The Rembrandt Affair (31 page)

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 Vallee 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 Muller came and went. He granted Muller 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 Gabriel.

"Are you armed?"

"No."

"Do you have a phone?"

"In the car."

"Radio?"

"In the car."

"What about a beacon?"

Gabriel shook his head.

"I'm going to have to search you."

"I can't wait."

Gabriel climbed into the back of the Mercedes and slid across to the center. Brunner got in after him and closed the door.

"Turn around and get on your knees."

"Here?"

"Here."

Gabriel did as he was told and was subjected to a more-than-thorough search, beginning with his shoes and ending with his scalp. When it was over, he turned around again and sat normally. Brunner signaled the driver, and the SUV eased forward.

"I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, Jonas."

"Shut your mouth, Allon."

"Where are my people?"

Brunner didn't answer.

"How far are we going?"

"Not far. But we have to make a brief stop along the way."

"Coffee?"

"Yes, Allon. Coffee."

"I hope you didn't hurt my girl, Jonas. Because if you hurt her, I'm going to hurt you."

T
HEY HEADED
due east along the edge of a narrow glacial valley. The road ducked in and out of the trees, leaving them in darkness one minute, blinding light the next. The blue-coated guards of Zentrum Security did not speak. Brunner's shoulder was pressing against Gabriel's. It was like leaning against a granite massif. The guard on Gabriel's left was flexing and unflexing his thick hands as if preparing for his solo. Gabriel had no illusions about the stop they were making on their way to see Martin. He wasn't surprised; it was a customary proceeding before a meeting like this, an aperitif before dinner.

At the head of the valley the road turned to a single-lane track before rising sharply up the slope of the mountain. A snow-plow had passed through recently, but the Mercedes was barely able to maintain traction as it headed toward the summit. A thousand feet above the valley floor, it came to a stop next to a secluded grove of fir trees. The two men in front immediately climbed out, as did the one on Gabriel's left. Jonas Brunner made no movement.

"I don't think you'll enjoy this as much as you enjoyed the search."

"Is this the part where your men soften me up a bit before I get taken to see Saint Martin?"

"Just get out of the car, Allon. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can be on our way."

Gabriel sighed heavily and climbed out.

J
ONAS
B
RUNNER
watched as his three best men marched Gabriel Allon into the trees, then marked the time. Five minutes, he'd told them. Not too much damage, just enough bruising to make him compliant and easy to handle. A part of Brunner was tempted to join in the festivities. He couldn't. Muller wanted an update.

He was dialing Muller's number when a movement in the trees caught his attention. Looking up, he saw a single figure walking purposefully out of the shadows. He glanced at his watch and frowned. He'd ordered his men to be judicious, but two minutes was hardly enough time to do the job right, especially when it involved a man like Gabriel Allon. Then Brunner looked at the figure closely and realized his mistake. It was not one of his own men coming out of the trees.
It was Allon
...In his hand was a gun, a SIG Sauer P226, the standard-issue sidearm of Zentrum Security. The Israeli ripped open Brunner's door and pointed the barrel of the gun directly into his face. Brunner didn't even think about reaching for his weapon.

"I'm told you speak German, Jonas, so listen carefully. I want you to give me your gun. Slowly, Jonas. Otherwise, I might be tempted to shoot you several times."

Brunner reached into his jacket, removed his weapon and handed it to the Israeli butt first.

"Give me your phone."

Brunner complied.

"Do you have a radio?"

"No."

"A beacon?"

Brunner shook his head.

"Too bad. You might need one later. Now get behind the wheel."

Brunner did as he was told and started the engine. The Israeli sat behind him, gun to the back of Brunner's head.

"How far are we going, Jonas?"

"Not far."

"No more stops?"

"No."

Brunner slipped the Mercedes into gear and continued up the slope of the mountain.

"Congratulations, Jonas. You just provided me with a weapon and turned yourself into a hostage. All in all, very well played."

"Are my men alive?"

"Two of them are. I'm not so sure about the third."

"I'd like to call for a doctor."

"Just drive, Jonas."

74

CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

T
hey climbed another thousand feet into the mountains and stopped at the edge of a sunlit ledge of glistening snow and ice high above the valley floor. In the center of the glade was an AW139 helicopter, engines silent, rotors still. Martin Landesmann waited near the tail, eyes concealed by wraparound sunglasses, his expression that of a man who had dropped by on his way to somewhere else. Ulrich Muller hovered anxiously next to him. Gabriel glanced at Jonas Brunner's eyes in the rearview mirror and told him to shut off the engine. Brunner did as he was told.

"Give me the key."

Brunner removed it and handed it to Gabriel.

"Put both hands on the wheel, Jonas. And don't move."

Gabriel climbed out and tapped on Brunner's window with the barrel of the gun. Brunner emerged, hands in the air.

"Now we walk, Jonas, nice and slow. Don't do anything to make Martin nervous."

"He prefers to be called Mr. Landesmann."

"I'll try to remember that." Gabriel jabbed Brunner in the kidney with the barrel of the gun. "Move."

Brunner advanced slowly toward the helicopter, Gabriel two paces behind, the gun at his side. Ulrich Muller managed to maintain a placid expression, but Martin was clearly displeased by the ignominious arrival of his personal security chief. At Gabriel's command, Brunner stopped ten yards short of his masters. Gabriel raised the gun and pointed it at Muller.

"Are you armed?" Gabriel asked in German.

"No."

"Open your overcoat."

Muller unbuttoned his coat, then opened the sides simultaneously.

"Now the suit jacket," said Gabriel.

Muller did the same thing. No gun. Gabriel glanced at the pilot.

"What about him?"

"This isn't Israel," Muller said. "This is Switzerland. Helicopter pilots aren't armed."

"What a relief." Gabriel looked at Martin Landesmann. "And you, Martin? Do you have a gun?"

Landesmann made no response. Gabriel repeated the question in rapid French. This time, Landesmann gave a superior smile and in the same language said, "Don't be ridiculous, Allon."

Gabriel reverted to German. "I'd ask you to open your coat, Martin, but I know you're telling the truth. Men like you don't soil their hands with weapons. That's what people like Ulrich and Jonas are for."

"Are you finished, Allon?"

"I'm just getting started, Martin. Or is it
Saint
Martin? I can never remember which you prefer."

"Actually, I prefer to be called Mr. Landesmann."

"So I've been told. I assume you've had a chance to review the material I sent earlier this morning?"

"Those documents mean nothing."

"If that were true, Martin, you wouldn't be here."

Landesmann gave Gabriel a withering stare, then asked, "Where did you get it?"

"The information on your pending sale of centrifuges to the Islamic Republic of Iran?"

"No, Allon, the
other
document."

"You mean the list? The names? The accounts? The money deposited in your father's bank?"

"Where did you get it?" Landesmann repeated, his tone even.

"I got it from Lena Herzfeld, Peter Voss, Alfonso Ramirez, Rafael Bloch, and a young woman who kept it hidden and safe for many, many years."

Landesmann's face registered no change.

"Don't you recognize the names, Martin?" Gabriel glanced at Muller. "What about you, Ulrich?"

Neither man responded.

"Let me help," Gabriel said. "Lena Herzfeld was a young Dutch Jewish girl whose life was traded for a Rembrandt. Peter Voss was a decent man who tried to atone for the sins of his father. Alfonso Ramirez had proof that a small private bank in Zurich was filled with looted Holocaust assets. And Rafael Bloch was the Argentine journalist who uncovered your ties to a German firm called Keppler Werk GmbH."

"And the young woman?" asked Landesmann.

"Oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters." Gabriel paused. "But you already knew that, didn't you? You've been looking for her for a long time. She was the most dangerous one of all."

Landesmann ignored the last remark and asked, "What is it you want, Allon?"

"Answers," Gabriel said. "When did you learn the truth? When did you find out that your father had stolen the money that Kurt Voss hid in his bank?"

Landesmann hesitated.

"I have the list, Martin. It's not a secret anymore."

"He told me about it a few days before his death," Landesmann said after another pause. "The money, the painting, the visit from Voss's wife, Carlos Weber..."

"Your father admitted to killing Weber?"

"My father didn't kill Weber," Landesmann said. "It was handled for him."

"Who did it?"

Landesmann glanced at Muller. "An earlier version of Ulrich."

"They come in handy, don't they? Especially in a country like Switzerland. Concealing the more repugnant aspects of your past is a national tradition, rather like your chocolates and your clean streets."

"They're not as clean as they used to be," Landesmann said. "Especially in certain neighborhoods. Too many damn foreigners in the country all the time."

"It's good to know you haven't forsaken your Swiss German roots entirely, Martin. Your father would be proud."

"Actually, it was Father who suggested I leave Zurich. He knew the banks would eventually pay a price for their activities during the war. He thought it might hurt my image."

"Your father was a clever man." Gabriel was silent for a moment. "You built your empire on a great crime, Martin. Did your conscience ever bother you? Did you ever feel guilty? Did you ever lose a night's sleep?"

"It wasn't my crime, Allon. It was my father's. And as your own Scripture makes clear, the son will not bear the punishment for the father's iniquity."

"Unless the son compounds his father's sins by using the stolen fortune as the basis for a lucrative worldwide holding company called Global Vision Investments."

"I didn't realize Ezekiel contained such a passage."

Gabriel ignored Landesmann's sarcasm. "Why didn't you come forward, Martin? The original value of the accounts was a drop in the bucket compared to the wealth you created."

"A drop in the bucket?" Landesmann shook his head. "Do you remember the Swiss banking scandal, Allon? The autumn of 1996? Every day brought a new headline about our collaboration with Nazi Germany. We were being called Hitler's Swiss fences. Hitler's bankers. The jackals were circling. If anyone had ever discovered the truth, GVI would have been torn limb from limb. The litigation would have gone on for years.
Decades
. The descendants of
any
Jew in
any
country where Kurt Voss had operated could have come forward and made a claim against me. The class-action lawyers would have been falling over themselves to sign up clients and file suits. I would have lost everything. And for what? For something my father did a half century earlier? Forgive me, Allon, but I didn't feel it was necessary for me to endure such a fate because of him."

Landesmann made an impassioned case for his innocence, thought Gabriel. But like most things about him, it was a lie. His father had been driven by greed. And so was Martin.

"So you did exactly what your father did," Gabriel said. "You kept quiet. You profited wildly from the fortune of a mass murderer. And you continued to look for a lost masterpiece by Rembrandt that had the power to destroy you. But there was one difference. At some point, you decided to become a saint. Even your father wouldn't have had the nerve for that."

"I don't like to be referred to as Saint Martin."

"Really?" Gabriel smiled. "That might be the most encouraging thing I've ever heard about you."

"And why is that?"

"Because it suggests you might actually have a conscience after all."

"What are you going to do with that list, Allon?"

"I suppose that depends entirely on you, Martin."