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. Allon, 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."