The Rembrandt Affair

Mendoza.
    “How did you get this number?” he asked.
    “Are you driving, Ulrich? It sounds to me as if you’re behind the wheel of a car.”
    “What do you want, Allon?”
    “I want you to pull over, Ulrich. There’s something you need to see.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m going to send you an e-mail, Ulrich. I want you to look at it carefully. Then I want you to call me back at this number.” A pause. “Did your phone capture this number?”
    “I have it.”
    “Good. After you look at the e-mail, call me back. Right away. Otherwise, the next calls I make are to the Swiss Federal Police and the DAP.”
    “Don’t you need my e-mail address, Allon?”
    “No, Ulrich, I already have it.”
    The connection went dead. Müller pulled to the side of the road. Thirty seconds later, the e-mail came through.
    Shit …

    M ÜLLER DIALED. Gabriel answered right away.
    “Interesting stuff, don’t you think, Ulrich?”
    “I don’t know what any of this means.”
    “Nice try. But before we go any further, I want to know whether my people are alive.”
    “Your people are fine.”
    “Where are they?”
    “That’s none of your concern.”
    “Everything is my concern, Ulrich.”
    “They’re in my custody.”
    “Have they been mistreated?”
    “They committed a serious crime in Martin Landesmann’s home last night. They’ve been treated accordingly.”
    “If they’ve been harmed in any way, I’m going to hold you personally responsible. And your boss.”
    “Mr. Landesmann knows nothing about this.”
    “That’s very admirable of you to try to take the blame for your employer, but it’s not going to work, Ulrich. Not today.”
    “What do you want?”
    “I want to talk to Martin.”
    “That’s impossible.”
    “It’s nonnegotiable.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “You’d better, Ulrich. Or the next call I make is to the Swiss Federal Police.”
    “I need thirty minutes.”
    “You have five.”

    Z OE AND M IKHAIL sat face-to-face in the storage facility, each bound to a chair, mouths covered with duct tape. The guards had fled for the warmth of their cars. Before leaving, they had switched off the lights. The darkness was absolute, as was the cold. Zoe wanted to apologize to Mikhail for betraying the operation. Zoe wanted to tend to Mikhail’s wounds. And more than anything, Zoe wanted reassurance that someone was looking for them. But none of that was possible. Not with the tape over their mouths. And so they sat in the cold, mute and motionless, and they waited.

    M ARTIN L ANDESMANN’S immense timbered chalet was ablaze with light as Ulrich Müller drove through the security gate and sped quickly up the long drive. A pair of guards stood watch outside the front entrance, shifting from foot to foot in the sharp early-morning cold. Müller walked past them without a word and entered the residence. Landesmann was seated alone before a fire in the great room. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a heavy zippered sweater and holding a crystal snifter filled with cognac. Müller placed a finger to his lips and handed Landesmann the phone. Landesmann scrolled through the two PDF files, his face a blank mask. When he was finished, Müller took back the phone and switched it off before slipping it into the pocket of his overcoat.
    “What does he want?” Landesmann asked.
    “His people back. He’d also like to have a word with you.”
    “Tell him to go fuck himself.”
    “I tried.”
    “Is he in the country?”
    “We’ll know soon enough.”
    Landesmann carried his drink over to the fire. “Get him up here, Ulrich. And make sure he’s in a less demanding mood by the time he arrives.”
    Müller powered on his phone and headed outside. The last sound he heard as he was leaving was a crystal snifter exploding into a thousand pieces.

    G ABRIEL’S PHONE rang ten seconds later.
    “You cut it very close, Ulrich.”
    “Mr. Landesmann has agreed to see you.”
    “A wise move on his part.”
    “Now, listen carefully—”
    “No, Ulrich. You listen. I’ll be in the parking lot above the Promenade in Gstaad in ninety minutes. Have your men meet me. And no bullshit. If my people don’t hear from me by ten a.m. at the latest, that e-mail you just read goes to every intelligence service, law enforcement agency, justice ministry, and newspaper in the Western world. Are we clear, Ulrich?”
    “The Promenade in Gstaad, ninety minutes.”
    “Well done, Ulrich. Now make