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.