sure everyone else is as well.”

70
    CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND
    Z oe did not know where they were taking her, of course. She only knew that the road they were now traveling was winding and that they were gaining altitude. The first fact was readily apparent by the violent lurching of the car, the second by the fact her ears were popping at regular intervals. To make matters worse, her abdomen ached where she had been struck, and she was intensely nauseated. Zoe was only grateful that she had been far too nervous to eat at Martin’s party. Otherwise, it was quite possible she would have vomited into her duct-tape gag long ago and choked to death without Martin’s bodyguards knowing a thing.
    Her discomfort was made worse by the cold. The temperature seemed to be dropping by degrees with each passing minute. During the first part of the drive, the cold had been manageable. Now, in spite of the heavy blankets binding her body, it was eating away at her bones. She was so cold that she was no longer shivering. She was in agony.
    In an attempt to ease her suffering, she played mind games. She wrote an article for the Journal, reread her favorite passages from Pride and Prejudice, and relived the moment in the bar of the Belvedere Hotel in Davos when Jonas Brunner had asked whether she would like to have a drink with Mr. Landesmann. But in this adaptation, she politely told Brunner to sod off and resumed her conversation with the African finance minister, now the most profoundly interesting exchange she had ever had in her life. This incarnation of Zoe Reed never met Martin Landesmann, never interviewed him, never slept with him, never fell in love with him. Nor was she ever scooped up by MI5 outside the London studios of CNN or taken to a safe house in Highgate. There is no safe house in Highgate, she reminded herself. No girl named Sally. No tweedy Englishman named David. No green-eyed assassin named