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."