“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 Müller.”
Carter chewed silently on the tip of his pipe. “Müller?” he asked finally. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Navot said. “Why?”
“Because we first came across Herr Müller during our investigation into Zentrum Security. Müller is former DAP, the Swiss security service, and a first-class shit. Martin and Müller go way back. Müller 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 Müller 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 Müller 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 canapés 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 entrée, 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.
“Som
ething 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.