The Rembrandt Affair

gobbling up the valuable assets of the old Soviet state while ordinary Russians were struggling for survival. Like most of the first-generation oligarchs, Viktor had worn out his welcome in Russia. He now lived in London in one of the city’s most valuable homes.
    “Viktor got his British passport a few months ago,” Martin said. “Now he wants a British newspaper to go with it. He thinks owning the Journal will grant him the social standing in London he craves most. He also wants to use it as a club to beat his old adversaries in the Kremlin. If he succeeds in getting his hands on it, your publication will never be the same.”
    “And if he doesn’t buy us?”
    “The paper could fold in short order. But remember, Zoe, you didn’t hear that from me.”
    “I never hear anything from you, darling.”
    “I certainly hope not.”
    Zoe laughed in spite of herself. She was surprised at how easily she had fallen into the familiar, comfortable pattern of their relationship. She tried not to resist these feelings, just as she tried not to think about the mobile phone at Martin’s elbow or the notebook computer resting on the island in the kitchen.
    “How well do you know Viktor?”
    “Well enough.” Martin jabbed at his food. “He forced me to invite him to the fund-raiser at Villa Elma next week.”
    “How did he manage that?”
    “By writing a million-euro check to One World. I don’t care for Viktor or the way he does business, but at least you’ll have a chance to rub shoulders with your new owner.” He looked at her seriously. “You are still planning to come, aren’t you, Zoe?”
    “I suppose that depends on whether I’ll be safe there.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Your wife, Martin. I’m talking about Monique.”
    “Monique lives her life, and I live mine.”
    “But she might not enjoy seeing your life paraded in front of her wearing a Dior evening gown with the most scandalous neckline I’ve ever seen.”
    “You got my gift?”
    “Yes, Martin, I did. And you absolutely shouldn’t have.”
    “Of course I should have. And I expect you to be wearing it next week.”
    “I’m sure my date will enjoy it very much.”
    He looked down at his plate and casually asked who Zoe was planning to bring to the party.
    “Jason was hoping to come again, but I haven’t decided yet.”
    “Maybe you could bring someone other than one of your old lovers.”
    “Jason and I weren’t lovers, Martin. We were a mistake.”
    “But he obviously still cares for you a great deal.”
    She gave him a playful look. “Martin Landesmann, I do believe you’re jealous.”
    “No, Zoe, I’m not. But I don’t want to be deceived, either.”
    Her expression turned serious. “If you’re wondering whether there’s another man in my life, there isn’t, Martin. For better or worse, there’s only you.”
    “You’re sure about that?”
    “Very sure. And if you’re interested, I’d be more than willing to prove it.”
    “Finish your dinner, Zoe.”
    Zoe smiled. “I am finished.”

    T HIRTY MINUTES LATER, in the safe flat on the other side of the Seine, Gabriel sat hunched over his computer, fists to his temples, eyes closed, listening. Somewhere inside him, buried beneath a thousand lies and the scar tissue of countless wounds, there was an ordinary man who wanted desperately to lower the volume. Professionalism would not allow it. It was for her own good, he told himself. For her own protection. Sorry, Zoe. Had to be done.
    To distract himself, Gabriel walked to the window, night-vision binoculars pressed to his eyes, and checked the disposition of his troops. Yaakov was in his Peugeot. Oded was in his Renault. Mordecai was in his Ford van. Mikhail and Yossi were drinking beer with a group of young toughs along the quay. Rimona and Dina were sitting astride a pair of motor scooters near the Hôtel de Ville. He gave them each a tap on the shoulder by way of encrypted radio. They replied one by one, crisp and alert, Gabriel’s soldiers of the night.
    The last stop of Gabriel’s battlefield tour was the entrance of the cream-colored apartment house at 21 Quai de Bourbon, where one of Martin’s Zentrum bodyguards was pacing slowly in the lamplight. I know how you feel , thought Gabriel. The waiting can be hell.

52
    ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS, PARIS
    M oonlight shone through the uncurtained window and cast a rhombus of pale blue light across the tangled satin sheets of Martin Landesmann’s enormous bed.