The Rembrandt Affair

sure my people are comfortable. If they’re not, you’ll make an enemy of me. And that’s the last thing you want.”
    Gabriel killed the connection and quickly typed out a final message to London. Then he packed away the computer and headed for the elevator.

73
    CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND
    A gust of freezing air scraped at the back of Zoe’s neck as the door of the storage facility swung open. She closed her eyes and prayed for the first time in many years. What now? she wondered. Another round of interrogation? Another ride in the trunk of a car? Or had Martin finally decided the time had come to rid the world of another meddlesome reporter? Zoe feared there was no other possible outcome, especially now that she had betrayed the entire operation. Indeed, for the past several minutes she had found herself composing her own obituary. Only the lead eluded her. Martin and his thugs had yet to supply one crucial fact: the cause of her death.
    She opened her eyes and looked at Mikhail. His face was illuminated by a shaft of gray light from the open door, and he was staring at the guards intently as they approached Zoe from behind. One of them removed the duct tape from her mouth, carefully this time, while another gently freed her hands and feet. Two other guards did the same for Mikhail while a third applied ointment and bandages to cuts on his face and scalp. The guards gave no explanation for their sudden hospitality, all of which was performed with typical Swiss efficiency. After handing each prisoner a blanket, they departed as suddenly as they had come. Zoe waited until the door was closed before speaking.
    “What just happened?”
    “Gabriel just happened.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    Mikhail placed a finger to his lips. “Don’t say another word.”

    A WAVE of jubilation and relief washed over the ops center when Gabriel’s update flashed across the status screens. Even Graham Seymour, who had been in a state of near catatonia for the past several minutes, managed a brief smile. There were two people in the ops center, however, who seemed incapable of sharing in the joy of the moment. One was Ari Shamron; the other, Chiara Allon. Once again, an operation was in the hands of a man they loved. And once again they had no choice but to wait. And to swear to themselves that this was the last time. The very last time …

    T HE E63 MOTORWAY stretched eastward, immaculately groomed, empty of traffic. Gabriel kept both hands on the wheel of the Audi and his speed respectable. On the left side of the highway, neatly pruned vineyards advanced like columns of soldiers into the hills of Vaud. On his right lay Lake Geneva, with the Savoy Alps rising in the background. The base of the range was still shrouded in mist, but the highest peaks glowed with the first light of dawn.
    He continued past Montreux to Aigle, then turned onto Route 11 and headed into the Vallée des Ormonts. It was a narrow, two-lane road, twisting and full of unexpected switchbacks. A few miles beyond Les Diablerets was the border separating Canton Vaud from Canton Bern. The signs immediately changed to German, as did the architecture of the houses. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to creep over the Bernese Alps, and by the time Gabriel reached the outskirts of Gstaad it was beginning to get light. He drove to the main lot in the center of the village and backed into a space in the far corner. In an hour, the lot would be jammed with cars. But for now it was empty except for a trio of snowboarders drinking beer around a battered VW van.
    Gabriel left the engine running and watched the dashboard clock as the ninety-minute deadline he had imposed on Ulrich Müller came and went. He granted Müller a ten-minute grace period before finally reaching for the phone. He was in the process of dialing when a silver Mercedes GL450 sport-utility turned into the lot. It eased past the snowboarders and stopped a few yards from Gabriel’s Audi. Inside were four men, all wearing matching dark blue ski jackets emblazoned with the insignia of Zentrum Security. The one in the rear passenger seat climbed out and motioned Gabriel over. Gabriel recognized him. It was Jonas Brunner.
    Gabriel shut down the engine, locked his phone in the glove box, and climbed out. Brunner watched with a slightly bemused expression as though taken aback by Gabriel’s modest stature.
    “I’m told you speak German,” Brunner said.
    “Better than you,” replied