"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.