The Rembrandt Affair

56 THE PLAINS, VIRGINIA

The farm lay some fifty miles to the west of Washington, at the point where the first foothills of the Blue Ridge begin to sprout from the edge of the Shenandoah Valley. Residents of The Plains, a quaint hamlet located along the John Marshall Highway, believed the owner to be a powerful Washington lawyer with a great deal of money and many important friends in government, thus the black limousines and SUVs that were frequently seen roaring through town, sometimes at the oddest hours.

On a bitterly cold morning in mid-December, a dozen such vehicles were spotted in The Plains, far more than usual. All followed the same route—a left at the BP gas station and mini-mart, a right after the railroad tracks, then straight for a mile or so on County Road 601. Because it was a Friday and close to the Christmas holidays, it was assumed in The Plains that the farm was playing host to a weekend Washington retreat—the sort of gathering where lobbyists and politicians gather to swap money and favors, along with tips on how to improve one's golf swing and love life. As it turned out, the rumors were no accident. They had been planted by a division of the Central Intelligence Agency, which owned and operated the farm through a front company.

The security gate bore a handsome brass sign that read HEWITT, a name chosen at random by one of Langley's computers. Beyond it stretched a gravel road, bordered on the right by a narrow streambed and on the left by a broad pasture. Both were buried beneath more than two feet of snow, the remnants of a cataclysmic blizzard that had pummeled the region and paralyzed the federal government. Like most things these days, the storm had prompted a furious debate in Washington. Those who dismissed global warming as a hoax seized on the weather as validation of their point while prophets of climate change said it was yet more evidence of a planet in peril. The professional spies at Langley were not surprised by the discord. They knew all too well that two people could look at the same set of facts and come to radically different conclusions. Such was the nature of intelligence work. Indeed, such was the nature of life itself.

At the end of the gravel road, atop a low wooded hill, stood a two-story Virginia farmhouse with a double-decker porch and a copper roof. The circular drive had been plowed the previous night; even so, there was not enough room to accommodate the armada of sedans and SUVs. Indeed, the drive was so crammed with vehicles that the last to arrive could find no pathway to the house—a problem, since it contained the most important participants of the conference. As a result, they had no choice but to abandon their SUV and trudge the final fifty yards through the snow. Gabriel led the way, with Uzi Navot following a step behind and Shamron in the trail position, holding the arm of Rimona.

The entrance of the Israeli delegation prompted a round of cautious applause from the large group already gathered inside. The British had sent just two representatives—Graham Seymour of MI5 and Edmund Radcliff of MI6—but the Americans had shown no such restraint. Adrian Carter was there, along with Shepard Cantwell, the CIA's deputy director for intelligence, and Tom Walker, its top Iran analyst. There was also someone named Blanchard from the Office of National Intelligence and Redmond from the Defense Intelligence Agency. Representing the National Security Council was Cynthia Scarborough, and from the FBI was Steven Clark, though how the Bureau secured an invitation to the conference would forever remain one of Masterpiece's many mysteries.

They gathered around the formal dining room table, behind nameplates, towers of black briefing books, and cups of weak coffee. Adrian Carter made a few introductory remarks before switching on the PowerPoint. A map of Iran appeared on the screen with four locations clearly labeled. Carter shone the red light of a laser pointer at each in succession and read the names.

"Bushehr, Arak, Isfahan, Natanz. The key sites in the Iranian nuclear program. We all know the facilities well, but allow me to review them briefly. Bushehr is the nuclear power station built with German and Russian help. Isfahan is a conversion facility where uranium ore is turned into hexafluoride gas and uranium oxide. Arak is a heavy-water plant. And Natanz, of course, is Iran's primary uranium-enrichment facility." Carter paused, then added, "Or so it claims."

Carter lowered the laser pointer and turned to face his audience. "Our governments have long suspected those four sites are just the tip of the iceberg and that Iran is also building a chain of secret underground enrichment facilities. Now, thanks to our friends from Tel Aviv, we appear to have proof of our suspicions. And we believe Martin Landesmann, chairman of Global Vision Investments, is helping the Iranians do it."

Carter looked toward the Israeli delegation. "While it's true we've all been seeing the same intelligence on Landesmann for the past seventy-two hours, it was Rimona Stern who managed to connect the dots first. For those of you meeting her for the first time, Rimona is a former major in the Israel Defense Forces, an excellent field operative, and one of the country's most experienced intelligence analysts. You should also know that her uncle is none other than Ari Shamron. So I would advise you all to watch your step."

Shamron smiled and watched his niece intently as she rose and took Carter's place at the front of the room. Without a word, she advanced the PowerPoint presentation to the next image. Once again, it was a map of Iran. But this time, only one location was labeled.

The holy city of Qom...

IT WAS QOM that proved the mullahs were lying, Rimona began. Qom that shattered any last misplaced hopes the Iranian nuclear program was intended for anything other than producing weapons. Why else would they conceal a secret uranium-enrichment facility deep in a desert mountain? And why else would they refuse to disclose the facility to the International Atomic Energy Agency, nuclear watchdog of the United Nations? But there was a nagging problem with Qom, she reminded them. It was designed to house just three thousand centrifuges. And if those centrifuges were Iranian-made IR-1s, Qom could only manu facture enough highly enriched uranium to produce one bomb every two years, not enough for Iran to become a full-fledged nuclear power.

"Which should mean Qom is worthless," Rimona said. "Unless, of course, there are other Qoms, other secret enrichment facilities just like it scattered around the country. Two facilities with six thousand IR-1s spinning in tandem could produce enough highly enriched uranium to make a bomb each year. But what if there were four facilities with twelve thousand centrifuges? Or eight facilities with twenty-four thousand centrifuges?"

It was Tom Walker, Rimona's counterpart from the Agency, who answered. "Then Iran could produce enough enriched uranium to build an effective nuclear arsenal in a matter of months. They could throw the nuclear inspectors out of the country and go for nuclear breakout. And if the chain of secret facilities is well hidden and fortified, there would be almost nothing we could do to stop them."

"Correct," said Rimona. "But what if those centrifuges aren't wobbly, unreliable pieces of junk like the IR-1? What if they're similar to the P-2 models used by Pakistan? Or even better than the P-2? What if they're European designed and calibrated to the highest standards? What if they're manufactured under conditions where they don't end up with bothersome impurities like dust and fingerprints?"

This time it was Adrian Carter who answered. "Then we would be staring down the barrel of a nuclear Iran in a very short period of time."

"That's also correct. And I'm afraid that's exactly what's happened. While the civilized world has been talking, dithering, delaying, and wringing its hands, the Iranians have been quietly working to achieve their long-held nuclear ambitions. They've engaged in the time-honored deceptive practices of khod'eh and taqiyya. They've bluffed, deceived, and stalled their way to the doorstep of a nuclear arsenal. And Martin Landesmann has been helping them every step of the way. He's not just selling the Iranians the centrifuges. He's selling them the critical pumps, valves, and vacuums that link the centrifuges into a cascade. In short, Martin Landesmann is supplying the Islamic Republic of Iran with everything it needs to build uranium-enrichment plants."

"How?" asked Adrian Carter.

"Like this," said Rimona.

THE NEXT MAP that appeared on the screen depicted the Eurasian landmass stretching from Western Europe to the Sea of Japan. Scattered across Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Belgium was a constellation of companies, more than a dozen industrial and technological firms, including Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg. All the firms were connected by dotted lines leading to the southern Chinese city of Shenzhen, headquarters of XTE Hardware and Equipment.

"And guess who owns XTE Hardware and Equipment?" asked Rimona of no one in particular.

"Global Vision Investments," replied Adrian Carter.

"Through many fronts and subsidiaries, of course," Rimona added with a sardonic smile. "Mr. Landesmann also has a powerful partner, a Chinese private equity firm based in Shanghai that we believe is nothing more than a front company for the Ministry of State Security."

"The Chinese intelligence service," murmured Steven Clark of the FBI.

"Exactly." Rimona walked over to the map. "Landesmann's operation is much like the Iranian nuclear program it serves. It's dispersed, well concealed, and it contains redundancies and backups. Best of all, Saint Martin is completely untouchable because the entire supply chain is based on dual-use technology that's sold through cutouts. Martin is far too smart to sell the centrifuge cascades directly to the Iranians. Instead, he sells bits and pieces to XTE Hardware and Equipment. The Chinese then sell the finished product to trading companies in Dubai and Malaysia, which in turn deliver it to Iran."

"Can you tell how long it has been going on?" asked Cynthia Scarborough of the NSC.

"Not precisely, but we can make an educated guess. We know that Landesmann purchased Keppler Werk in 2002 and started adding other European industrial technology firms to his secret portfolio soon after."

"So we're talking about years then," Scarborough said.

"Several years," replied Rimona.

"Which means it's possible the secret chain of enrichment facilities could be at least partially completed?"

"That's our assumption. And recent Iranian behavior would seem to support that position."

"What sort of behavior?"

"For one thing, they're tunneling like moles. Your own satellite photographs show the Iranians are moving more and more of their nuclear program underground. And not just at Qom. They've added tunnel complexes at Isfahan and Natanz, and they're working on new ones at several other sites, including Metfaz, Khojir, and Parchin. Drilling tunnels into mountainsides isn't easy. And it certainly isn't cheap. We believe they're doing it for an obvious reason—to hide plants and to protect them from attack."

"What else?" asked Shepard Cantwell of the CIA.

"Natanz," replied Rimona.

"What about Natanz?"

"The Iranians have moved forty-three hundred pounds of low-enriched uranium, virtually their entire stockpile, to an aboveground storage facility. It's almost as if they're taunting us to attack them. Why would they take such a risk?"

"I suspect you have a theory."

"Iran's economy is on life support. Its young people are so restless they're willing to die protesting in the streets. We believe the mullahs might actually welcome an attack in order to reestablish their legitimacy with the Iranian people."

"But are they really willing to give up two tons of low-enriched uranium in the process?"

"They might be if other secret facilities are spinning away. In that case, an attack on Natanz gives them an excuse to throw out the UN inspectors and renounce their participation in the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty."

"Which would then allow them to pursue a nuclear arsenal openly," Cynthia Scarborough pointed out. "Just like the North Koreans."

"That's correct, Ms. Scarborough."

"So what are you recommending?"

Rimona switched off the PowerPoint. "Stopping them, of course."

57 THE PLAINS, VIRGINIA

There is a point in any such gathering when those who collect intelligence part company with those who analyze it. That moment came at the conclusion of Rimona's briefing when Adrian Carter rose suddenly to his feet and began absently beating the pockets of his blazer for his pipe. Four other men rose in unison and followed him across the central hallway into the living room. A log fire was burning in the open hearth; Shamron warmed his liver-spotted hands against the flames before lowering himself into the nearest chair. Navot sat next to him while Gabriel remained on his feet, pacing slowly at the edges of the room. Graham Seymour and Carter sat at opposite ends of the couch, Seymour as if posed for a clothing advertisement, Carter like a doctor preparing to break bad news to a terminal patient.

"How long?" he asked finally. "How long before they're able to close the deal and build their first nuclear weapon?"

Gabriel and Shamron both deferred to their chief in name only, Uzi Navot.

"Even the IAEA has finally concluded that the Iranians already possess the capability to produce a bomb. And if Martin Landesmann is going to sell them the top-of-the-line centrifuges they need to produce a steady supply of fuel..."

"How long, Uzi?" Carter repeated.

"A year at the outside. Perhaps even sooner."

Carter inserted his pipe into his tobacco pouch. "For the record, gentlemen, my masters at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue would be most grateful if you would refrain from attacking Iran's nuclear facilities now or at any time in the future."

"The feelings of the White House have been made clear to us."

"I'm just restating them now lest there be any confusion."

"There isn't. And as long as we're speaking for the record, no one wants to attack Iran any less than we do. This isn't some faction of the PLO we're dealing with. This is the Persian Empire. If we hit them, they'll hit us back. They're already arming Hezbollah and Hamas for a proxy war and priming their terror networks around the globe for attacks against Israeli and Jewish targets."

"They'll also turn Iraq into a flaming cauldron and the Persian Gulf into a war zone," Carter added. "The price of oil will skyrocket, which will plunge the global economy back into recession. And the world will blame you, of course."

"They always do," Shamron said. "We're used to that."

Carter struck a match and ignited his pipe. His next question was posed through a fog of smoke.

"Are you sure about the China connection?"

"We've been watching XTE for some time. The memos we dug out of Martin's laptop merely confirmed all our suspicions." Navot paused. "But surely you're not surprised by China's involvement in this?"

"I'm not surprised by anything China does these days, especially when it comes to Iran. The Islamic Republic is China's second-largest supplier of oil, and the state-run Chinese energy giants have invested tens of billions in Iranian oil-and-gas development. It's clear to us the Chinese view Tehran not as a threat but as an ally. And they're not at all concerned about the Iranians going nuclear. In fact, they might even welcome it."

"Because they think it will reduce American power in the Persian Gulf?"

"Precisely," said Carter. "And since the Chinese hold several hundred billion dollars' worth of American debt, we're in no position to call them on it. We've gone to them on numerous occasions to complain about restricted goods and weapons flowing from their ports to Iran, and the response is always the same. They promise to look into it. But nothing changes."

"We're not suggesting going to the Chinese," Navot said. "Or the Swiss, or the Germans, or the Austrians, or any other country linked to the supply chain. We already know it's a waste of time and effort. National interest and pure greed are powerful trump cards. Besides, the last thing we want is to confess to the Swiss that we're spying on their most prominent businessman."

"How many centrifuges do you think Martin has sold them?"

"We don't know."

"When was the first shipment?"

"We don't know."

"How about the last?"

"We don't know."

Carter waved a clear patch in the cloud of smoke in front of him. "All right, then. Why don't you tell us what you do know."

"We know the relationship has been lucrative and that it is ongoing. But more important we also know that in the near future a large shipment is scheduled to go from China to Dubai to Iran."

"How do you know that?"

"The information was contained in a temporary file we exhumed from Martin's hard drive. It was an encrypted e-mail sent to him by someone named Ulrich Muller."

Carter chewed silently on the tip of his pipe. "Muller?" he asked finally. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Navot said. "Why?"

"Because we first came across Herr Muller during our investigation into Zentrum Security. Muller is former DAP, the Swiss security service, and a first-class shit. Martin and Muller go way back. Muller does Martin's dirty work."

"Like managing a nuclear-smuggling network that stretches from Western Europe to southern China and back to Iran?"

"It would make sense for someone like Muller to act as Martin's front man in all this. Martin wouldn't want the Iran portfolio anywhere near GVI. Better to let someone like Muller handle the details."

Carter lapsed into silence, his gaze moving between Navot and Shamron. Gabriel was still prowling the perimeter of the room.

"Rimona's final remarks indicate that you gentlemen have an idea of how to proceed next," Carter said. "As your partners in this endeavor, Graham and I would like to know what you're thinking."

Navot glanced at Gabriel, who finally ceased pacing. "The material we gathered from Martin's laptop was helpful but limited. There's still a great deal we don't know. The number of units involved. The delivery dates. The method of payment. The shipping companies."

"I assume you have an idea where you might be able to find this information."

"On a computer located on the western shore of Lake Geneva," said Gabriel. "Twelve hundred thirty-eight feet above sea level."

"Villa Elma?"

Gabriel nodded.

"A break-in?" Carter asked incredulously. "Is that what you're suggesting? A second-story job at one of the most highly guarded private residences in Switzerland, a country notorious for the unusual vigilance of its citizenry?"

Greeted by silence, Carter's gaze moved from Gabriel to Shamron.

"I don't have to remind you of the pitfalls of operating in Switzerland, do I, Ari? In fact, I seem to recall an incident about ten years ago when an entire Office team was arrested while trying to tap the phone line of a suspected terrorist."

"No one is talking about breaking into Villa Elma, Adrian."

"So what do you have in mind?"

It was Gabriel who answered. "In four days, Martin Landesmann is throwing a lavish fund-raiser for three hundred of his closest and richest friends. We plan to attend."

"Really? And how do you plan on getting in? Are you going to pose as waiters and sneak in with canapes and caviar or just go for a good old-fashioned gate crash?"

"We're going as guests, Adrian."

"And how do you plan to get an invitation?"

Gabriel smiled. "We already have one."

"Zoe?" asked Graham Seymour.

Gabriel nodded.

"Do you happen to recall the words limited in scope and short in duration?"

"I was there, Graham."

"Good," said Seymour. "Then you might also recall we made a promise. We asked Zoe to perform one simple task. And that upon completion of that task she would go on her merry way with the expectation we would never darken her door again."

"The situation has changed."

"So you want her to break into a well-guarded office in the middle of a lavish party? An assignment like that would be extremely difficult and dangerous for a seasoned agent. For a novice recruit with no experience...impossible."

"I'm not asking Zoe to break into Martin's office, Graham. All she has to do is show up at the party." Gabriel paused, then added, "With a date on her arm, of course."

"A date you intend to provide for her?"

Gabriel nodded.

"Any candidates?" asked Adrian Carter.

"Just one."

"Since I assume you're not planning to fix her up with Ari or Eli Lavon, that leaves Mikhail."

"He looks excellent in a tux."

"I'm sure he does. But he also went through hell in Russia. Is he ready for something like this?"

Gabriel nodded. "He's ready."

Carter's pipe had gone dead. He immediately reloaded it and struck a match. "May I point out that right now we are seeing everything Martin does on his phone and laptop computer? If your proposed operation in Geneva goes bad, we stand to lose everything."

"And what if Martin decides to switch phones, or his security does a sweep of his laptop and discovers software that's not supposed to be there?"

"Your point?"

"Our window into Martin's world could close in the blink of an eye," Gabriel said, snapping his fingers to illustrate the point. "We have a chance to get into Villa Elma cleanly. Given what we know about how close the Iranians might be to a weapon, it seems to me we have no choice but to take it."

"You make a compelling case. But this discussion is moot unless Zoe agrees to go back in." Carter glanced at Seymour. "Will she do it?"

"I suspect she might be talked into it. But the prime minister will have to personally approve the operation. And no doubt my rivals from across the river will demand a role for themselves."

"They can't have one," Gabriel said. "This is our operation, Graham, not theirs."

"I'll be sure to give them the message," Seymour said, gesturing with his eyes toward the MI6 man in the dining room. "But there's just one thing we haven't covered."

"What's that?"

"What do you propose to do if we actually manage to find the shipment of centrifuges?"

"If we can find those centrifuges..." Gabriel's voice trailed off. "Let's just say the possibilities are endless."

58 SOUTHWARK, LONDON

Gerald Malone, chairman and CEO of Latham International Media, brought down the ax at three p.m. the following afternoon. It came in the form of an e-mail to all Journal employees, written in Malone's usual arid prose. It seemed that recent efforts to control costs had proven insufficient to keep the paper viable in its present form. Therefore, Latham management had no choice but to impose drastic and immediate staff reductions. The cuts would be both deep and wide, with the editorial division suffering the highest casualty rate by far. One newsroom unit, the special investigative team led by Zoe Reed, conspicuously managed to avoid any redundancies. As it turned out, the reprieve was a parting gift from Jason Turnbury, who would soon be joining the same management group that had just turned the Journal into a smoking ruin.

And so it was with a heavy sense of survivor's guilt that Zoe sat at her desk that evening, watching the ritual packing of personal effects that follows any mass firing. As she listened to the tear-stained speeches of farewell, she thought it might be time to leave newspapering and accept the television job that awaited her in New York. And not for the first time, she found herself daydreaming about the remarkable group of men and woman whom she had encountered at the safe house in Highgate. Much to her surprise, she missed the company of Gabriel and his team in ways she never imagined possible. She missed their determination to succeed and their unflinching belief that their cause was just, things she used to feel when she walked into the newsroom of the Journal. But more than anything, she missed the collegial atmosphere of the safe house itself. For a few hours each night, she had been part of a family—a noisy, quarrelsome, petulant, and at times dysfunctional family but a family nonetheless.

For reasons not clear to Zoe, it seemed the family had forsaken her. During the train ride home from Paris, the operative with short dark hair and pockmarks on his cheeks had clandestinely congratulated her on a job well done. But after that there had been only silence. No phone calls, no e-mails, no staged encounters on the street or tube, no quiet summons to MI5 headquarters to thank her for her service. From time to time, she had the sense she was being watched, but it might have only been wishful thinking. For Zoe, who was used to the instant gratification of daily journalism, the hardest part was not knowing whether her work had made a difference. Yes, she had a vague sense the Paris operation had gone well, but she had no idea whether it was producing the kind of intelligence Gabriel and Graham Seymour needed. She supposed it was quite possible she never would.

As for her feelings about Martin Landesmann, she had read once that the recovery time from a romantic relationship is equal to the life span of the relationship itself. But Zoe had discovered the time could be drastically reduced when one's former lover was secretly selling restricted goods to the Islamic Republic of Iran. Her hatred of Martin was now intense, as was her desire to sever contact with him. Unfortunately, that wasn't possible since her private life was now a matter of national security. MI5 had asked her to keep open the lines of communication to prevent Martin from becoming suspicious. Still unclear, though, was whether they wished her to attend Martin's gala fund-raiser in Geneva. Zoe had no desire to set foot in Martin's home. In fact, Zoe never wanted to see Martin's face again.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Jason Turnbury, who appeared in the newsroom to deliver the obligatory post-massacre eulogy about what an honor it had been to work with so talented and dedicated a group of journalists. At the conclusion of his remarks, the newsroom staff began slowly filing to the elevators like confused survivors of a natural disaster. Most headed straight for the Anchor, the historic pub located adjacent to the Journal, and began drinking heavily. Zoe felt compelled to put in an appearance but soon found herself desperate to escape. So she dried a few eyes and patted a few shoulders, then slipped quietly out the door into a drenching rain.

There were no taxis to be had, so she struck out across Southwark Bridge. A frigid wind was howling up the Thames; Zoe put up her compact umbrella, but it was useless against the horizontal deluge. At the far end of the bridge she spotted a familiar figure standing on the pavement as if oblivious to the weather. It was the middle-aged man in a mackintosh coat who had made the initial approach to Zoe outside CNN the night of her recruitment. As Zoe drew closer, he raised his hand to his mouth as if suppressing a cough. At which point a Jaguar limousine materialized and stopped next to her. The rear door opened. Graham Seymour beckoned her inside.

"I hear there was a fair amount of bloodletting at the Journal just now," Seymour said as the car drew away from the curb.

"Is there anything you don't know?"

"It was on the BBC."

The car turned left into Upper Thames Street.

"My tube stop is in the opposite direction."

"I need to have a word with you."

"I gathered."

"We were wondering what your plans were for the weekend."

"A trashy book. A couple of DVDs. Maybe a walk in Hampstead Heath if it's not raining."

"Sounds rather dull."

"I like dull, Mr. Seymour. Especially after Paris."

"We have something a bit more exciting if you're interested."

"What do you want me to do this time? Break into a bank? Take down an al-Qaeda cell?"

"All you have to do is attend a party and look ravishing."

"I think I can mange that. Any planning involved?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So it's back to Highgate?"

"Not right away. You have a dinner date at Mirabelle first."

"With whom?"

"Your new lover."

"Really? What's he like?"

"Young, handsome, rich, and Russian."

"Does he have a name?"

"Mikhail Danilov."

"How noble."

"Actually, he doesn't have a noble bone in his body. Which is exactly why he's going to be on your arm when you walk into Martin Landesmann's house Saturday night."

59 HIGHGATE, LONDON

In keeping with the spirit of Masterpiece, their romance was a whirlwind. They lunched together, window-shopped in New Bond Street together, strolled the markets of Covent Garden together, and were even spotted ducking hand-in-hand into an early-afternoon film in Leicester Square. Notoriously circumspect at work about her personal affairs, Zoe made no mention of anyone new in her life, though all agreed that her mood around the office seemed markedly improved. This prompted wild if uninformed speculation among her colleagues as to the identity of her new love interest and the source of his obvious wealth. Someone said he had made a fortune in Moscow real estate before the crash. Someone else said it was Russian oil that had made him rich. And from somewhere within the bowels of the copy desk came the completely unfounded rumor he was an arms dealer—just like the recently departed Ivan Kharkov, may God have mercy on his miserable soul.

The staff of the Journal would never learn the true identity of the tall, strikingly handsome Russian squiring Zoe about town. Nor would Zoe's colleagues ever discover that the new couple spent most of their time sequestered inside a redbrick Victorian house located at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in Highgate. Any questions Zoe had regarding the success of the Paris operation were put to rest within seconds of her return, for the first voice she heard upon entering the drawing room was Martin Landesmann's. It was emanating from the speakers of a computer in the corner of the room, and would continue to do so, virtually uninterrupted, for the next three days of preparation. While Zoe was pleased that her work had paid dividends, she found the constant presence of Martin's voice deeply unsettling. Yes, she thought, Martin more than deserved the intrusion into his most private affairs. But she could not help but feel uneasy over the enormous powers of surveillance now possessed by the world's intelligence services. Mobile technology had given governments the capability to monitor their citizens' words, e-mails, and to some extent even their thoughts in ways that were once the stuff of science fiction. The brave new world had definitely arrived.

The team of operatives working at the safe house was largely the same with two notable additions. One was a rheumy-eyed octogenarian; the other, a strawberry-haired man with the physique of a wrestler. Zoe understood immediately that they were figures of authority. She would never be told, however, they were the former and present chiefs of the Israeli secret intelligence service.

Though her role in Geneva was to be largely one of entree, Zoe had to be prepared for the worst possible outcome. As a result, her rapid training focused largely on learning a tragic story. It was the story of a handsome Russian named Mikhail Danilov who had swept her off her feet. A man who had preyed on her vulnerability and deceived her into inviting him to Martin Landesmann's gala. This story, Gabriel reminded her at every turn, would be Zoe's only protection in the event the operation went badly. Thus the stroll along New Bond Street, the outing to Covent Garden, and the time-consuming afternoon film in Leicester Square. "Store every sordid detail in that formidable memory of yours," Gabriel said. "Learn it as though you reported it and wrote it yourself."

Unlike most crash preparations, the information did not flow just one way during those final sessions in Highgate. In fact, in a curious reversal of roles, Zoe was able to contribute significantly to the planning since she was the only one among those present to have ever set foot in Martin's enchanted lakeside residence. It was Zoe who described the entry protocol at Martin's front gate on the rue de Lausanne and Zoe who briefed the team on the probable disposition of Martin's security guards inside the mansion. Shamron was so impressed by her presentation that he told Navot to consider putting her on the Office payroll permanently.

"Something tells me our British partners might not appreciate that," Navot replied.

"Partnerships between intelligence services are like marriages based on physical attraction, Uzi. They burn brightly for a time and almost always end badly."

"I didn't realize you were a relationship counselor, boss."

"I'm a spy, Uzi. The mysteries of the human heart are my business."

The presence of so many powerful personalities in so confined a space might well have been a recipe for disaster. But for the most part, the atmosphere during those three intense days of preparation remained civil, at least when Zoe was present. Gabriel retained control over operational planning, but Navot took the Office's seat at the interagency meetings in Thames House. In many respects, it was a coming-out party for Navot, and those who witnessed his conduct during the gatherings came away impressed by his seriousness of purpose and his command of the issues. All agreed that the Office looked to be in good hands for years to come—unless, of course, Navot's promising career were to be derailed by a disaster on the shores of Lake Geneva.

It was the memories of disasters past that seemed to haunt Gabriel during those long days in Highgate. Time and time again, he warned his team to guard against any complacency arising from the success of the operation in Paris. They would be playing on Martin's turf now. Therefore, all the advantages would be his. Like his father before him, Martin had shown himself willing to resort to violence when faced with the threat of exposure. He had killed one reporter over his secret dealings with Iran and would surely kill another, even a reporter who happened to be sharing his bed.

But occasionally even Gabriel would pause and shake his head in wonder at the unlikely road he had traveled to reach this point—a road that had begun in Amsterdam in the luminous white sitting room of Lena Herzfeld. Lena was rarely far from Gabriel's thoughts, just as the list of names and account numbers was never far from his side. Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld...Shamron referred to them as the invisible members of Gabriel's team.

Shamron displayed an admirable restraint within the walls of the safe house, but for an hour each day, on the wooden bench atop Parliament Hill, he would privately share with Gabriel his fears about the operation that lay ahead. He began their final meeting by expressing his concerns about Gabriel's leading man.

"Your entire operation hinges on Mikhail making one key decision. Can he get into Martin's office cleanly and stay there for an hour and fifteen minutes without anyone noticing his absence? If he makes the wrong decision, it's going to be a party to remember."

"You're concerned he might be too aggressive?"

"Not necessarily. Mikhail was a mess when he came home from Russia. Almost as bad as you and Chiara. After what he went through in that birch forest, he might not take the risks necessary to pull off his assignment."

"He's been trained by the Sayeret and the Office, Ari. When he walks through the door of Villa Elma tomorrow night, he won't be Mikhail Abramov. He'll be Mikhail Danilov, Russian millionaire and consort of Zoe Reed."

"Was it really necessary to give a hundred thousand euros of my money to Martin's foundation?"

"Mr. Danilov insisted."

"Did he?"

"Mr. Danilov wanted to make a good first impression. He's also not the sort of man who likes to come across as a freeloader. Mr. Danilov is quite well off. And he always pays his own way."

"Let's just hope Mr. Danilov makes the right choice about whether to go after the computer. Not only for his sake but for Zoe's, not to mention your friend Uzi Navot." Shamron ignited a cigarette. "I hear he's already won many friends and admirers at Thames House and Vauxhall Cross."

"And you?"

"I will admit to being impressed by Uzi's debut on the international stage. If this operation proves to be a success, it will go down as one of the greatest triumphs in the history of the Office. And to think Uzi actually tried to kill it before it could even take flight." Shamron glanced at Gabriel. "Maybe next time he won't let his ego get in the way when you try to tell him something."

Gabriel made no reply.

"I see you didn't include your wife on the team for Geneva," Shamron said. "I assume it wasn't an oversight."

"She's not happy about it, but I want her to stay here with you and Uzi."

"Maybe you should consider doing the same." Shamron smoked in silence for a moment. "I suppose I don't have to remind you that you operated in Switzerland quite recently or that there was a great deal of bloodshed involved. It's possible the Swiss are aware of your recent visits to the country. Which means that if anything goes wrong tomorrow evening, it might be a long time before I can get you out again."

"I'm not going to let anyone else run the show in Geneva, Ari."

"I assumed that would be your answer. Just make sure you abide by the Eleventh Commandment. Don't get caught."

"Do you have any other helpful advice?"

"Bring Zoe Reed home alive." Shamron dropped his cigarette to the ground. "I wouldn't want Uzi's London debut to close after its opening night."

IF THERE WAS a chink in the armor of the Office, it was the problem of passports. In most cases, undercover Israeli agents could not carry Israeli passports since Israeli citizens were not allowed to enter target countries or, as in the case of Switzerland, were regarded with suspicion by local authorities. Therefore, after a round of intense negotiations, it was decided that all eight members of the Geneva team would travel on false American or Commonwealth passports. It was a magnanimous but necessary gesture that guaranteed the operation would not crumble at the gates of passport control. Even so, Gabriel took the routine Office precaution of sending his team into Geneva on three different flights and by three different routes. There were some traditions that died hard, even in a multilateral world.

His own flight was KLM 1022, departing London Heathrow at 5:05 p.m., arriving Geneva International at ten after a brief stopover in Amsterdam, which Gabriel found fitting. He had an American passport that identified him as Jonathan Albright and a stack of business cards that said he worked for a hedge fund based in Greenwich, Connecticut. He carried clothing that didn't belong to him and performance charts he didn't understand. In fact, as Gabriel slipped out of the Highgate safe house that afternoon for the final time, everything about him was a lie. Everything but the beautiful woman with riotous dark hair watching from the window on the second floor. And the list of names and account numbers tucked safely into the zippered compartment of his briefcase.

60 GENEVA

The first trucks appeared at the gates of Villa Elma at the stroke of nine the following morning. Thereafter, they arrived in an unbroken stream, disgorging their contents into Martin Landesmann's graceful forecourt like the spoils of a distant war. There were crates of wine and spirits and ice chests filled with fresh crab flown in specially from Alaska. There were trolleys stacked with tables and chairs and polished wooden boxes filled with china, crystal, and silver. There were music stands for a full orchestra, a fifty-foot fir tree to adorn the front entrance hall, and enough lights to illuminate a midsize city. There was a team of audiovisual technicians bearing a theater-quality projection system, and, curiously, a pair of women dressed in khaki who arrived in late afternoon accompanied by a dozen wild animals. The animals turned out to be highly endangered species that Saint Martin was allegedly spending a small fortune attempting to save. As for the projection system, Martin planned to bore his guests with an hour-long documentary he had produced on the perils of global warming. The timing was somewhat ironic since Europe was shivering through the coldest winter in living memory.

The intensity of the preparations at Villa Elma stood in stark contrast to the tranquil mood at the Grand Hotel Kempinski, located approximately a mile down the lakeshore, on the Quai de Mont-Blanc. In the ornate lobby, the atmosphere was one of permanent evening. Beneath a low ceiling studded with a galaxy of tiny lights, bellmen and valets spoke in hushed tones as if concerned about waking sleeping children. A decorative gas fire burned listlessly in the empty lounge; gold watches and pearl necklaces glowed seductively from the display cases of empty boutiques. Even at three p.m., a time when the lobby normally bustled with activity, the silence was oppressive. Privately, management was blaming the recent slump in business on the weather and on the collapse of the real estate market in a certain Gulf emirate known for its excess. To make matters worse, Swiss voters had recently offended many of the Kempinski's most reliably free-spending patrons by approving a nationwide ban on the construction of minarets. Like nearly everyone else in Geneva, management was beginning to wonder whether the usually sure-footed business enterprise sometimes referred to as Switzerland had finally lost a step.

As a result, management was overjoyed when Zoe Reed, the British journalist who was a fixture on hotel television screens around the world, entered the Kempinski's lobby at 3:15, accompanied by a gold-plated Russian named Mikhail Danilov. After checking into separate rooms, Mr. Danilov sent a shirt and tuxedo down to the laundry for pressing, then proceeded to the fitness room for what witnesses would later describe as a terrifying work-out. For her part, Ms. Reed spent a few minutes browsing the shops in the lobby, then headed to the salon to have her hair and makeup professionally done for the affair at Villa Elma. Two other female attendees were also in the salon, along with a woman who had been present in the Highgate safe house. Seated in the waiting area was the tweedy Englishman whom Zoe knew as David. He was leafing through a copy of Vogue magazine with an expression of spousal boredom and grumbling to himself about the quality of the maid service.

It was approaching five when Zoe left the salon and headed upstairs to her room to begin dressing for the party. Her escort, Mikhail Danilov, was staying in the adjacent room, while three doors down was a man who had checked into the hotel under the name Jonathan Albright, executive vice president of something called Markham Capital Advisers of Greenwich, Connecticut. His real name was Gabriel Allon, of course, and he was not alone. Seated on the opposite side of the small desk was Eli Lavon. Like Gabriel, he was wearing a pair of headphones and staring intently into a laptop computer. Lavon's was receiving a stream from the compromised phone of Zoe Reed while Gabriel's was taking in the feed from Martin Landesmann's. Zoe was watching the hourly news bulletin on the BBC. Martin was discussing security arrangements for the party with Jonas Brunner, his personal bodyguard.

The meeting concluded at 5:03. Martin conferred briefly with his chief party planner, then headed upstairs to the room located in the southeast corner of Villa Elma, 1,238 feet above sea level. Gabriel heard the now-familiar eight atonal beeps as Martin entered the security code into the keyless lock—eight digits that would soon be standing between Mikhail and Martin's most closely guarded secrets. A few seconds later came the sound of the office door opening and closing, followed by the clatter of Martin's fingers over the keyboard of his computer. It seemed Martin had a bit of work to do before the party. So did Gabriel. He handed his headphones to Eli Lavon and stepped into the corridor.

A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the latch. Gabriel knocked twice, paused, then knocked twice again. Zoe opened the door a few seconds later and peered at him over the security bar.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, feigning irritation.

"You can let me in, Zoe. We swept your room while you were gone. You're clean."

Zoe unlocked the door and stepped aside. She was barefoot and wearing only a white hotel bathrobe.

"Is that what you're planning to wear tonight?" asked Gabriel.

"I prefer it to that dress Martin bought me."

"He might be disappointed if you don't wear it."

"So will every other man in the room."

Gabriel walked over to the desk. Zoe's phone was lying on the blotter. He picked it up, pressed the power button, and held it until the screen turned to black.

"Is there something you need to tell me about my phone?" Zoe asked.

"It's just a precaution."

"Yes," she said, her tone sardonic. "And I came all the way to Geneva to bask in the glow of Martin Landesmann for a few hours."

Gabriel placed the phone on the desk again but said nothing.

"Just make sure you switch it off when this is over." She sat on the edge of the bed. "You never told me what you call it."

"What's that?"

"The procedure we carried out on Martin's phone and computer."

"I was born in the late seventeenth century, Zoe. Even I don't know the proper name for it."

"And the slang?"

"Some techs refer to it as backdooring, rooting, or popping. We like to call it owning."

"Meaning?"

"If we can get our hands on the target's phone, we own it. If we can get inside his bank accounts, we own them. If we can get to his home security system, we can own that, too. And if Mikhail can get inside Martin's office tonight..."

"Then we can find the centrifuges?"

Gabriel was struck by Zoe's use of the pronoun we. "Yes," he said with a nod of his head. "If we're lucky, we might be able to find the centrifuges."

"What are the odds?"

"Hard to say."

"I assume this isn't the first time your service has done something like this."

Gabriel hesitated, then answered. "There's been a not-so-secret war going on here in Europe for some time, Zoe. It involves the Iranians and European high-tech firms. And the computers of the bad guys are one of our greatest weapons."

"For example?"

"I'm not going to give you an example."

"How about a hypothetical?"

"All right. Let's say a hypothetical Iranian nuclear scientist goes to a hypothetical conference in Berlin. And let's say our hypothetical scientist has notes on his hypothetical computer on how to build a nuclear warhead."

"Then it might be difficult to keep a straight face when the Iranian president declares his program is strictly peaceful."

"That's correct."

"And are they building a warhead?"

"Without question," Gabriel said. "And they're getting closer every day. But to be an effective nuclear power, they need a steady supply of highly enriched uranium. And for that, they need centrifuges. Good ones. Centrifuges that don't break down. Centrifuges that spin at a reliable speed. Centrifuges that aren't contaminated."

"Martin's centrifuges," Zoe said softly.

Gabriel was silent. Zoe glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

"Unless you intend to help me get dressed, I think I'll have to ask you to leave now."

"In a minute." Gabriel sat. "Remember, Zoe, when Mikhail makes his move, it's important you not appear to be alone or in any way unattached. Latch onto someone. Strike up a conversation. The worst thing you can do is be quiet or look nervous. Be the opposite of nervous. Be the life of the party. Do you understand?"

"I think I can manage that."

Gabriel smiled briefly, then his expression turned serious. "Now tell me again what happens if Mikhail gets caught."

"I'm to disown him. I'm to say he deceived me into bringing him. And then I'm to leave the party as quickly as possible."

"Even if it means leaving Mikhail behind."

She was silent for a moment. "Please don't make me say it."

"Say it, Zoe."

"Even if it means leaving Mikhail behind."

"Don't hesitate, Zoe. And don't look back. If one of Martin's guards tries to grab you, make a scene so everyone in the party knows there's a problem. Martin will have no choice but to let you leave." Gabriel paused, then asked, "Do you understand, Zoe?"

She nodded.

"Say it."

"I'll make a bloody scene. And I'll leave Mikhail behind."

"Very good. Any questions?"

Zoe shook her head. Gabriel rose and gave her the phone.

"Turn it on when I leave. And keep it close tonight."

Gabriel started toward the door.

"Actually, I do have one question, Mr. Allon."

He stopped and turned.

"What happened in that field outside London?"

"There is no field outside London. And there is no safe house in Highgate, either. The mind is like a basin, Zoe. Pull the plug, and the memory drains away."

Gabriel slipped out the door without another word. Zoe switched on her mobile and began to dress.

AMONG THE MANY logistical challenges faced by the team had been the acquisition of a suitable car to ferry Zoe and Mikhail to the party. An attempt was made to rent a vehicle in Geneva, but that proved impossible because Martin's other guests had already snatched up every luxury sedan in the canton. That left a hasty purchase as the only option. Gabriel handled the chore himself, choosing a black fully loaded S-Class Mercedes, which he paid for in full with a certified check from one of Navot's operational accounts in Zurich. When news of the procurement reached Highgate, Shamron flew into a seething rage. Not only had the Office just spent one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for a car but a German car at that.

It eased gracefully into the Kempinski's circular drive at 6:15 that evening with Yaakov behind the wheel, looking as though he were guiding an oil tanker through treacherous seas. After successful completion of the maneuver, he informed the doorman that he was there to collect Mr. Danilov. The doorman called Mr. Danilov, who in turn called Ms. Reed and Mr. Albright of Markham Capital Advisers. Mr. Albright immediately dispatched a secure message to his superiors in London that read DEPARTURE IMMINENT. Then he looked at his computer screen. A red light was blinking in the southeast corner of Villa Elma, 1,238 feet above sea level.

61 MAYFAIR, LONDON

The message from Geneva flashed on the screens of the CIA ops center beneath Grosvenor Square. Seated in their usual places in the back row were Graham Seymour, Adrian Carter, and Ari Shamron. In a significant break with tradition, they were joined that evening by two additional members of the Masterpiece team. One was Uzi Navot, the other was Chiara Allon. All five were staring at the message screens like stranded airline passengers waiting for a long-delayed flight. Shamron was already nervously turning over his old Zippo lighter in his fingertips. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left...

"Does anyone know the definition of the word imminent?"

"Ready to take place," offered Graham Seymour.

"Hanging threateningly over one's head," added Adrian Carter.

Shamron frowned heavily and looked at Chiara, who responded by typing a few characters into her laptop computer. A moment later, a new message appeared on the display screens at the front of the room.

DEPARTURE IN PROGRESS...

"What was the problem?" Shamron asked.

"Zoe's zipper was stuck."

"Who fixed it?"

"Mr. Albright of Markham Capital Advisers."

Shamron smiled. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left...

MIKHAIL STOOD outside the elevators on the sixth floor of the Grand Hotel Kempinski and examined his appearance in the decorative smoked-glass mirror. His clothing was simple but elegant: a Brioni tuxedo, a plain-fronted formal shirt, a traditional bow tie. The jacket had been specially fitted to accommodate the two pieces of technical equipment he was carrying at the small of his back. The crisp knot of his bow tie had been a collaborative effort involving three agents of Israeli intelligence and no small amount of preoperational hysteria.

He leaned closer to the mirror, made an adjustment to his blond forelock, and examined his face. Hard to believe he was the same boy from the derelict apartment blocks of Moscow. A boy who had been beaten and spat upon by Russian brethren every day merely for having been cursed with the name of the patriarch. The boy had moved to Israel with his dissident parents and had learned to fight. But tonight he would fight in a different way, against a man who was supplying the mullahs of Iran with the power to fulfill their wildest fantasies. Tonight he was no longer Mikhail Abramov. Tonight he was a real Russian with a proper Russian name and a great deal of money in his Russian pockets.

He heard the sound of a door closing just down the corridor. Zoe appeared a few seconds later, looking radiant in her Dior dress. Mikhail kissed her formally on both cheeks for the benefit of the hotel cameras, then stepped back to admire her.

"Something tells me you're going to be the center of attention tonight."

"Better me than you."

Mikhail laughed as he led Zoe into the elevator. In the lobby, Yossi and Rimona were drinking coffee near the gas fire while Dina and Mordecai were talking to the concierge about restaurants. Mikhail offered Zoe his arm and led her toward the entrance. A doorman intercepted them, a concerned look on his face.

"I'm afraid we have a slight problem, Mr. Danilov."

"What's that?"

"An overabundance of cars."

"Can you be a bit more clear?" Mikhail asked, adopting the impatient tone that comes naturally to the rich, Russian or otherwise. "I'm afraid we're running late for an important engagement."

The doorman turned and pointed through the revolving door toward the S-Class Mercedes. Yaakov was standing at the rear driver's-side door, hand on the latch, face a blank mask.

"That's your car, Mr. Danilov."

"So what's the problem?"

The doorman pointed to a second Mercedes, a Maybach 62S. Two well-dressed men in dark overcoats were standing near the trunk, hands in their pockets. Mikhail recognized the older of the two from surveillance photographs. It was Jonas Brunner.

"And that car," said the doorman, "is for Ms. Reed."

"Who sent it?"

"Mr. Martin Landesmann."

"Do me a favor then. Tell those gentlemen that Ms. Reed and I will be traveling to the party together in my car."

"They were quite insistent Ms. Reed ride with them."

Mikhail instructed Zoe to wait in the lobby, then stepped outside. Jonas Brunner immediately walked over and introduced himself.

"Do you mind telling me what this is all about?" Mikhail asked.

"Mr. Landesmann has made arrangements for your travel to Villa Elma. Forgive us for not telling you sooner. It was an oversight on our part."

"Us?"

"I work for Mr. Landesmann."

"In what capacity?" Mikhail asked needlessly.

"I'm a personal aide, of sorts," Brunner said evasively.

"I see. Well, please convey to Mr. Landesmann our thanks for his very generous offer, but we'll be taking our own car."

"I'm afraid Mr. Landesmann would be deeply offended to hear that." Brunner held out his hand toward the Maybach. "Please, Mr. Danilov, I'm sure you and Ms. Reed will find this one very comfortable."

Mikhail turned and looked at Zoe, who was watching him through the glass as though she found the entire spectacle faintly amusing. It was not, of course. In fact, it presented Mikhail with his first decision of the evening, far sooner than he had anticipated. To refuse the offer would look suspicious. But to accept meant they would be under Martin's control from the outset. Mikhail Abramov wanted to insist on taking his own car. But Mikhail Danilov knew he had no choice but to accept. Otherwise, the evening was going to get off to a very tense start. He looked at Brunner and managed a slight smile.

"We'll be delighted to ride in your car. Shall I dismiss my driver or will we need him to get back to the hotel?"

"We'll bring you back at the end of the party, Mr. Danilov."

Mikhail turned and gestured for Zoe to come outside. Brunner opened the rear door of the Maybach and smiled.

"Good evening, Ms. Reed."

"Good evening, Jonas."

"You look lovely this evening."

"Thank you, Jonas."

YAAKOV WATCHED the Maybach turn into the darkened Quai de Mont-Blanc, then lifted his wrist mic to his lips.

"Did you hear that?"

"I heard it," replied Gabriel."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Follow them. Carefully."

THIRTY SECONDS LATER, a new message flashed on the screens at Grosvenor Square. Shamron glared at Navot.

"How much did that car cost me, Uzi?"

"One hundred and twenty-five thousand, boss."

"And how much did Mikhail donate to Martin's foundation?"

"A hundred thousand."

"I once stole a Russian MiG for less than that, Uzi."

"What would you like me to do, boss?"

"Make sure that car survives the night. I want my money back."

62 GENEVA

They headed north along the shoreline through the drowsy elegance of Geneva's diplomatic quarter. Zoe sat behind the driver, hands folded in her lap, knees leaning to one side. Mikhail sat behind Jonas Brunner and stared silently at the lake.

"Your first time in Geneva, Mr. Danilov?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You seem very interested in the lake."

"I've always been very fond of the lake."

"So you come often then?"

"A couple of times a year."

"For business?"

"Is there any other reason to come to Geneva?"

"Some people come for holiday."

"Really?"

And do you interrogate all Mr. Landesmann's guests, Herr Brunner? Or only the friends of his mistress?

If Zoe was thinking the same thing, her expression did not show it. She turned her large brown eyes fondly toward Mikhail, then stared straight ahead. They were approaching the Botanical Gardens. The Palace of Nations floated past like a giant luxury liner and was swallowed by the mist. Mikhail looked out the window again and saw Brunner's eyes watching him in the side mirror.

"Mr. Landesmann asked me to thank you for the generous donation you made to One World. He intends to speak with you personally, if he has a chance."

"That's really not necessary."

"Try telling that to Mr. Landesmann."

"I will," Mikhail said jovially.

Brunner didn't seem to understand the irony. He turned robotically, his cross-examination apparently at an end, and murmured a few words in German into his wrist mic. They had left the diplomatic quarter and were speeding now along the rue de Lausanne. Towering hedgerows and stone walls lined both sides of the road, concealing some of the world's costliest and most exclusive real estate. The gates seemed to grow grander the farther they moved from central Geneva, though none matched the imposing elegance of the entrance of Villa Elma. A two-story stucco guardhouse stood just to the right, its turret poking vigilantly above the groomed hedge. Limousines lined the shoulder of the road, waiting to be admitted by the clipboard-wielding foot soldiers of Zentrum Security. Brunner motioned for the driver to go around.

Seeing the approaching Maybach, the guards stepped aside and allowed it to pass unchecked through the gate. Directly ahead, at the apex of a long, tree-lined drive, Villa Elma glowed like a wedding cake. Another line of limousines stretched from the entrance, tailpipes gently smoking. This time, Brunner ordered the driver to join the queue. Then he looked over his shoulder at Zoe.

"When you're ready to leave, Ms. Reed, just tell one of the security guards and we'll have the car brought around." He glanced at Mikhail. "Enjoy your evening, Mr. Danilov."

"I intend to."

The car came to a stop at the entrance of the mansion. Mikhail climbed out and offered Zoe his hand.

"What just happened there?" Zoe whispered as they headed toward the entrance.

"I believe your friend Martin Landesmann just marked his territory."

"Is that all it was?"

"We're here, aren't we?"

She gave his arm a brief squeeze. "You handled that very well, Mr. Danilov."

"Not nearly as well as you, Ms. Reed."

They stepped into the soaring entrance hall and were immediately set upon by a phalanx of attendants in formal attire. One relieved Mikhail of his overcoat while a second saw to Zoe's wrap. Then, after being presented with an embossed reception card, they were instructed to join a short receiving line of jeweled women and envious men.

Standing at the foot of the spectacular light-strewn fir tree was Saint Martin Landesmann in all his glory. Martin of the careful handshake. Martin of the whispered confidence. Martin of the solicitous nod. Monique and the children seemed like mere accessories, like Martin's understated Patek Philippe wristwatch and the two Zentrum bodyguards standing with feigned detachment at his back. Monique was taller than Martin by an inch. Her long dark hair was swept directly back from her forehead, and she wore a sleeveless gown that flattered her slender arms. Martin seemed oblivious to her beauty. He had eyes only for his invited guests. And, briefly, for the famous British reporter who was now standing five feet away at the side of a Russian millionaire named Mikhail Danilov. Mr. Danilov handed the reception card to the attendant at the front of the line. Then he lowered his eyes to the marble floor and waited for their names to be called.

THERE EXISTS a snapshot of the encounter that followed. Unposed, it was captured by one of the commercial photographers hired for the event and was later stolen from his computer as part of the multinational inquiry conducted at the conclusion of the affair. In retrospect, it was a remarkably accurate predictor of the events that followed. Martin's expression was curiously dour for such a joyous occasion, and by a trick of the camera angle his gaze appeared fixed on both Mikhail and Zoe at the same time. Monique was looking at neither. In fact, Monique's elegant head was adroitly turned in the opposite direction.

The photograph did not reflect the brevity of the encounter, though the audio feed did. Just fifteen seconds in length, it was obtained by not one but two sources—the mobile phone in Zoe Reed's clutch and the Nokia N900 that, in violation of Monique's expressed wishes, was tucked into the breast pocket of Martin's formal jacket. Gabriel listened to the recording three times, then dashed off a message to London as Zoe and Mikhail waded into the party. The orchestra was playing "See, the Conqu'ring Hero Come" by Handel. Even Zoe had to laugh.

NOT FAR FROM Villa Elma, on the rue de Lausanne, is a small Agip gas station and mini-mart. Like most Swiss service stations, it is exceedingly neat. It also has a small bakery, which, surprisingly, sells some of Geneva's better bread and pastries. By the time Yaakov arrived, the bread was well past its prime, though the coffee was freshly made. He bought a large cup with milk and sugar, a box of Swiss chocolates, and a pack of American chewing gum, then returned to the Mercedes and settled behind the wheel for the long wait. He was supposed to be sitting inside the walls of Villa Elma with the rest of the limousine drivers. But Martin had necessitated a change in plan. Was his gesture innocent, or had he just sunk the entire operation with one simple maneuver? Whatever the case, Yaakov was certain of one thing. Mikhail and Zoe were now locked inside Martin's citadel, surrounded by Martin's bodyguards, and completely at Martin's mercy. Not exactly the way they'd drawn it up in Highgate. Funny how it always seemed to work out that way.

63 GENEVA

It was Martin's party, but it was Zoe's night. Zoe sparkled. Zoe dazzled. Zoe shone. Zoe was incomparable. Zoe was a star. She did not choose this role for herself. It was chosen for her. Zoe stood out that night because she was different. Zoe didn't own things or buy things. Zoe didn't lend money or drill for North Sea oil. Zoe wasn't even rich. But she was beautiful. And she was intelligent. And she was on television. And with a few strokes of her famous pen, she could turn anyone in the room into the next Martin Landesmann, no matter how grievous his private sins.

She listened a great deal and spoke only when necessary. And if she had opinions, she did not share them since she regarded herself as the last journalist in the world who actually tried to keep her personal politics out of her work. She flirted with the youthful owner of an American software giant, was pawed by a Saudi prince of untold wealth, and dispensed some sage advice to none other than Viktor Orlov, future owner of the Financial Journal. A reclusive Milanese billionaire offered to throw open the gates of his business empire to Zoe in exchange for a favorable story; a famous British actor associated with the "slow food" movement pleaded with her to do more to promote sustainable agriculture. And much to Monique Landesmann's displeasure, Zoe was even asked by the girls in khaki to hold a Eurasian lynx cub during the presentation on Martin's efforts to save the world's most endangered animals. When the cat nuzzled Zoe's cheek, one hundred fifty men sighed aloud, wishing they could do the same thing.

Throughout the evening, the handsome Mikhail Danilov was never far from Zoe's side. He seemed content merely to bask in Zoe's reflected glow, though he shook many hands, handed out many glossy business cards, and made many vague commitments to future London lunches. He was the perfect escort for a woman like Zoe, confident enough to not feel slighted by the attention paid to her and more than willing to float unseen in the background. Indeed, despite his striking good looks, no one seemed to notice Mr. Danilov's absence when the three hundred invited guests filed into the grand ballroom for the screening of Martin's movie.

The room had been converted into a theater with rows of colored folding chairs arrayed in a rainbow and the ubiquitous logo of the One World foundation projected onto the large screen. An empty lectern stood before it, waiting for Martin to grace it. Zoe took a seat at the back of the room and was immediately joined by the Saudi prince. He touched her thigh while lobbying her to write a piece about some of the exciting developments taking place in the Saudi oil industry. Zoe promised to consider it, then removed the Saudi's hand as Martin ascended to the lectern to rapt applause.

It was a performance Zoe had seen several times before in Davos, yet it was utterly compelling nonetheless. Martin was professorial one moment, revolutionary the next. He exhorted his fellow magnates to pursue social justice over pure profit. He spoke of sacrifice and service. He called for open borders and open hearts. And he demanded a world organized by new societal principles, ones based not on material acquisition but on sustainability and dignity. Had Zoe not known the truth about Martin, she might have been spellbound like the other three hundred people in the room. And she might have roared with approval at the conclusion of Martin's remarks. Instead, she managed only the politest applause and quickly surveyed the room as the lights went out. The One World logo dissolved and was replaced by a fierce orange sun beating down upon a parched desert landscape. A single cello played a haunting melody.

"Is something wrong, Ms. Reed?" the Saudi prince asked.

"I seem to have misplaced my date," Zoe said, recovering quickly.

"How fortunate for me."

Zoe smiled and said, "Don't you just adore films about the dangers of burning fossil fuel?"

"Doesn't everyone?" said the Saudi.

The parched desert gave way to a submerged coastal village in Bangladesh. Zoe casually glanced at her watch and marked the time. Ninety minutes, Gabriel had said. If Mikhail's not back in ninety minutes, get into your car and leave. But there was just one problem with that plan. Zoe had no car other than Martin's limousine. And Zentrum Security was doing the driving.

IRONICALLY, IT was Martin Landesmann himself, thanks to the compromised mobile phone in his pocket, who had taught the Masterpiece team about the back staircase that led from the service kitchen directly to his private office. He came that way each morning after his hour-long scull on the lake, rising from 1,226 feet above sea level to 1,238. Some mornings, he would pop into his bedroom suite to have a word with Monique, but usually he would proceed directly to his office and enter the eight digits into his keyless lock. Eight digits that would soon be standing between Mikhail and Martin's most closely guarded secrets.

Mikhail's first challenge was getting from the reception rooms into the service kitchen cleanly. His task was made easier by the fact that Martin's dark-suited security men were standing watch over the doors and corridors leading to sections of the mansion where the guests were not welcome. The entrance to the kitchen was completely unguarded, and the hallway leading to it was heavily trafficked by waiters rushing in both directions. None seemed to give a second look to the lanky blond-haired man who entered the kitchen carrying an empty silver tray. Nor did any of them seem to notice when the lanky blond-haired man deposited the same tray on a counter and mounted the back staircase as if it were an everyday occurrence.

Through the magic of global positioning technology, Mikhail knew the route down to the inch. At the top of the stairs, he turned to the right and proceeded thirty-two feet along a dimly lit corridor. Then it was a left, to a pair of double doors leading to the small alcove outside Martin's office. As expected, the doors to the alcove were closed but unlocked.

Mikhail opened one of the doors, slipped through it, and closed it again quickly. The alcove was in pitch-darkness, precisely what he needed to perform the first step of the break-in. He removed a small ultraviolet light from the pouch at the small of his back and switched it on. The ghostly blue beam illuminated the pad for the keyless entry system. More important, the UV light revealed Martin's latent fingerprints on the pad. Five of the numerical keys bore fingerprints—2, 4, 6, 8, 9—along with the unlock button.

Mikhail quickly removed the cover of the keypad, exposing the electronic circuitry, and took a second item from his pouch. The size of an iPod, it had a numbered keypad of its own and a pair of wires with small alligator clips at the ends. Mikhail powered on the device and attached the clips to the exposed wiring of Martin's keyless lock. Then he pressed the same five numbers—2, 4, 6, 8, 9—followed by the enter key. In less than a second, the device fed every possible combination of numbers into the memory chip, and the lock instantly snapped open. Mikhail unclipped the device and replaced the cover on the keypad, then stepped into Martin's office and quietly closed the door. Mounted on the wall was an identical keypad. Mikhail illuminated it briefly with his UV light and pressed the lock button. The dead bolts slammed home with a solid thump.

Like the alcove, the office was in complete darkness. Mikhail had no need of light. He knew that Martin's computer was located precisely thirteen feet away, at roughly two o'clock. Martin had shut it down before leaving the office earlier that evening. All Mikhail had to do was insert his Sony flash drive into one of the USB ports and hold down the F8 key while pressing the power button. With a few keystrokes, the contents of Martin's hard drive were soon flowing through cyberspace at the speed of light. A dialogue box appeared on the screen: TIME REMAINING FOR UPLOAD: 1:14:32...Nothing to do now but wait. He inserted the earpiece of his miniature secure radio and stared at the screen.

"Are they getting it?" Mikhail asked.

"They're getting it," Gabriel replied.

"Don't forget about me here."

"We won't."

Gabriel clipped out. Mikhail sat alone in the darkness, watching the countdown clock on the screen of Martin's computer.

TIME REMAINING FOR UPLOAD: 1:13:47...

THE COMPUTER receiving the feed from Villa Elma was located in the glass-enclosed conference room of the London ops center known as the fishbowl. On its screen was a message identical to the one on Martin's. Shamron was the only one in the room who did not think it was cause for celebration. Experience would not permit it. Nor would the status boards. He had one operative locked in Martin's office, seven operatives sitting in a luxury Geneva hotel, and a Mercedes sedan parked at a gas station in one of the world's most secure neighborhoods. And then, of course, there was the small matter of a famous British reporter who was watching a movie about global warming at the side of a Saudi prince. What could go wrong? Shamron thought, his lighter rotating nervously in his fingertips. What could possibly go wrong?

64 ZURICH

It had been a humbling few months for the tiny Swiss Confederation, as evidenced by the ghostlike silence hanging over Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse that same damp December evening. Having been brought to the brink of insolvency, Switzerland's largest banks had been forced to suffer the indignity of a government bailout. Sensing weakness, foreign tax collectors were now clamoring for Swiss financial institutions to lift the veil of secrecy that had shielded their clients for centuries. The gnomes of Zurich, among the wiliest of God's creatures, had instinctively taken shelter and were waiting patiently for the inclement weather to pass. They did so secure in the knowledge that America's bankers could no longer hold steadfast to their claims of moral superiority. Say what you like about Swiss greed, they assured themselves, but never once had it plunged the entire planet into recession. That would forever be a singularly American achievement.

But economies, like ecosystems, are dynamic, and a threat to one species does not necessarily mean a threat to all. In fact, it can often mean opportunity, as was the case for the enterprise housed in the leaden office building located at the Kasernenstrasse, on the banks of the Sihl Canal. But that was the beauty of corporate security. Trouble tended to be oblivious to the business cycle.

Strangely enough, Ulrich Muller's Kellergruppe did not actually operate from the cellar of Zentrum headquarters. Quite the opposite, it occupied a suite of spacious offices on the top floor, a testament to the significant contribution made by the unit to Zentrum's healthy bottom line. Several senior staff members were on duty that evening, keeping careful watch over a pair of sensitive operations. One was a blackmail job in Berlin; the other, an "account termination" in Mexico City. The Mexico case was particularly critical since it involved a crusading government prosecutor who was poking his nose into matters that didn't concern him. The wet work itself was being handled by a local subcontractor, a professional hit man often used by Mexican drug lords. That was the Kellergruppe's preferred method of operation. Whenever possible, it utilized the services of skilled professionals and career criminals who had no idea whom they were working for. This reduced exposure for the firm and limited potential damage in those rare cases when an operation did not go as planned.

Despite the extreme sensitivity of the Berlin and Mexico City operations, Ulrich Muller was not present at Zentrum headquarters that evening. Instead, for reasons not yet known to him, he was parked in a deserted lot several miles south of the city center along the western shore of the Zurichsee. The location had been chosen by a man named Karl Huber, a former underling of Muller's at the Dienst fur Analyse und Pravention, the Swiss domestic intelligence service. Huber said he had something important he needed to tell Muller. Something that couldn't be discussed over the phone or in an enclosed room. Huber had sounded worried, but Huber usually did.

Muller glanced at his wristwatch, then looked up again to watch a car approaching from the south. Huber, he thought, right on schedule. The car turned into the lot, headlamps doused, and parked a few inches behind Muller's bumper. Muller frowned. As always, Huber's tradecraft was impeccable. A moment later, the DAP man was slumped in Muller's passenger seat, a laptop computer on his lap, looking as though someone had just died.

"What's the problem, Karl?"

"This."

Huber powered on the laptop and clicked on an icon. A few seconds later, Muller heard the voice of Zentrum's owner having an extremely private conversation with his wife. It was obvious from the quality of the audio that the conversation was being conducted face-to-face and was being picked up by a microphone several feet away. Muller listened only for a moment, then, with a sharp wave of his hand, instructed his former underling to shut it down.

"Where did you get this?"

Huber glanced at the ceiling but said nothing.

"Onyx?"

Huber nodded.

"What's the source?"

"Landesmann's mobile phone."

"Why is the internal security service of Switzerland eavesdropping on the private conversations of Martin Landesmann?"

"We're not. But obviously someone else is. And they've managed to get to more than just his mobile."

"What else?"

"His laptop."

Muller went pale. "What are you seeing?"

"Everything, Ulrich. And I mean everything."

"Onyx?"

Huber nodded. "Onyx."

THE TWO MEN were not referring to the translucent form of quartz, but the signals intelligence service of the Swiss government. A scaled-down version of the National Security Agency's Echelon program, Onyx had the capability to intercept global communications and cellular traffic, as well as activity on the World Wide Web. Shortly after its completion in 2005, Onyx discovered one of the world's most explosive secrets when a ground station high in the Swiss Alps intercepted a fax between the Egyptian foreign minister and his ambassador in London. The fax would eventually help lead to the revelation of the CIA's secret black site prisons for suspected al-Qaeda terrorists. Despite the circumstances, Ulrich Muller couldn't help but marvel at the irony of the situation. Onyx had been conceived and built in order to steal the secrets of Switzerland's adversaries. Now it appeared the system had inadvertently stumbled upon the secrets of the country's most prominent businessman.

"How did Onyx find it?" Muller asked.

"The computers found it. The computers find everything."

"When?"

"Shortly after Martin's hard drive went up on the satellites, the Onyx filtering system hit on several keywords. The material was automatically flagged and delivered to an analyst at Zimmerwald for further investigation. After a few hours of poking around, the analyst discovered that Martin's phone was hot as well. My office was just notified, but Onyx has been monitoring the feed for several days. And the material is being shipped to the DAP for further investigation."

Muller closed his eyes. It was a disaster in the making.

"How long has the phone been compromised?"

"Hard to say." Huber shrugged. "At least a week. Maybe longer."

"And the computer?"

"The staff at Onyx thinks they were hit at the same time."

"What were the keywords that triggered the auto flagging?"

"Keywords having to do with certain goods being shipped to a certain country on the eastern side of the Persian Gulf. Keywords having to do with a certain Chinese company based in Shenzhen called XTE Hardware and Equipment." Huber paused, then asked, "Ever heard of it?"

"No," Muller said.

"Does Landesmann have any connection to it?"

Muller raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize this was an official visit, Karl."

"It isn't."

Muller cleared his throat. "As far as I know, Mr. Landesmann has no interest whatsoever in XTE Hardware and Equipment of Shenzhen, China."

"That's good to hear. But I'm afraid the DAP suspects otherwise."

"What are you talking about?"

"Let's just say there's pressure on the chief to order a full investigation."

"Can you stop it?"

"I'm trying."

"Try harder, Karl. This firm pays you exceedingly well to make sure things like this don't happen to our clients, let alone the boss."

Huber frowned. "Why don't you say that a little louder? I'm not sure the Onyx ground station in the Valais was able to hear you."

Muller made no reply.

"You do have one thing working in your favor," Huber said. "The DAP and the Federal Police are going to be extremely reluctant to open a potentially embarrassing probe at a time like this, especially one involving a man as beloved as your owner. Martin is the patron saint of Switzerland. And you can be sure that his friends in the government will think twice about doing anything that tarnishes his reputation. Martin is good for the country."

"But?"

"There's always the potential it will leak to the press the way the Egyptian fax did. If that happens..." Huber paused. "As you know, these things have a way of taking on a life of their own."

"Zentrum will be most grateful if you can keep this matter out of the press, Karl."

"How grateful?"

"The money will be transferred first thing Monday morning."

Huber closed the laptop. "There's one other thing to keep in mind. Whoever did this is extremely good. And they had help."

"What kind of help?"

"Someone on the inside. Someone with access to Martin's phone and computer. If I were you, I'd start putting together a list of possible suspects. And then I'd handcuff each one to a radiator and find out who's responsible."

"Thank you for the advice, Karl, but we prefer subtler methods."

Huber gave a sardonic smile. "Try telling that to Rafael Bloch."

ULRICH MULLER headed back to the center of Zurich at considerable speed, turning over the implications of what he had just been told. Someone on the inside...Someone with access to Martin's phone and computer...While it was possible Martin had been betrayed by an employee, Muller considered it highly unlikely since all GVI staff were subjected to rigorous background checks and regular security reviews. Muller suspected the traitor was someone much closer to Martin. Someone who was sharing Martin's bed on a regular basis.

He parked in the Kasernenstrasse and headed upstairs. A Kellergruppe operative tried to give Muller an update on the Berlin and Mexico City operations; Muller brushed past without a word and entered his office. His computer was powered on. He hesitated for a few seconds, then called up the guest list for that evening's One World fund-raiser at Villa Elma. The overt side of Zentrum had done a cursory security check on all three hundred of the invitees. Near the bottom of the list, Muller found the name he was looking for. He snatched up his phone and started to dial the number for Martin's mobile. Realizing his mistake, he hung up and dialed Jonas Brunner instead. Brunner answered after three rings, his voice a whisper.

"Where are you?" Muller asked.

"In the ballroom."

"What's that noise?"

"Mr. Landesmann's movie."

Muller swore softly. "Can you see the British reporter?"

Brunner was silent for a few seconds. "She's at the back of the room."

"Is her date with her?"

Another silence, then, "Actually, I can't see him."

"Shit!"

"What's the problem?"

Muller didn't answer directly. Instead, he gave the bodyguard a set of precise instructions, then asked, "How many men do you have there tonight?"

"Forty."

Muller hung up the phone and quickly dialed Zentrum's travel desk.

"I need a helicopter."

"What's your destination?"

"I'll know when I'm airborne."

"How soon do you need it?"

"Now."

65 GENEVA

For a big man, Jonas Brunner was surprisingly quiet on his feet. Not a single head turned as he made his way to Martin's shoulder. Not a single eyebrow rose as he murmured a few words into Martin's ear. Martin appeared momentarily startled by the news, then quickly regained his usual composure and slipped a pale hand into his breast pocket. The Nokia telephone appeared; its screen flared briefly and went dark as the power was extinguished. Martin immediately surrendered it to Brunner, then rose to his feet and followed the security man from the ballroom. By now several of the guests were watching him intently, including the famous British reporter seated next to a Saudi prince of untold wealth. When Martin disappeared from view, she turned back to the film and tried desperately not to show the fear rising inside her. He's probably just bored silly, she told herself, but not with much conviction. Zoe could always tell when Martin was bored. Martin wasn't bored. Martin was furious.

GABRIEL REMOVED his headphones, checked the connection, checked the transmission status, jabbed at his keyboard. Then he looked at Lavon in frustration.

"Are you still hearing audio from Zoe's phone?"

"Loud and clear. Why?"

"Because Martin's just went down."

"Any GPS data?"

"Nothing."

"He probably just switched off his phone."

"Why would he do that?"

"Good question."

"What do we do?"

Gabriel typed four words into his computer and hit SEND. Then he keyed into Mikhail's earpiece.

"It's possible we have a problem."

"What's that?"

Gabriel explained.

"Any advice?"

"Sit tight."

"And if several men come through the door?"

"Pull the USB immediately."

"And do what with it?"

Gabriel clipped out.

GABRIEL'S MESSAGE appeared instantly on the status screens of the London ops center: MARTIN'S PHONE DOWN...ADVISE... Adrian Carter swore softly. Uzi Navot closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

"People shut off their phones all the time," Graham Seymour suggested.

"That's true," Navot said. "But not Martin. Martin never shuts his phone down."

"It's your man in there, Uzi. That means it's your call."

"How much time left on the feed from Martin's computer?"

"Twenty-one and change."

"What are the chances we have what we need?"

"I'm not an expert, but I'd say they're fifty-fifty."

Navot looked at Shamron. Shamron looked stoically back, as if to say that these are the moments careers are made.

"I want better odds than fifty-fifty," Navot said.

"So we wait?"

Navot nodded. "We wait."

MIKHAIL MOVED quietly to the window, parted the curtain a fraction of an inch, and peered into Martin's garden. It was twenty feet down with a guard patrolling the perimeter. But that didn't matter. The office windows were bulletproof and didn't open. Mikhail returned to the desk and checked the status box on Martin's computer screen: 18:26...18:25...18:24...

Sitting tight, he thought. But what about Zoe?

JONAS BRUNNER and his security staff worked from an office on the ground floor of the mansion not far from the service kitchen. He led Martin Landesmann inside and dialed Ulrich Muller's number in Zurich.

"Why did you tell me to turn off my phone?"

"Because it's compromised."

"Compromised?"

"Your mobile is broadcasting your life to the world, Martin. So is your computer."

Landesmann's already pale face drained of color. "Who did this?"

"I'm not sure yet. But I think they may have come to your party tonight for a second helping."

"What are you talking about?"

Muller relayed his suspicions. Landesmann listened in silence, then slammed down the phone.

"What do you want me to do, Mr. Landesmann?"

"Find that Russian."

"And Zoe?"

"Give me a few of your men. I'll take care of Zoe."

IT DID NOT take Brunner more than a few minutes to confirm that Mikhail Danilov, companion of Zoe Reed, was not present in the ballroom for the screening of One World's newest production. The length of Mr. Danilov's absence was unclear, as was his present location, though it didn't take long for Brunner to decide where to begin his search.

Wisely, he chose not to go alone, bringing with him four of his most impressively built men. They climbed the back staircase as nonchalantly as possible; once out of sight, each man drew a SIG Sauer P226. At the top of the stairs, they proceeded wordlessly down the hallway, footfalls muted by lush carpeting. Thirty-two feet later, they stopped and turned to the left. The doors leading to the alcove were closed. They yielded without a sound. Brunner slipped inside and paused before the keyless lock, his right hand hovering over the pad. This was the point where the silent approach ended. But there was no choice. Brunner punched in the eight digits and pressed ENTER. Then he placed his hand on the latch and waited for the dead bolts to snap open.

MARTIN RETURNED to the ballroom as the film was nearing its conclusion and sat next to Monique.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said softly, his gaze focused on the screen.

"Perhaps this might not be the best time or place, Martin."

"Actually, I'm afraid it is."

Monique looked at him. "What have you done?"

"I need your help, Monique."

"And if I refuse?"

"We can lose everything."

THE MAN who sprang at Jonas Brunner and his men like a predatory cat had two advantages. One was the advantage of sight—after nearly an hour in the office, his eyes were accustomed to the gloom—while the other was training. Yes, Brunner and his men were all Swiss Army veterans, but the lanky Russian with eyes the color of glacial ice was ex-Sayeret Matkal and therefore expert in the ways of Krav Maga, the official martial art of the Israeli military and intelligence services. What it lacks in beauty it more than makes up for in efficiency and sheer brutality. Its doctrines are simple: continuous motion and constant attack. And once the battle is joined, it does not end until the opponent is on the ground and in need of serious medical attention.

The Russian fought bravely and in near silence. He broke two noses with palm strikes, fractured a cheekbone with an adroit elbow, and left a larynx so damaged its owner would speak with a rasp for the rest of his life. Eventually, though, he was overwhelmed by the greater numbers and combined weight of his opponents. After rendering him defenseless, Brunner and his men pummeled their opponent viciously until he lapsed into unconsciousness, at which point there arose a great swell of applause from one floor below. Brunner briefly imagined it was for him. It wasn't, though. The One World documentary had just ended, and Saint Martin was basking in the adulation of his guests.

GABRIEL DID NOT hear the applause, only the violent struggle that preceded it. Next came the voice of Jonas Brunner ordering his men to take Mr. Danilov quietly down to the cellar. When the signal from the radio vanished from the airwaves, Gabriel didn't bother trying to reestablish contact. Instead, he dialed Zoe's number and closed his eyes. Answer your phone, Zoe. Answer your damn phone.

ZOE WAS filing slowly out of the ballroom when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she was greeted by the unexpected sight of Monique Landesmann, a pleasant smile on her face. Zoe felt her cheeks begin to burn but managed a smile of her own.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced, Zoe." Monique extended her hand. "Martin's told me so much about you. He admires your work a great deal."

"If there were more businessmen like your husband, Mrs. Landesmann, I'm afraid I wouldn't have much to write about."

Zoe was not sure from where she summoned these words, but they seemed to please Monique.

"I hope you enjoyed the film. Martin's very proud of it."

"He should be."

Monique placed a jeweled hand lightly on Zoe's arm. "There's something I need to discuss with you, Zoe. Might we have a brief word in private?"

Zoe hesitated, unsure of what to do, then agreed.

"Wonderful," said Monique. "Come this way."

She led Zoe across the ballroom through a pair of towering doors, then down a marble hallway lit by chandeliers. At the end of the hallway was a small, ornate parlor that looked like something Zoe had seen on a tour of Versailles. Monique paused at the doorway and, with a smile, gestured for Zoe to enter. Zoe never saw the hand that immediately clamped over her mouth or the one that ripped the clutch from her grasp. She tried to struggle, but it was useless. She tried to scream but could barely breathe. As the bodyguards carried Zoe from the room, she managed to twist her head around and cast a pleading glance toward Monique. But Monique never saw it. She had already turned and was making her way back to the party.

MARTIN WAS standing at the center of the main reception room, surrounded as usual. Monique went to his side and slipped an arm proprietarily around his waist.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Everything's fine, darling," she whispered, kissing his cheek. "But if you ever betray me again, I'll destroy you myself."

66 MAYFAIR, LONDON

A chapel silence had fallen over the London ops center by the time Gabriel's last message arrived. Adrian Carter and Graham Seymour, Anglicans both, sat with heads bowed and eyes closed as if in prayer. Shamron and Navot stood shoulder to shoulder, Navot with his wrestler's arms folded across his chest, Shamron with his cigarette lighter twirling anxiously between his fingertips. Chiara was in the fishbowl, scrolling through the contents of Martin Landesmann's hard drive.

"Martin wouldn't dare kill them in the house," said Carter.

"No," Shamron agreed. "First he'll have them driven into the Alps. Then he'll kill them."

"Perhaps your team can intercept them on the way out of Villa Elma," Seymour said.

"May I remind you that there are almost two hundred black luxury automobiles lined up in Martin's drive, all of which will be departing at roughly the same time? And then, of course, Martin has access to the lake and several very fast boats." Shamron paused. "Anyone know where we can get a boat on a freezing December night in Geneva?"

"I have friends in the DAP," Carter said without much conviction. "Friends who've occasionally been helpful in our efforts against al-Qaeda."

"They're your friends," Navot said, "not ours. And I can assure you that the DAP would love nothing more than to rub our noses in a very big pile of shit."

"Consider the alternative, Uzi. It might be better for you and your service to lose a little face than one of your best agents and one of Britain's most famous journalists."

"This isn't about pride, Adrian. This is about keeping several of my best people out of a Swiss jail."

"If I handle it, they might not have to go to jail."

"Have you forgotten the name of the man who's sitting in a room in the Grand Hotel Kempinski right now?" Greeted by silence, Navot continued, "I'm not willing to place the fate of Gabriel and the rest of the team in the hands of your friends from the DAP. If there's a deal that has to be made, we'll do it ourselves."

"It's your show, Uzi. What do you suggest?"

Navot turned to Shamron.

"How much of Martin's hard drive did we get before the feed was intercepted?" Shamron asked.

"Roughly ninety percent."

"Then I'd say the odds of finding something interesting just increased dramatically. If I were you, I'd get our computer technicians down here from Highgate and tell them to start looking through that data as if their lives depended on it."

Navot glanced at Seymour and asked, "How long will it take to get them here?"

"With a police escort...twenty minutes."

"Ten would be better."

Seymour reached for a phone. Shamron went quietly to Navot's side.

"May I make one other suggestion, Uzi?"

"Please."

"Get Gabriel, Eli, and the rest of the team out of the Kempinski before the Swiss police come knocking."

THE STEPS were built of stone and spiraled downward into the bowels of the old mansion. Zoe's feet never touched them. Five of Zentrum's finest bore her into the gloom, one man for each extremity, one to smother her cries for help. They carried her in the supine position with her head leading the way, so that she was able to see the faces of her tormentors. She recognized all of them from her previous life. Her life before revelation. Her life before truth. Her life before Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg, Germany, and XTE Hardware and Equipment of Shenzhen, China. Her life before Gabriel...

The stairs emptied into a passageway with damp walls and an arched ceiling. Zoe had the sensation of floating through an Alpine tunnel. There was no light at the end of it, only the wet stench of the lake. Zoe began to thrash violently. One of the guards responded by squeezing her neck in a way that seemed to paralyze her entire body.

At the end of the passageway, they hurled her to the ground and restrained her with silver duct tape, ankles first, wrists next, finally her mouth. Then a single immense bodyguard hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her down another passage and into a small, darkened room that smelled heavily of mold and dust. There he placed Zoe on her feet and asked whether she was able to breathe. When she responded in the affirmative, he drove a huge fist into her abdomen. She folded like a pocketknife and collapsed to the stone floor, struggling for breath.

"How about now? Can you breathe now, Ms. Reed?"

She couldn't. Zoe couldn't breathe. Zoe couldn't see. Zoe couldn't even seem to hear. All she could do was writhe in agony and watch helplessly as lights exploded in her oxygen-starved brain. She did not know how long her contortions lasted. She only knew that at some point she became aware of the fact she was not alone. Lying facedown on the ground next to her—unconscious, tightly bound, wet with blood—was Mikhail. Zoe laid her head on his shoulder and tried to rouse him, but Mikhail made no movement. Then her body began to convulse with an uncontrollable fear, and tears flowed onto her cheeks.

AT THAT same moment, Jonas Brunner was standing alone in his office, staring down at the items on his desk. One Bally wallet with credit cards and identification in the name Mikhail Danilov. One room key from the Grand Hotel Kempinksi. One ultraviolet flashlight. One Sony USB flash drive. One small electronic device with a numeric keypad and wires with alligator clips. One miniature radio and earpiece of indeterminate manufacture. Taken together, the items added up to only one possible conclusion. The man now lying bleeding and unconscious in the cellar of Villa Elma was a professional. Brunner picked up his phone and shared that opinion with Ulrich Muller, who was now airborne over Canton Zurich.

"How long was he alone in the office?"

"We're not sure. Perhaps an hour, maybe more."

"What was the state of the computer?"

"It was on and connected to the Internet."

"Where are they now?"

Brunner answered.

"Can you get them out of the house with no one noticing?"

"No problem."

"Be careful, Jonas. He didn't do this alone."

"What do we do after we get them off the property?"

"I have a few questions I'd like to ask them. In private."

"Where should we take them?"

"East," Muller said. "You know the place."

Brunner did. "What about Monique and Martin?" he asked.

"As soon as the last guest leaves, I want them in the helicopter."

"Monique isn't going to be happy."

"Monique doesn't have a choice."

The line went dead. Brunner sighed and hung up the phone.

GIVEN THE jet-setting nature of the Kempinski's clientele, changes in itinerary were the norm rather than the exception. Regardless, the wave of early departures swamping the reception desk that evening was unusual. First there was an American couple who claimed to have a child in distress. Then there was a pair of Brits who argued bitterly from the time they stepped off the elevator until the moment they finally climbed into their rented Volvo. Five minutes later came a meek figure with disastrous hair who requested a taxi to the Gare de Cornavin, followed soon after by a trim man with gray temples and green eyes who said nothing while the receptionist prepared his bill. He endured a five-minute wait for his rented Audi A6 with admirable patience, though he was obviously annoyed by the delay. When the car finally came, he tossed his bags into the backseat and gave the valet a generous tip before driving away.

It was not the first time the staff of the Kempinski had been misled by guests, but the scale of the deception foisted upon them that night was unprecedented. There was no child in distress and no source of genuine anger between the bickering couple with British passports. In fact, only one of them was actually British, and that had been a long time ago. Within ten minutes of departing the hotel, both couples had taken up positions along the rue de Lausanne, along with the driver of the very expensive S-Class Mercedes sedan. As for the man with green eyes and gray temples, his destination was the Hotel Metropole—though by the time he arrived at the check-in counter he was no longer Jonathan Albright of Greenwich, Connecticut, but Heinrich Kiever of Berlin, Germany. Upon entering his room, he hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door and immediately established secure communications with his newly redeployed team. Eli Lavon arrived ten minutes later.

"Any change?" he asked.

"Just one," said Gabriel. "The first guests are starting to leave."

67 GENEVA

Zoe thought she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Whether it was five men or five hundred, she could not tell. She lay motionless on the damp floor, her head still propped against Mikhail's shoulder. The duct tape around her wrists had cut off her circulation, and her hands felt as though a thousand needles were pricking them. She was shaking with cold and fear. And not just for herself. Zoe reckoned she had been locked in the cellar for at least an hour, and Mikhail had yet to regain consciousness. He was still breathing, though, deeply, steadily. Zoe imagined she was breathing for him.

The footfalls drew closer. Zoe heard the heavy door of the room swing open and saw the beam of a flashlight playing over the walls. Eventually, it found her eyes. Behind it, she recognized the familiar silhouette of Jonas Brunner. He examined Mikhail with little concern, then tore the duct tape from Zoe's mouth. She immediately began to scream for help. Brunner silenced her with two hard slaps across the face.

"What in God's name are you doing, Jonas? This is—"

"Exactly what you and your friend deserve," he said, cutting her off. "You've been lying to us, Zoe. And if you continue to lie, you're only going to make your situation worse."

"My situation? Are you mad, Jonas?"

Brunner only smiled.

"Where's Martin?"

"Mr. Landesmann," Brunner said pointedly, "is busy saying good night to his guests. He asked me to see you out. Both of you."

"See us out? Look at my friend, Jonas. He's unconscious. He needs a doctor."

"So do several of my best men. And he'll get a doctor when he tells us who he's working for."

"He works for himself, you idiot! He's a millionaire."

Brunner gave another smile. "You like men with money, don't you, Zoe?"

"If it wasn't for men with money, Jonas, you'd be writing parking tickets in some shitty little village in the Alps."

Zoe never saw the blow coming. A sweeping backhand, it drove her head sideways into Mikhail's blood-soaked neck. Mikhail seemed to stir, then went motionless again. Zoe's cheek radiated with pain, and she could taste blood in her mouth. She closed her eyes, and for an instant it seemed Gabriel was speaking quietly into her ear. You're Zoe Reed, he was saying. You make mincemeat of people like Martin Landesmann. No one tells you what to do. And no one ever lays a hand on you. She opened her eyes and saw Brunner's face floating behind the glow of the flashlight.

"Who do you work for?" he asked.

"The Financial Journal of London. Which means you just slapped the wrong fucking girl, Jonas."

"Tonight?" Brunner asked as if addressing a dull pupil. "Who are you working for tonight, Zoe?"

"I'm not working tonight, Jonas. I came here at Martin's invitation. And I was having a wonderful time until you and your thugs grabbed me and locked me in this godforsaken room. What the hell is going on?"

Brunner studied her for a moment, then looked at Mikhail. "You're here because this man is a spy. We found him in Mr. Landesmann's office during the film. He was stealing material from Mr. Landesmann's computer."

"A spy? He's a businessman. An oil trader of some sort."

Brunner held a small silver object before her eyes. "Have you ever seen this before?"

"It's a flash drive, Jonas. Most people have one."

"That's true. But most people don't have these." Brunner held up an ultraviolet flashlight, a device with wires and alligator clips, and a miniature radio with an earpiece. "Your friend is a professional intelligence officer, Zoe. And we believe you are, too."

"You've got to be kidding, Jonas. I'm a reporter."

"So why did you bring a spy into Mr. Landesmann's home tonight?"

Zoe stared directly into Brunner's face. The words she spoke were not hers. They had been written for her by a man who did not exist.

"I don't know much about him, Jonas. I bumped into him at a reception. He came on very strong. He bought me expensive gifts. He took me to nice restaurants. He treated me very well. In hindsight..."

"What, Zoe?"

"Maybe none of it was real. Maybe I was deceived by him."

Brunner stroked the inflamed skin of her cheek. Zoe recoiled.

"I'd like to believe you, Zoe, but I can't let you go without corroborating your story. As a good reporter, you surely understand why I need a second source."

"In a few minutes, my editor is going to be calling to ask about the party. If he doesn't hear from me—"

"He'll assume you're having a wonderful time and leave a message on your voice mail."

"More than three hundred people saw me here tonight, Jonas. And unless you let me out of here very soon, not one of them is going to see me leave."

"But that's not true, Zoe. We all saw you leave, including Mrs. Landesmann. The two of you had a very pleasant conversation shortly before you and Mr. Danilov got into your car and returned to your hotel."

"Are you forgetting that we don't have a car, Jonas? You brought us here."

"That's true, but Mr. Danilov insisted on having his own driver pick him up. I assume his driver is also an intelligence officer." Brunner gave her a humorless smile. "Allow me to present you with the facts of life, Zoe. Your friend committed a serious crime on Swiss soil tonight, and spies don't go running to the police when things go wrong. Which means you could vanish from the face of the earth and no one will ever know what happened."

"I told you, Jonas, I hardly—"

"Yes, yes, Zoe," Brunner said mockingly, "I heard you the first time. But I still need that second source."

Brunner motioned with the flashlight, prompting several of his men to enter. They covered Zoe's mouth with duct tape again, then wrapped her in thick woolen blankets and bound her so tightly that even the slightest movement was impossible. Enveloped now in a suffocating blackness, Zoe could see but one thing—the terrible vision of Mikhail lying on the floor of the cellar, bound, unconscious, his shirt soaked in blood.

One of the guards asked Zoe if she could breathe. This time, she made no response. The foot soldiers of Zentrum Security seemed to find that amusing, and Zoe heard only laughter as she was lifted from the ground and borne slowly from the cellar as if to her own grave. It was not a grave where they placed her but the trunk of a car. As it moved forward, Zoe began to shake uncontrollably. There is no safe house in Highgate, she told herself. No girl named Sally. No tweedy Englishman named David. No green-eyed assassin named Gabriel Allon. There was only Martin. Martin whom she had once loved. Martin who now was sending her into the mountains of Switzerland to be killed.

68 GENEVA

The exodus of guests from Villa Elma began as a trickle at midnight, but by quarter past it had become a torrent of steel and tinted glass. As Shamron had predicted, Martin and his men held a distinct advantage since nearly all the cars leaving the party were black and of German manufacture. Roughly two-thirds headed left toward central Geneva while the remaining third turned right toward Lausanne and Montreux. Positioned in three separate vehicles along the road, Gabriel's team watched the passing vehicles for anything out of the ordinary. A car with two men in the front seat. A car traveling at an unusually high rate of speed. A car riding a bit low on its rear axle.

Twice pursuits were undertaken. Twice pursuits were quickly called off. Dina and Mordecai gave needless chase to a BMW sedan for several miles along the lakeshore while Yossi and Rimona briefly shadowed a Mercedes SL coupe as its occupants wandered Geneva apparently searching for the next party. From his holding point at the gas station, Yaakov saw nothing worth chasing. He just sat with his hands wrapped tightly around the wheel, berating himself for ever letting Zoe and Mikhail out of his sight. Yaakov had spent years running informants and spies in the worst hellholes of the West Bank and Gaza without getting a single one killed. And to think he was about to suffer the first loss of his career here, along the tranquil shores of Lake Geneva. Not possible, he thought. Madness...

But it was possible, and the likelihood of such an outcome seemed to increase with each whispered transmission flowing from Gabriel's desperate team to the new command center at the Hotel Metropole. It was Eli Lavon who communicated directly with the team and Lavon who filed the updates to London. Gabriel monitored the radio traffic from his outpost in the window. His gaze was fixed on the lights of Villa Elma burning like bonfires on the far shore of the lake.

Shortly after one a.m., the lights were extinguished, signaling the official conclusion of Martin's annual gala. Within minutes, Gabriel heard the beating of rotors and saw the running lights of a helicopter descending slowly toward Martin's lawn. It remained there scarcely more than a minute, then rose once again and turned eastward over the lake. Lavon joined Gabriel at the window and watched the helicopter disappear into the darkness.

"Do you suppose Mikhail and Zoe are on that bird?"

"They could be," Gabriel conceded. "But if I had to guess, I'd say that's Martin and Monique."

"Where do you think they're going?"

"At this hour...I can think of only one place."

AS IT turned out, it took just fifteen minutes for Graham Seymour to get the two Office computer technicians from the safe house in Highgate to Grosvenor Square. They were quickly joined by four cybersleuths from MI5, along with a team of Iran analysts from the CIA and MI6. Indeed, by midnight London time, more than a dozen officers from four intelligence services were huddled around the computer in the fishbowl, watched over intently by Chiara. As for the four most senior members of Operation Masterpiece, they remained at their posts, staring glumly at the messages streaming across the status boards.

"Looks as if our boy has decided to flee the scene of the crime," Seymour said, face buried in his hands. "Do you think there's any way Mikhail and Zoe are still inside that mansion?"

"I suppose there's always a chance," said Adrian Carter, "but Martin doesn't strike me as the sort to leave a mess lying around. Which means the clock is now definitely ticking."

"That's true," said Shamron. "But we have several things working in our favor."

"Really?" asked Seymour incredulously, gesturing toward the status boards. "Because from where I sit, it looks as though Zoe and Mikhail are about to disappear without a trace."

"No one's going to disappear." Shamron paused, then added gloomily, "At least, not right away." He laboriously lit a cigarette. "Martin isn't stupid, Graham. He'll want to know exactly who Mikhail and Zoe are working for. And he'll want to know how much damage has been done. Getting information like that takes time, especially when a man like Mikhail Abramov is involved. Mikhail will make them work for it. That's what he's trained to do."

"And what if they decide to take a shortcut?" asked Seymour. "How long do you expect Zoe to be able to hold up?"

"I'm afraid I have to side with Graham," said Carter. "The only way we're going to get them back is to make a deal."

"With whom?" asked Navot.

"At this point, our options are rather limited. Either we call Swiss security or we deal directly with Martin."

"Have you ever stopped to consider they might be the same thing? After all, this is Switzerland we're talking about. The DAP exists not only to protect the interests of the Swiss Confederation but of its financial oligarchy as well. And not necessarily in that order."

"And don't forget," Shamron said, "Landesmann owns Zentrum Security, which is filled with former officers of the DAP. That means we can't go to Martin on bended knee. If we do, he'll be able to rally the Swiss government to his defense. And we could lose everything we've worked for."

"The centrifuges?" Seymour drew a heavy breath and stared at the row of digital clocks at the front of the ops center. "Let me make something very clear, gentlemen. Her Majesty's Government has no intention of allowing harm to come to a prominent British subject tonight. Therefore, Her Majesty's Government will go to the Swiss authorities independently, if necessary, to secure a deal for Zoe's release."

"A separate peace? Is that what you're suggesting?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling you my patience has limits."

"May I remind you, Graham, that you're not the only one with a citizen at risk? And may I also remind you that by going to the DAP you will be exposing our entire operation against Martin?"

"I'm aware of that, Ari. But I'm afraid my girl trumps your agent. And your operation."

"I didn't realize we were the only ones involved in this," Navot said acidly.

Seymour made no response.

"How long will you give us, Graham?"

"Six a.m. London time, seven a.m. Geneva."

"That's not long."

"I understand," Seymour said. "But it's all the time you have."

Shamron turned to Navot.

"I'm afraid the Geneva team has outlived its usefulness. In fact, at this point they're our biggest liability."

"Withdrawal?"

"Immediate."

"They're not going to like it."

"They don't have a choice." Shamron pointed at the technicians and analysts crowded around the computers in the fishbowl. "For the moment, our fate is in their hands."

"And if they can't find anything by six o'clock?"

"We'll make a deal." Shamron crushed out his cigarette. "That's what we do. That's what we always do."

IN THE finest tradition of Office field commands, the message that arrived on Gabriel's computer twenty seconds later was brief and entirely lacking in ambiguity. It came as no surprise—in fact, Gabriel had already instructed the team to prepare for such an eventuality—but none of that made the decision any easier.

"They want us out."

"How far out?" asked Eli Lavon.

"France."

"What are we supposed to do in France? Light candles? Keep our fingers crossed?"

"We're supposed to not get arrested by the Swiss police."

"Well, I'm not leaving here without Zoe and Mikhail," Lavon said. "And I don't think any of the others will agree to leave, either."

"They don't have a choice. London has spoken."

"Since when have you ever listened to Uzi?"

"The order didn't come from Uzi."

"Shamron?"

Gabriel nodded.

"I assume the order applies to you as well."

"Of course."

"And is it your intention to disregard it?"

"Absolutely."

"I thought that would be your answer."

"I recruited her, Eli. I trained her and I sent her in there. And there's no way I'm going to let her end up like Rafael Bloch."

Lavon could see there was no use arguing the point. "You know, Gabriel, none of this would have happened if I'd stopped you from going to Argentina. You'd be watching the sunset in Cornwall tonight with your pretty young wife instead of presiding over another deathwatch in yet another godforsaken hotel room."

"If I hadn't gone to Argentina, we would have never discovered that Saint Martin Landesmann built his empire upon the looted wealth of the Holocaust. And we would have never discovered that Martin was compounding his sins by doing business with a regime that talks openly about carrying out a second Holocaust."

"All the more reason you should have an old friend watching your back tonight."

"My old friend has been ordered to evacuate. Besides, I've given him enough gray hairs for two lifetimes."

Lavon managed a fleeting smile. "Just do me a favor, Gabriel. Martin may have managed to beat us tonight. But whatever you do, don't give him an opportunity to run up the score. I'd hate to lose my only brother over a shipload of centrifuges."

Gabriel said nothing. Lavon placed his hands on either side of Gabriel's head and closed his eyes. Then he kissed Gabriel's cheek and slipped silently out the door.

THE MERCEDES-BENZ S-Class sedan with a sticker price far in excess of a hundred thousand dollars slid gracefully to the curb outside the Hotel Metropole. It had been purchased in order to ferry a striking young couple to a glamorous party. Now it was being used as a lifeboat, certainly one of the most expensive in the long and storied history of the Israeli intelligence services. It paused long enough to collect Lavon, then swung an illegal U-turn and headed across the Pont du Mont-Blanc, the first leg of its journey toward the French border.

Gabriel watched the taillights melt into the darkness, then sat down at his computer and reread the last encrypted dispatch from the ops center. Six a.m. London time, seven a.m. Geneva time...After that, Graham Seymour was planning to press the panic button and bring the Swiss into the picture. That left Gabriel, Navot, and Shamron just two and a half hours to strike a deal on better terms. Terms that didn't include exposing the operation. Terms that wouldn't allow Martin and his centrifuges to wriggle off Gabriel's hook.

In London, the computer technicians and analysts were searching the contents of Martin's hard drive for a bargaining chip. Gabriel already had one of his own—a list of names and account numbers hidden for sixty years inside Portrait of a Young Woman, 104 by 86 centimeters, by Rembrandt van Rijn. Gabriel laid the three pages of fragile onionskin carefully on the desk and photographed each with the camera of his secure mobile phone. Then he typed a message to London. Like the one he had received just a few minutes earlier, it was brief and entirely lacking in ambiguity. He wanted Ulrich Muller's telephone number. And he wanted it now.

69 GSTAAD, SWITZERLAND

The Swiss ski resort of Gstaad lies nestled in the Alps sixty miles northeast of Geneva in the German-speaking canton of Bern. Regarded as one of the most exclusive destinations in the world, Gstaad has long been a refuge for the wealthy, the celebrated, and those with something to hide. Martin Landesmann, chairman of Global Vision Investments and executive director of the One World charitable foundation, fell into all three categories. Therefore, it was only natural Martin would be drawn to it. Gstaad, he said in the one and only interview he had ever granted, was the place he went when he needed to clear his head. Gstaad was the one place where he could be at peace. Where he could dream of a better world. And where he could unburden his complex soul. Since he assiduously avoided traveling to Zurich, Gstaad was also a place where he could hear a bit of his native Schwyzerdutsch—though only occasionally, for even the Swiss could scarcely afford to live there anymore.

The comfortably well-off are forced to make the ascent to Gstaad by car, up a narrow two-lane road that rises from the eastern end of Lake Geneva and winds its way past the glaciers of Les Diablerets, into the Bernese Oberland. The immensely rich, however, avoid the drive at all costs, preferring instead to land their private jets at the business airport near Saanen or to plop directly onto one of Gstaad's many private helipads. Martin preferred the one near the fabled Gstaad Palace Hotel since it was only a mile from his chalet. Ulrich Muller stood at the edge of the tarmac, coat collar up against the cold, watching as the twin-turbine AW139 sank slowly from the black sky.

It was a large aircraft for private use, capable of seating a dozen comfortably in its luxurious custom-fitted cabin. But on that morning only eight people emerged—four members of the Landesmann family surrounded by four bodyguards from Zentrum Security. Well-attuned to the moods of the Landesmann clan, Muller could see they were a family in crisis. Monique walked several paces ahead, arms draped protectively around the shoulders of Alexander and Charlotte, and disappeared into a waiting Mercedes SUV. Martin walked over to Muller and without a word handed him a stainless steel attache case. Muller popped the latches and looked inside. One Bally wallet with credit cards and identification in the name of Mikhail Danilov. One room key from the Grand Hotel Kempinksi. One ultraviolet flashlight. One Sony USB flash drive. One electronic device with a numeric keypad and wires with alligator clips. One miniature radio and earpiece of indeterminate manufacture.

There are many myths about Switzerland. Chief among them is the long-held but 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?"

Muller tilted his head to the left but said nothing.

"Is he conscious yet?" asked Landesmann.

Muller 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," Muller 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." Muller glanced at the black sky. "Onyx is listening. And you can be sure everyone else is as well."

70 CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

Zoe 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 Gabriel Allon.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden slowing of the car. The road was much rougher now. In fact, Zoe doubted whether it was a road at all. The car lost traction, regained it, then fishtailed wildly for several seconds before finally staggering to a stop. The engine went dead, and Zoe heard four doors open and close in rapid succession. Then the trunk popped open, and she felt herself rise into the frigid air. Again they carried her on their shoulders like pallbearers carrying a coffin. Her journey was shorter this time, a few seconds, no more. Zoe could hear them sawing away at the duct tape. Then they rolled her twice to free her from the blankets.

Though not blindfolded, Zoe could see nothing. The place where they had taken her was black as pitch. They lifted her again, carried her a short distance, and placed her in a chair with no arms. Again they bound her with duct tape, this time to the back of the chair. Then lights came on, and Zoe screamed.

71 CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

Mikhail's position was a mirror image of Zoe's—hands and feet bound, torso secured to a straight-backed chair, duct tape over his mouth. He was fully conscious now and, judging from the blood flowing from his mouth, he had recently been struck. His tuxedo jacket had been removed; his shirt was torn in several places and soaked with blood. The contents of his wallet lay scattered on the cement floor at his feet, along with the USB flash drive and the ultraviolet light. Zoe tried not to look at the items. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the tall, middle-aged man standing halfway between her and Mikhail. He was wearing a dark blue banker's suit and a woolen overcoat. The hair was Germanic blond going to gray, the expression on his face one of mild distaste. In one hand was a gun, in the other Mikhail's miniature radio. The gun had blood on it. Mikhail's blood, she thought. But that made sense. The man in the dark blue suit didn't look like the sort who liked to use his fists. He also looked vaguely familiar. Zoe was certain she had seen him somewhere before in close proximity to Martin. But in her current state she couldn't recall where it had been.

She glanced quickly around. They were in a commercial storage facility of some sort. It was cheaply made of corrugated metal and stank of dirty motor oil and rust. The overhead lights buzzed. For a moment, Zoe allowed herself to wonder whether Rafael Bloch had spent time in this same place before his body was taken across the border and dumped in the French Alps. Then she forced the thought from her mind. Rafael Bloch? Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. She looked at Mikhail. He was staring directly at her as if trying to communicate something. Zoe held his gaze for as long as she could bear it, then looked down at her hands. This movement seemed to prompt the well-dressed man into action. He came over and ripped the duct tape from her mouth. Zoe gave an involuntary scream of pain and immediately regretted it.

"Who are you?" she snapped. "And why in God's name am I here?"

"You know why you're here, Zoe. In fact, thanks to your associate, Mr. Danilov, we all know why you're here."

He spoke English with only the faintest accent and with the precision of a timepiece.

"Are you crazy? I'm here because Martin—"

"No, Zoe. You're here because you're a spy. And you came to Geneva to steal private documents and correspondence from Mr. Landesmann's computer, a very serious crime here in Switzerland."

"I presume kidnapping and assault are as well."

The man in the suit smiled. "Ah, the famous Zoe Reed wit. It's good to know that at least something about you isn't a lie."

"I'm a reporter, you idiot. And when I get out of here, I'm going to find out who you are and destroy you."

"But you're not really a reporter at all, are you, Zoe? Your job at the Financial Journal is nothing but a cover. Two years ago, you were ordered by your superiors at British intelligence to form a sexual relationship with Mr. Landesmann in order to spy on his business operations. You made contact with Mr. Landesmann by expressing interest in interviewing him. Then, twenty-two months ago, you made contact with him in Davos."

"That's madness. Martin tried to seduce me in Davos. He invited me to his suite for dinner."

"That's not the way Jonas Brunner and the rest of Mr. Landesmann's security detail remember the evening, Zoe. They recall that you were very flirtatious and aggressive. And that's what they'll tell the Swiss police." He paused, then added, "But it doesn't have to come to that, Zoe. The sooner you confess, the sooner we can resolve this unpleasant affair."

"I have nothing to confess other than foolishness. Obviously, I was a fool ever to believe Martin's lies."

"What lies are those, Zoe?"

"Saint Martin," she said, her voice dripping with contempt.

The man was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke again, he did so not to Zoe but to the gun in his hand.

"Say the words, Zoe. Confess your sins. Tell me the truth. Tell me that you're not a real reporter. Tell me that you were ordered by your superiors in London to seduce Mr. Landesmann and steal his private documents."

"I won't say it because it's not true. I loved Martin."

"Did you?" He looked up from the gun as if genuinely surprised, then at Mikhail. "And what about your friend, Mr. Danilov? Are you in love with him, too?"

"I hardly know him."

"That's not what he says. According to Mr. Danilov, you two are working together on the Landesmann case."

"I'm not working with anyone. And I don't know anything about a Landesmann case. I don't know why there would even be a Landesmann case."

"That's not what Mr. Danilov says."

Zoe looked directly at Mikhail for the first time since the interrogation had begun. He held her gaze for a few seconds, then almost imperceptibly shook his head. Zoe's inquisitor noticed. He walked slowly over to Mikhail and struck him hard across the face with the butt of the gun, opening another gash high on his cheek. Then the man took a fistful of Mikhail's hair and pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple. A guard standing on the opposite side took a hasty step backward. The man holding the gun screwed the barrel into Mikhail's skin, then turned his head and looked at Zoe.

"You have one chance to tell the truth, Zoe. Otherwise, Mr. Danilov is going to die. And if he dies, you die. Because we can't have witnesses lying around, can we? Confess your sins, Zoe. Tell me the truth."

Mikhail was wincing with pain. But this time he didn't try to hide his message to Zoe. He was shaking his head violently from side to side, shouting something into the duct tape covering his mouth. This earned him two more blows with the butt of the gun. Zoe closed her eyes.

"Last chance, Zoe."

"Put the gun down."

"Only if you tell me the truth."

"Put the gun down." She opened her eyes. "Put it down, and I'll tell you everything you want to know."

"Tell me now."

"Stop, damn it. You're hurting him."

"I'm going to do much worse if you don't start talking. Tell me the truth, Zoe. Tell me you're a spy."

"I'm not a spy."

"So why did you help them?"

"Because they asked me to."

"Who did?"

"British intelligence."

"Who else?"

"Israeli intelligence."

"Who's in charge of the operation?"

"I don't know."

"Who's in charge, Zoe?"

"I don't know his real name."

"You're lying, Zoe. Tell me his name."

"His name is Gabriel."

"Gabriel Allon?"

"Yes, Gabriel Allon."

"Was he in Geneva tonight?"

"I don't know."

"Answer me, Zoe. Was he in Geneva tonight?"

"Yes."

"Were there others?"

"Yes."

"Tell me their names, Zoe. All of them."

72 MAYFAIR, LONDON

The digital clock at the front of the London ops center read 05:53:17. Less than seven minutes remaining until Graham Seymour's deadline. Shamron stared at the numbers despondently as if trying to mentally blunt their advance. It was odd, he thought, but in his youth time had always seemed to slow to a crawl at moments like these. Now the clock was roaring along at a gallop. He wondered whether it was yet another consequence of growing old. Time was his most implacable foe.

Regrettably, Shamron had lived through many such Office catastrophes and knew how the next few hours were likely to unfold. Once upon a time, the Europeans might have been expected to turn a blind eye. But no more. These days, they no longer had much use for the enterprise known as the State of Israel, and Shamron knew full well that the operation against Martin Landesmann was not going to go over well in the halls of European power. Yes, the British and Americans had been along for the ride, but none of that would matter when the arrest warrants were issued. Not one would bear an American or British name. Only Israeli names. Yossi Gavish, Dina Sarid, Yaakov Rossman, Rimona Stern, Gabriel Allon...They had carried out some of the greatest operations in the history of the Office. But not tonight. Tonight, Saint Martin had beaten them.

Shamron turned his gaze toward Uzi Navot. He was seated in a cubicle reserved for the FBI, a secure telephone pressed to his ear. At the other end of the call was the prime minister. It was never pleasant to wake a prime minister—especially when the news involved a looming diplomatic and political disaster—and Shamron could only imagine the tirade Navot was now enduring. He could not help but feel an ache of guilt. Navot had wanted no part of Landesmann and would now be forced to pay the price for Shamron's folly. Shamron would do his best to shield Navot from harm, but he knew how these things went. A head would have to roll. And it was likely to be Navot's.

He looked at the clock again: 05:56:38...Three and a half minutes until Graham Seymour telephoned the Swiss police. Three and a half minutes for the team of computer technicians and specialists to find the bargaining chip Shamron needed to achieve peace with honor. With Chiara peering anxiously over their shoulders, their labors were growing more frantic. Shamron wished he could help in some way. But he barely knew how to turn on a computer, let alone find a document buried in a pile of cybermush. Only the young knew how to do such things, Shamron thought gloomily. Yet more proof he had finally outlived his usefulness.

Another glance at the clock: 05:58:41...Graham Seymour was now watching the time with an intensity matching Shamron's. At his right elbow was a telephone. An hour earlier, Seymour had taken the liberty of storing the DAP's emergency number in the phone's memory. One press of a button was all it would take.

The clock advanced: 05:59:57...05:59:58...05:59:59...06:00:00...

Seymour lifted the receiver and looked at Shamron. "Sorry, Ari, but I'm afraid we've run out of time. I know it's not my call, but you might want to tell Gabriel to start heading for the border."

Seymour jabbed at the speed dial button and lifted the receiver to his ear. Shamron closed his eyes and waited for the words he would no doubt hear for the rest of his life. Instead, he heard the heavy glass door of the fishbowl open with a bang, followed by the triumphant voice of Chiara.

"We've got him, Graham! He's ours now! Hang up the phone! We've got him!"

SEYMOUR KILLED the connection. The receiver, however, was still in his hand.

"What exactly do you have?"

"The next shipment of centrifuges is due to leave Shenzhen in six weeks, arriving in Dubai sometime in mid-March, final payment due upon delivery to Meissner Privatbank of Liechtenstein."

"What's the source?"

"An encrypted temporary file that had once been attached to an e-mail."

"Who were the parties to the e-mail?"

"Ulrich Muller and Martin Landesmann."

"Let me see it."

Chiara handed Seymour a printout of the documents. Seymour examined them, then replaced the receiver.

"You just bought yourself one more hour, Ari."

Shamron turned to Chiara. "Can you get those documents to Gabriel securely?"

"No problem."

THE E-MAIL and supporting documentation were five pages in length. The computer technicians converted them to an encrypted PDF file and fired it to Gabriel over the secure link. It arrived on his computer at the Metropole at 7:05 local time, accompanied by the number for Ulrich Muller's mobile phone and his private e-mail address. Locating them had not been difficult. Both appeared hundreds of times in the memory of Martin's Nokia N900. Gabriel quickly prepared an e-mail to Muller with two PDF attachments and dialed his number. There was no answer. Gabriel killed the connection and dialed again.

ULRICH MULLER was driving past the floodlit Gstaad Palace Hotel when his mobile rang for the first time. Because he did not recognize the number, he did not answer. When the phone immediately rang a second time, he felt he had no choice. He tapped the CALL button and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Ja?"

"Good morning, Ulrich."

"Who is this?"

"Don't you recognize my voice?"

Muller did. He'd heard it on the surveillance tapes from Amsterdam and 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. Muller pulled to the side of the road. Thirty seconds later, the e-mail came through.

Shit...

MULLER 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."

ZOE AND MIKHAIL 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.

MARTIN LANDESMANN'S immense timbered chalet was ablaze with light as Ulrich Muller 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. Muller 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. Muller 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, Muller 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."

Muller 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.

GABRIEL'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 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...

THE 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."

THEY 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.

JONAS BRUNNER 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

They 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."

75 CANTON BERN, SWITZERLAND

"What do you want, Allon? Money? Is that what this is about? A shakedown? How much will it cost me to make this matter go away? A half billion? A billion? Name your figure. I'll write you a check, and we'll call it a morning."

"I don't want your money," Gabriel said. "I want your centrifuges."

"Centrifuges?" Landesmann's tone was incredulous. "Where did you get the idea I was selling centrifuges?"

"From your computers. It's all there in black-and-white."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. I own companies that sell dual-use components to trading companies that in turn sell them to other companies that may or may not be selling them to a certain manufacturer in Shenzhen, China."

"A manufacturer that you own through a Chinese partnership."

"Enjoy trying to prove that in court. I've done nothing illegal, Allon. You can't lay a finger on me."

"That might be true when it comes to Iran, but there's one thing that hasn't changed. You can still be torn to shreds by the class-action lawyers in America. And I have the evidence to bring you down."

"You have nothing."

"Are you really willing to take that chance?"

Landesmann made no reply.

"I have a hidden child in Amsterdam, a remorseful son in Argentina, contemporaneous diplomatic cables from Carlos Weber, and a list of names and numbers of accounts from your father's bank. And if you don't agree to cooperate, I'm going to take everything I have to New York City and give it to the most prominent law firm in town. They'll file suit against you in federal court for unjust enrichment and spend years picking through every aspect of your business. I doubt your saintly reputation will hold up under scrutiny like that. I also suspect your friends and protectors in Bern might resent you for reopening the most scandalous chapter in Swiss history."

"Allow me to impart a sad truth to you, Allon. If I wasn't doing business with the Iranians, one of my competitors would be. Yes, we make all the appropriate noises. But do you think we Europeans truly care whether Iran has a nuclear weapon? Of course not. We need Iranian oil. And we need access to the Iranian market. Even your so-called friends in America are doing a brisk business with the Iranians through their foreign subsidiaries. Face facts, Allon. You are alone. Again."

"We're not alone anymore, Martin. We have you."

Though Martin's eyes were concealed by sunglasses, he was now having difficulty maintaining his veneer of confidence. Martin was wrestling, thought Gabriel. Wrestling with his father's sins. Wrestling with the illusion of his own life. Wrestling with the fact that, for all his money and power, Saint Martin had been bested on this morning by the child of a survivor. For a moment, Gabriel considered appealing to Martin's sense of decency. But Martin had none. Martin had only an instinct for self-preservation. And Martin had his greed. Greed had compelled Martin to conceal the truth about the source of his wealth. And greed would make Martin realize he had no choice but to reach for the lifeline Gabriel was offering him.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Landesmann said at last.

"A partnership," said Gabriel.

"What sort of partnership?"

"A business partnership, Martin. You and me. Together, we're going to do business with Iran. You will get to keep your money and your reputation. Your life will go on as though nothing has changed. But with one important difference. You work for me now, Martin. I own you. You've just been recruited by Israeli intelligence. Welcome to our family."

"And how long will this partnership last?"

"As long as we deem necessary. And if you step out of line, I'll throw you to the wolves."

"And the profits?"

"Couldn't resist, could you?"

"This is a business deal, Allon."

Gabriel looked toward the sky. "I think fifty-fifty sounds fair."

Landesmann frowned. "Do you see no ethical issue in the intelligence service of the State of Israel profiting from the sale of gas centrifuges to the Islamic Republic of Iran?"

"Actually, I think I rather like it."

"How long do I have to consider your offer?"

"About ten seconds."

Landesmann raised his sunglasses and looked at Gabriel for a moment in silence. "Your two agents will be dropped off at the base of Les Diablerets in one hour. Call me when you wish to finalize the details of our relationship." He paused. "I assume you have my numbers?"

"All of them, Martin."

Landesmann headed toward the door of the helicopter, then stopped.

"One last question."

"What's that?"

"How long was Zoe working for you?"

Gabriel smiled. "We'll be in touch, Martin."

Landesmann turned without another word and boarded the helicopter, followed by Muller and Brunner. The cabin door closed, the twin turbines whined, and within seconds Gabriel was awash in a cloud of blowing snow. Martin Landesmann stared at him through the window as if enjoying this one small measure of revenge. Then he ascended into the pale blue sky and vanished into the sun.

76 LES DIABLERETS, SWITZERLAND

Gabriel left Martin's Mercedes SUV in a tow-away zone in central Gstaad and drove to Les Diablerets in the Audi. He parked near the base of the gondola and entered a cafe to wait. It was filled with excited neon-clad skiers oblivious to the bargain that had just been struck on a sunlit glade a few miles away. As Gabriel ordered coffee and bread, he couldn't help but marvel at the incongruity of the scene. He was struck, too, by the fact that, despite his advancing age, he had never once been on skis. Chiara had been begging him for years to take her on a ski vacation. Perhaps he would finally succumb. But not here. Maybe Italy or America, he thought, but not Switzerland.

Gabriel carried his coffee and bread to the front of the cafe and sat at a table with a good view of the road and parking lot. A dark-haired woman with a young boy asked to join him; together, they watched as the gondola rose like a dirigible and disappeared into the mountains. Gabriel checked the time on his secure mobile phone. The deadline was still ten minutes away. He wanted to call Chiara and tell her he was safe. He wanted to tell Uzi and Shamron he had just closed the deal of a lifetime. But he didn't dare. Not over the air. It was a coup, perhaps the greatest of Gabriel's career, but it was his alone. He'd had accomplices, some willing, some not so willing. Lena Herzfeld, Peter Voss, Alfonso Ramirez, Rafael Bloch, Zoe Reed...

He glanced at the time again. Five minutes until the deadline. Five minutes until the first test of the Allon-Landesmann joint venture. Nothing to do now but wait. It was a fitting end, he thought. Like most Office veterans, he had made a career of waiting. Waiting for a plane or a train. Waiting for a source. Waiting for the sun to rise after a night of killing. And waiting now for Saint Martin Landesmann to surrender two agents who had very nearly disappeared from the face of the earth. The waiting, he thought. Always the waiting. Why should this morning be any different?

He turned over the phone, concealing the digital clock, and stared out the window. To help pass the time, he made small talk with the woman, who looked far too much like his mother for Gabriel's comfort, and with the boy, who was not much older than Dani had been on the night of his death in Vienna. And all the while he kept his eyes fastened on the road. And on the morning traffic streaming out of the Oberland. And, finally, on the silver Mercedes GL450 sport-utility vehicle now turning into the parking lot. It was driven by a man wearing a dark blue ski jacket emblazoned with the insignia of Zentrum Security. Two figures, a man and a woman, sat in back. They, too, wore Zentrum jackets. The man's eyes were concealed by large sunglasses. Gabriel turned over his phone and looked at the time. One hour exactly. There were certain advantages to doing business with the Swiss.

He bade the woman and child a pleasant morning and stepped outside into the sunlight. The Mercedes sport-utility had come to a stop. A striking woman and a lanky man with blond hair were in the process of climbing out. It was the woman who first noticed Gabriel. But in a stroke of professionalism belying her inexperience, she did not call out to him or even acknowledge his presence. Instead, she simply took her companion gently by the arm and led him over to the Audi. Gabriel had the engine running by the time they arrived. A moment later, they were heading down the Vallee des Ormonts, Zoe at Gabriel's side, Mikhail stretched out in the backseat.

"Lift your glasses," said Gabriel.

Mikhail complied.

"Who did that to you?"

"I never caught their names." Mikhail lowered the glasses and propped his head against the window. "Did you beat him, Gabriel? Did you beat Martin?"

"No, Mikhail. You and Zoe beat him. You beat him badly."

"How much of his computer did I get?"

"We own him, Mikhail. He's ours."

"Where to now?"

"Out of Switzerland."

"I'm in no condition to fly."

"So we'll drive instead."

"No more airplanes, Gabriel?"

"No, Mikhail. Not for a while."