Gabriel Allon 10 - The Rembrandt Affair Page 19

  "If that were the case, Ms. Reed, we would have used it to prevent you from going to print with the Empire Aerospace scandal. But that's not the way it works in the real world, only in bad television dramas. The Security Service exists to protect the British people, not oppress them. We aren't bloody Russians, for God's sake. And you have my word that the material you refer to will be destroyed the moment you leave here."

  She hesitated. "And if I stay?"

  "You will be told an extremely compelling story by a very interesting man." Seymour leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, fingers intertwined. "You have a reputation as a consummate professional, Ms. Reed. I'm counting on that reputation to help us get past any uncomfortable feelings this conversation might have provoked. Everything you think you know about Martin Landesmann is a lie. This is a chance for you to bring down a corrupt and dangerous businessman from the inside. It's also an opportunity for you to help make us all a bit safer."

  In the upstairs study, Nigel Whitcombe and Gabriel stared at the screens, awaiting her reply. Whitcombe would later say he felt they were doomed. But not Gabriel. He saw in Zoe a kindred spirit, a woman cursed with an exaggerated sense of right and wrong. Whatever she had once felt for Saint Martin was now dissolving under the weight of Seymour's words. Gabriel could see it in the expression on her telegenic face. And he could hear it in the decisive tone of her voice when she looked Graham Seymour directly in the eyes and asked, "And this very interesting man? Who is he?"

  "He's connected to a foreign intelligence service. The fact that he is willing to meet with someone in your profession is evidence of how seriously we all take this matter. I should point out in advance that it is quite possible you may recognize him. But under no circumstances are you ever to write about him or the things that he's about to tell you. And I should add that there's no point to asking him any questions about himself. He won't answer them. Ever."

  "You still haven't told me what it is you want me to do."

  "I'll leave that to him. Shall I bring him in, Ms. Reed? Or shall I take you home?"

  48

  HIGHGATE, LONDON

  Gabriel slipped silently into the room. At first, Zoe seemed unaware of his presence. Then her head turned slowly, and she studied him for a moment with an obvious curiosity, one half of her face illuminated by lamplight, the other concealed by shadow. Her pose was so motionless that for an instant Gabriel imagined he was gazing upon a portrait. Then she rose to her feet and extended a hand. "I'm Zoe," she said. "Who are you?"

  Gabriel shot a glance at Graham Seymour before accepting the outstretched hand. "I'm a friend, Zoe. I'm also a great admirer of your work."

  "And you're evading my question."

  Seymour was about to intervene, but Gabriel stilled him with a small shake of his head. "I'm afraid that evading questions is an affliction common to men like Graham and me. We demand truthfulness in others while concealing ourselves behind a cloak of lies."

  "Is it your intention to lie to me tonight?"

  "No, Zoe. If you are prepared to listen to what I have to say, then you will be told only the truth."

  "I'll listen. But no commitments beyond that."

  "Do you have a problem with commitment, Zoe?"

  "No," she said, holding his gaze. "Do you?"

  "Actually, some people tell me I'm too committed."

  "Committed to what?"

  "I care about some of the same things you do, Zoe. I don't like powerful men who prey on the weak. I don't like men who take things that don't belong to them. And I certainly don't like men who do business with regimes that speak openly about wiping my country from the face of the earth."

  She looked at Seymour, then at Gabriel again.

  "You're obviously referring to Iran."

  "I am."

  "Which means you're Israeli."

  "I'm afraid so."

  "And the other country involved in this operation?"

  "That would be the United States of America."

  "Lovely." She sat down again and scrutinized him for a moment without speaking.

  "Is there something you wish to ask me, Zoe?"

  "Your name."

  "I suspect you already know it."

  She hesitated, her dark eyes flickering over his face, then said, "You're Gabriel Allon, the one who rescued the American ambassador's daughter outside Westminster Abbey."

  "If memory serves, the two men who rescued Elizabeth Halton were officers of the SO19 division of the Metropolitan Police."

  "That was the story put out to cover up your role in the operation. The kidnappers demanded that you deliver the ransom money. They'd planned to kill you and Elizabeth Halton together. It was never determined exactly how you were able to escape. There were rumors you tortured the cell leader to death in a field north of London."

  "You really mustn't believe everything you read in the papers, Zoe."

  "Isn't that the truth." Her eyes narrowed. "So are the rumors correct, Mr. Allon? Did you really torture that terrorist in order to save Elizabeth Halton's life?"

  "And what if the answer was yes?"

  "As an orthodox left-wing journalist, I would be predictably appalled."

  "And if you were Elizabeth Halton?"

  "Then I suppose I would hope the bastard suffered a great deal before you put him out of his misery." She scrutinized him carefully. "So are you going to tell me what happened in that field?"

  "What field?"

  Zoe frowned. "So you get to know all my darkest secrets and I get to know nothing about you."

  "I don't know all your secrets."

  "Really?" Her tone was sardonic. "What other terrible things would you like to know about me?"

  "For the moment, I don't want to know anything at all. I just want you to listen to a story. It's a story about a missing masterpiece by Rembrandt, a fortune in looted Holocaust assets, an Argentine reporter named Rafael Bloch, and a company called Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg, Germany." Gabriel paused, then added, "A company secretly owned by Martin Landesmann."

  "Sounds like something that could sell a few newspapers." She glanced at Graham Seymour. "Am I to assume this is all covered by the Official Secrets Act as well?"

  Seymour nodded.

  "What a pity."

  Zoe looked at Gabriel and asked him to tell her the rest of it.

  ZOE WAS moved by the story of Lena Herzfeld, fascinated by the torment of Peter Voss, and heartbroken by the deaths of Rafael Bloch and Alfonso Ramirez. But it was the long list of Martin Landesmann's many sins that horrified her the most. Gabriel could see that the skepticism Zoe displayed earlier in the evening had now given way to anger--an anger that seemed to grow more intense with each new revelation he laid on the table.

  "Are you saying Martin Landesmann is selling critical equipment to the Iranian nuclear program?"

  "That's what we suspect, Zoe."

  "Suspect?"

  "As you know, there are few absolutes in intelligence work, but here's what we've discovered. We know Martin is selling high-grade industrial equipment to Iran through its state-sponsored nuclear-smuggling network. We know he's making a tremendous amount of money doing it. And we know he's going to a great deal of trouble to keep it a secret. At a time when the Iranians are moving rapidly toward developing a nuclear weapons capability, we can't afford to be in the dark about anything. It's essential that we uncover exactly what Martin is selling them." He paused. "And for that we need you."

  "Me? Everything I know about Martin's business is contained in an article that Mr. Seymour now says was inaccurate. What can I possibly do to help you discover what he's shipping to the Iranians?"

  "More than you realize," Gabriel said. "But before we get to that, there are a few things I need to know."

  "Such as?"

  "How did it happen, Zoe? How did you become involved with a man like Martin Landesmann?"

  She gave him a wry smile. "Perhaps social customs are different in Israel, Mr. A
llon, but here in Britain there are some things that are still regarded as private--unless you're a politician or a famous footballer, of course."

  "I can assure you, Zoe, I have no desire to hear any intimate details about your relationship."

  "What would you like to know?"

  "Let's start with something simple," he said. "How did you meet?"

  Zoe made a brief show of thought. "It was two years ago, in Davos. Martin had just given his yearly address, and he'd been electrifying. I filed my story from the pressroom, then headed over to the Belvedere Hotel. It was the usual scene--movie stars and politicians rubbing shoulders with the world's richest businessmen. That's where the real action takes place in Davos, at the cocktail parties and in the bars of the swankiest hotels."

  "And Martin was there?"

  She nodded. "He and his entourage were having drinks in the corner, protected by a wall of bodyguards. I ordered a glass of wine and immediately found myself in a horrendously boring conversation with a finance minister from Africa about debt relief. After ten minutes, I was ready to slit my wrists. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a blond chap, dark suit, buzz cut, German accent. Said his name was Jonas Brunner. Said he worked for Mr. Landesmann. Said Mr. Landesmann was wondering whether I might join him for a drink. I accepted, of course, and a few seconds later I was seated next to the man himself."

  "And what did the man want?"

  "I'd been badgering him for months for an interview. He told me he wanted to meet the world's most persistent woman, or so he said at the time."

  "Why would any businessman in his right mind want to give you an interview?"

  "It wasn't going to be that kind of piece. I wanted to do something different from my usual scorched-earth investigations. I wanted to write about a wealthy businessman who was actually doing something decent with his money. I told Martin I wanted my readers to meet the man behind the curtain."

  "But your conversation that night was off the record?"

  "Completely."

  "What did you talk about?"

  "Remarkably, me. Martin wanted to know about my work. My family. My hobbies. Anything but himself."

  "And you were impressed?"

  "Dazzled, actually. It's hard not to be. Martin Landesmann is incredibly handsome and wealthy beyond belief. And not many of the men I meet ever want to talk about anything but themselves."

  "So you were attracted to him?"

  "At the time, I was intrigued. And remember, I was after an interview."

  "And Martin?"

  She gave a faint smile. "As the evening wore on, he became quite flirtatious--in an understated, subliminal Martin sort of way," she added. "He finally asked whether I would have dinner with him in the privacy of his suite. He said it would give us a chance to get to know each other better. When I told him that I didn't think it was appropriate, he seemed quite shocked. Martin isn't used to people telling him no."

  "And the interview?"

  "I thought I'd lost any chance of getting it. But the opposite turned out to be true. Scott Fitzgerald was right about the rich, Mr. Allon. They are different from you and me. They want everything. And if they can't have something, they want it more."

  "And Martin wanted you?"

  "So it seemed."

  "How did he pursue you?"

  "Quietly and persistently. He would call every couple of days, just to chat and swap insights. British politics. Bank of England monetary policy. The budget deficit in America." She paused, then added, "Very sexy stuff."

  "Nothing personal?"

  "Not then," she said. "After about a month, he finally called me late one night and said a single word: Yes. I got on the next plane to Geneva and spent three days inside Martin's bubble. Even for a jaded reporter like me, it was an intoxicating experience. When the piece ran, it was an earthquake. It was required reading for businessmen and politicians around the world. And it cemented my reputation as one of the top financial journalists in the world."

  "Did Martin like it?"

  "At the time, I didn't have a clue."

  "No phone calls?"

  "Radio silence." She paused. "I confess I was disappointed when I didn't hear from him. I was curious to know what he thought of the article. Finally, two weeks after publication, he called again."

  "What did he want?"

  "He said he wanted to celebrate the fact that he was the first businessman to survive the slashing pen of Zoe Reed. He invited me to dinner. He even suggested I bring a date."

  "You accepted?"

  "Instantly. But I didn't bring a date. Martin and I had dinner here in London at L'Autre Pied. Afterward, I let him take me back to his hotel. And then..." Her voice trailed off. "Then I let him take me to bed."

  "No qualms about journalistic ethics? No guilt about sleeping with a married man?"

  "Of course I had qualms. In fact, I swore to myself it would never happen again."

  "But it did."

  "The very next afternoon."

  "You began seeing him regularly after that?"

  She nodded.

  "Where?"

  "Anywhere but London. My face is far too recognizable here. We always met somewhere on the Continent, usually in Paris, sometimes in Geneva, and occasionally at his chalet in Gstaad."

  "How do you communicate?"

  "The normal way, Mr. Allon. Martin's communications are very secure."

  "For good reason," Gabriel said. "Any plans to see him in the future?"

  "After what you've just told me?" Zoe laughed. "Actually, I'm supposed to see him in Paris four days from now. A week after that, I'm scheduled to go to Geneva. That's actually a work trip--Martin's annual Christmas gala at Villa Elma. Each year three hundred very rich, very lucky people are allowed to spend a few hours inside Martin's inner sanctum. The price of admission is a hundred-thousand-euro contribution to his One World foundation. Even then, he has to turn away hundreds of people each year. I go for free, of course. Martin enjoys bringing me to Villa Elma." She paused, then added, "I'm not sure Monique feels the same way."

  "She knows about you?"

  "I've always thought she must suspect something. Martin and Monique pretend to have the perfect relationship, but in reality their marriage is a sham. They reside under the same roof but for the most part lead completely separate lives."

  "Has he ever discussed the possibility of leaving her for you?"

  "Surely you're not as old-fashioned as that, Mr. Allon." She frowned. "Being around Martin Landesmann is very exciting. Martin makes me happy. And when it's over..."

  "He'll go back to his life, and you'll go back to yours?"

  "Isn't that the way it always works?"

  "I suppose," said Gabriel. "But it might not be so easy for you."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Because you're in love with him."

  Zoe's cheeks turned vermilion. "Is it that obvious?" she asked quietly.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "And you still want to use me?"

  "Use you? No, Zoe, I have no intention of using you. But I would be honored if you would agree to join our endeavor as a full partner. I promise it will be the experience of a lifetime. And you'll see things no other British reporter has seen before."

  "Perhaps now might be a good time to tell me exactly what it is you want me to do, Mr. Allon."

  "I need you to see Martin Landesmann at his apartment in Paris one more time. And I need you to do me a favor while you're there."

  IT WAS a few minutes after midnight when the Jaguar limousine bearing Zoe Reed and Graham Seymour eased away from the curb outside the Highgate safe house. Gabriel departed five minutes later, accompanied by Nigel Whitcombe. They headed south through the quiet streets of London, Whitcombe chattering with edgy excitement, Gabriel emitting little more than the occasional murmur of agreement. He climbed out of the car at Marble Arch and made his way on foot to an Office safe flat overlooking Hyde Park on Bayswater Road. Ari Shamron was waiting anxio
usly at the dining-room table, wreathed in a fog of cigarette smoke.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "We have our agent in place."

  "How long do we have to get her ready?"

  "Three days."

  Shamron smiled. "Then I suggest you get busy."

  49

  HIGHGATE, LONDON

  It was an alarmingly short period of time, even for an intelligence service used to working under the pressure of a ticking clock. They would have just three days to turn a British investigative reporter into a professional spy. Three days to prepare her. Three days to train her in the basics of tradecraft. And three days to teach her how to perform a pair of critical procedures--one involving Martin Landesmann's secure mobile phone, a Nokia N900, the other involving his Sony VAIO Z Series notebook computer.

  Their task was made even more difficult by Gabriel's decision to leave Zoe's work schedule unchanged, a step he took to avoid any disruption in her daily routine. It meant the team would have her for only a few hours each evening, and only after she had already put in an exhausting day at the office. Graham Seymour quietly voiced doubts as to whether she would be ready, as did the Americans, who were now following the affair closely. But Gabriel held firm. Zoe had a date with Martin in Paris in three days. Break that date, and Martin might become suspicious. Send her into Martin's bed too many times with her head filled with secrets, and she might end up like Rafael Bloch.

  For his classroom, Gabriel chose the familiar surroundings of the Highgate safe house, though by the time Zoe arrived for her first session it no longer bore any resemblance to a private London club. Its walls were covered with maps, photographs, and diagrams, and its rooms were occupied by a large group of Israelis who seemed more like harried graduate students than accomplished intelligence operatives. They greeted the new arrival as though they had been expecting her for a long time, then crowded around the dining-room table for a quick takeaway curry. The warmth displayed by Gabriel's team was genuine, even if the names they hid behind were not. Zoe gravitated naturally toward the tweedy, Oxbridge-educated Yossi, though she was clearly intrigued by an attractive woman with long dark hair who referred to herself as Rachel.