The Rembrandt Affair

42 KING SAUL BOULEVARD, TEL AVIV

The operation began in earnest when Gabriel and Chiara arrived at Room 456C. A subterranean chamber located three levels beneath the lobby of King Saul Boulevard, it had once been a dumping ground for obsolete computers and worn-out furniture, often used by the night staff for romantic trysts. Now it was known throughout the Office only as Gabriel's Lair.

A strip of bluish fluorescent light shone from beneath the closed door, and from the opposite side came the expectant murmur of voices. Gabriel smiled at Chiara, then punched the code into the pad and led her inside. For a few seconds, none of the nine people sprawled around the dilapidated worktables seemed to notice their presence. Then a single face turned, and there arose a loud cheer. When the cacophony finally subsided, Gabriel and Chiara made their way slowly around the room, greeting each member of the fabled team.

There was Yossi Gavish, a tweedy, Oxford-educated analyst from Research, and Yaakov Rossman, a pockmarked former officer from Shabak's Arab Affairs Department who was now running agents into Syria. There was Dina Sarid, a terrorism specialist from History who seemed to carry the grief of her work wherever she went, and Rimona Stern, a former military intelligence officer who happened to be Shamron's niece by marriage and was now assigned to the Office's special Iran task force. There were Mordecai and Oded, a pair of all-purpose fieldhands, and two computer sleuths from Technical of whom it was said no database or server in the world was safe. And there was Eli Lavon, who had flown in from Amsterdam the previous evening after turning over the Lena Herzfeld watch to a local security team.

Within the corridors and conference rooms of King Saul Boulevard, these men and women were known by the code name Barak—the Hebrew word for lightning—because of their ability to gather and strike quickly. They had operated together, often under conditions of immense stress, on secret battlefields from Moscow to the Caribbean. But one member of the team was not present. Gabriel looked at Yossi and asked, "Where's Mikhail?"

"He was on a leave of absence."

"Where is he now?"

"Standing right behind you," said a voice at Gabriel's back.

Gabriel turned around. Propped against the jamb was a lanky figure with eyes the color of glacial ice and a fine-boned, bloodless face. Born in Moscow to a pair of dissident scientists, Mikhail Abramov had come to Israel as a teenager within weeks of the Soviet Union's collapse. Once described by Shamron as "Gabriel without a conscience," Mikhail had joined the Office after serving in the Sayeret Matkal special forces, where he had assassinated several of the top terrorist masterminds of Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad. But he would forever be linked to Gabriel and Chiara by the terrifying hours they had spent together in the hands of Ivan Kharkov in a birch forest outside Moscow.

"I thought you were supposed to be in Cornwall," Mikhail said.

"I got a little stir-crazy."

"So I hear."

"Are you up for this?"

Mikhail shrugged. "No problem."

Mikhail took his usual seat in the back left corner while Gabriel surveyed the four walls. They were papered over with surveillance photos, street maps, and watch reports—all corresponding to the eleven names Gabriel had written on the chalk-board the previous summer. Eleven names of eleven former KGB agents, all of whom had been killed by Gabriel and Mikhail. Now Gabriel wiped the names from the board with the same ease he had wiped the Russians from the face of the earth and in their place adhered an enlarged photograph of Martin Landesmann. Then he settled atop a metal stool and told his team a story.

It was a story of greed, dispossession, and death spanning more than half a century and stretching from Amsterdam to Zurich to Buenos Aires and back to the graceful shores of Lake Geneva. It featured a long-hidden portrait by Rembrandt, a twice-stolen fortune in looted Holocaust assets, and a man known to all the world as Saint Martin who was anything but. Like a painting, said Gabriel, Saint Martin was merely a clever illusion. Beneath the shimmering varnish and immaculate brushwork of his surface were base layers of shadows and lies. And perhaps there was an entire hidden work waiting to be brought to the surface. They were going to attack Saint Martin by focusing on his lies. Where there was one, Gabriel said, there would be others. They were like loose threads at the edge of an otherwise undamaged canvas. Pull on the right one, Gabriel promised, and Saint Martin's world would fall to pieces.

43 KING SAUL BOULEVARD, TEL AVIV

They divided his life in half, which Martin, had he known of their efforts, would surely have found appropriate. Dina, Rimona, Mordecai, and Chiara were given responsibility for his highly guarded personal life and his philanthropic work while the rest of the team took on the Herculean task of deconstructing his far-flung financial empire. Their goal was to find evidence that Saint Martin knew his astonishing wealth had been built upon a great crime. Eli Lavon, a battle-scarred veteran of many such investigations, privately despaired of their chances for success. The case against Landesmann, while compelling to a layman, was based largely on the fading memories of a few participants. Without original documentation from Bank Landesmann or an admission of guilt from Saint Martin himself, any allegations of wrongdoing might ultimately be impossible to prove. But as Gabriel reminded Lavon time and time again, he was not necessarily looking for legal proof, only a hammer that he might use to beat down the doors of Saint Martin's citadel.

Gabriel's first priority, however, was to break open the doors of Uzi Navot's executive suite. Within hours of the team's formation, Navot had issued a collegial directive to all department heads instructing them to cooperate fully with its work. But the written directive was soon followed by a verbal one that had the effect of sending all requests for intelligence or resources to Navot's sparkling desk, where invariably they languished before receiving his necessary signature. Navot's personal demeanor only reinforced the notion of indifference. Those who witnessed his encounters with Gabriel described them as tense and abbreviated. And during his daily planning meetings, Navot referred to the investigation of Martin Landesmann only as "Gabriel's project." He even refused to assign the venture a proper code name. The message, while carefully encrypted, was clear to all those who heard it. The Landesmann case was a tin can Navot intended to kick down the road. As for Gabriel, yes, he was a legend, but he was yesterday's man. And anyone foolish enough to hitch his wagon to him would at some point feel Uzi's wrath.

But as the work of the team quietly progressed, the siege slowly lifted. Gabriel's requests began clearing Navot's desk in a more timely fashion, and the two men were soon conferring in person on a regular basis. They were even spotted together in the executive dining room sharing a dietetic lunch of steamed chicken and wilted greens. Those fortunate few who were able to gain admittance to Gabriel's subterranean realm described the mood as one of palpable excitement. Those who labored there under Gabriel's unrelenting pressure might have described the atmosphere in another manner, but, as always, they kept their own counsel. Gabriel made few demands of his team other than loyalty and hard work, and they rewarded him with absolute discretion. They regarded themselves as a family—a boisterous, quarrelsome, and sometimes dysfunctional family—and outsiders were never privy to family secrets.

The true nature of their project was known only to Navot and a handful of his most senior aides, though even a glance inside the team's cramped lair would have left very little to the imagination. Stretching the entire length of one wall was a complex diagram of Saint Martin's global business empire. At the top were the companies directly owned or controlled by Global Vision Investments of Geneva. Below that was a directory of firms owned by known subsidiaries of GVI, and farther down lay a substrata of enterprises held by corporate shells and offshore fronts.

The diagram proved Alfonso Ramirez's contention that, for all Saint Martin's corporate piety, he was remorseless in pursuit of profit. There was a textile mill in Thailand that had been cited repeatedly for using slave labor, a chemical complex in Vietnam that had destroyed a nearby river, and a cargo vessel recycling center in Bangladesh that was regarded as one of the most fouled parcels of land on the planet. GVI also controlled a Brazilian agribusiness that was destroying several hundred acres of the Amazon rain forest on a daily basis, an African mining company that was turning a corner of Chad into a dust bowl, and a Korean offshore-drilling firm that had caused the worst environmental disaster in the history of the Sea of Japan. Even Yaakov, who had seen mankind at its worst, was stunned by the vast chasm between Landesmann's words and his deeds. "The word that leaps to mind is compartmentalized," said Yaakov. "Our Saint Martin makes Ari Shamron look one-dimensional."

If Landesmann were troubled by the contradictions in his business affairs, it was not visible on the face he showed in public. For on the opposite wall of Room 456C there emerged a portrait of a righteous, enlightened man who had achieved much in life and was eager to give much in return. There was Martin the philanthropist, and Martin the mystic of corporate responsibility. Martin who gave medicine to the sick, Martin who brought water to the thirsty, and Martin who built shelter for the homeless, sometimes with his own hands. Martin at the side of prime ministers and presidents, and Martin cavorting in the company of famous actors and musicians. Martin discussing sustainable agriculture with the Prince of Wales, and Martin fretting about the threat of global warming with a former senator from America. There was Martin with his photogenic family: Monique, his beautiful French-born wife, and Alexander and Charlotte, their teenage children. Finally, there was Martin making his annual pilgrimage to the World Economic Forum at Davos, the one time each year when the oracle spoke for attribution. Were it not for Davos, Saint Martin's legion of devoted followers might have been forgiven for assuming that its prophet had taken a vow of silence.

It would not have been possible to assemble so complete a picture of Martin in so short a period of time if not for the help of someone who had never even set foot in Room 456C. His name was Rafael Bloch, and his contribution was the treasure trove of files gathered during his long and ultimately fatal investigation into Martin Landesmann. Bloch had left behind many pieces of the puzzle. But it was Eli Lavon who unearthed the true prize, and Rimona Stern who helped decode it.

Buried in an unlabeled tan folder were several pages of hand-written notes concerning Keppler Werk GmbH, a small metallurgy firm based in the former East German city of Magdeburg. Apparently, Landesmann had secretly purchased the company in 2002, then poured millions into transforming the once-dilapidated facility into a modern technological showpiece. It seemed that Keppler's assembly lines now manufactured some of the finest industrial-grade valves in Europe—valves it shipped to customers around the world. It was a list of those customers that raised alarm bells, for Keppler's distribution chain corresponded rather nicely to a global smuggling route well known to Office analysts. The network began in the industrial belt of Western Europe, snaked its way across the lands of the former Soviet Union, then looped through the shipping lanes of the Pacific Rim before finally reaching its terminus at the Islamic Republic of Iran.

It was this discovery, made on the fourth day of the team's effort, that prompted Gabriel to announce that they had just discovered Martin's loose thread. Uzi Navot immediately christened the operation Masterpiece and headed to Kaplan Street in Jerusalem. The prime minister wanted details, and Navot finally had a critical one to share. Gabriel's project was no longer simply about a missing Rembrandt portrait and a pile of looted Holocaust assets. Martin Landesmann was in bed with the Iranians. And only God knew who else.

THE NEXT EVENING, Martin Landesmann became the target of active, if distant, Office surveillance. The setting for this milestone was Montreal; the occasion was a charity gala at a downtown hotel for a cause Saint Martin supposedly held dear. The watchers took several photos of Landesmann as he arrived for the party—accompanied by Jonas Brunner, his personal security chief—and snapped several more as he departed in the same manner. When next they saw him he was stepping off his private business jet at Geneva International Airport and into the back of an armored Mercedes Maybach 62S limousine, which delivered him directly to Villa Elma, his palatial estate on the shores of Lake Geneva. Martin, they would soon discover, spent almost no time at GVI's headquarters on the Quai de Mont-Blanc. Villa Elma was his base of operations, the true nerve center of his vast empire, and the repository of Martin's many secrets.

As the surveillance operation settled into place, it began to produce a steady stream of intelligence, most of it useless. The watchers took many pretty pictures of Martin and recorded the occasional snatch of long-range audio, but their efforts produced nothing resembling an actionable piece of information. Martin conducted conversations they could not hear with men they could not identify. It was, said Gabriel, like listening to a melody without words.

The problem lay in the fact that, despite repeated efforts, Technical had been unable to penetrate GVI's well-fortified computer systems or to crack into Martin's ever-present mobile phone. Given no advance warning of Martin's hectic schedule, Gabriel's watchers were little more than a pack of hounds chasing a crafty fox. Only the flight plans filed by Martin's pilots betrayed his movements, but even those proved to be of little value. Ten days into the Landesmann watch, Gabriel announced that he never wanted to see another photo of Martin getting on or off an airplane. Indeed, Gabriel declared, he would be happy if he never saw Martin's face again. What he needed was a way inside Martin's world. A way to get his phone. A way to get his computer. And for that he needed an accomplice. Given Martin's daunting security, it would not be possible to create one out of whole cloth. Gabriel needed the help of someone close to Martin. He needed an agent in place.

AFTER A WEEK of around-the-clock searching, the team found its first potential candidate while staking out Martin at his luxury penthouse apartment located at 21 Quai de Bourbon, on the northern edge of the Ile Saint-Louis in Paris. She was delivered to his door by way of a chauffeured Mercedes at five minutes past nine in the evening. Her hair was dark and cut fashionably short; her eyes were large and liquid and brimming with an obvious intelligence. The surveillance team judged her to be a self-assured woman and, after hearing her bid good night to her driver, British. She punched the code into the entry keypad as though she had performed the task many times before, then disappeared through the doorway. They saw her again two hours later admiring the view of the Seine from Martin's window with Martin at her back. The intimacy of their pose, combined with the fact that her torso was bare, left no doubt about the nature of their relationship.

She departed at 8:15 the next morning. The watchers took several additional photos as she climbed into the back of a chauffeured Mercedes, then followed her to the Gare du Nord where she boarded the 9:13 Eurostar train to London. After three days of surveillance, Gabriel knew her name, her address, her telephone number, and the date of her birth. Most important, he knew where she worked.

It was the last piece of information—the place of her employment—that caused Uzi Navot to immediately declare her "flagrantly unsuitable" for recruitment. Indeed, during the heated argument that followed, an exasperated Navot would once again say things he would later regret. Not only did he call into question Gabriel's judgment but his sanity as well. "Obviously, the Cornish wind has affected your brain," he snapped at one point. "We don't recruit people like her. We avoid them at all costs. Cross her off your list. Find someone else."

In the face of Navot's tirade, Gabriel displayed a remarkable equanimity. He patiently refuted Navot's arguments, calmed Navot's fears, and reminded Navot of the formidable nature of Martin's many defenses. The woman they had first seen in Paris was the proverbial bird in the hand, he said. Release her to the wind, and it might be months before they found another candidate. Navot finally capitulated, as Gabriel had known he would. Given Martin's secret commercial ties to the Iranians, he was no longer a can that could be kicked down the road. Martin had to be dealt with and dealt with quickly.

The global nature of Martin's sins, combined with the passport carried by the potential recruit, meant it was not possible for the Office to proceed alone. A partner was required, perhaps two for good measure. Navot issued the invitations; the British quickly agreed to act as host. Gabriel had one final request, and this time Navot did not object. One didn't bring a knife to a gunfight, Navot conceded. And one never went to war against a man like Martin Landesmann without Ari Shamron in his back pocket.

44 THE MARAIS, PARIS

Many years earlier, Maurice Durand had stumbled across a newspaper article about the case of Christoph Meili, a private security guard who had the misfortune of being assigned to work at the Union Bank of Switzerland's headquarters on the Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich. While making his rounds on a January afternoon in 1997, the devoutly Christian father of two entered the bank's shredding room and discovered a pair of large rolling bins filled with old documents, including several ledgers detailing transactions conducted between UBS and Hitler's Germany. Meili found the presence of the material in the shredding room more than a little suspicious, since weeks earlier Swiss banks had been prohibited by federal law from destroying wartime documents. Sensing something was amiss, he stuffed two of the ledgers under his shirt and smuggled them to his modest home outside Zurich. The next morning, he handed the documents over to the Israeli Cultural Center, at which point his problems began.

The head of the center quickly called a press conference to denounce UBS for its wanton destruction of records. UBS dismissed the shredding as a regrettable mistake and promptly laid blame at the feet of the bank's archivist. As for Christoph Meili, he was summarily fired from his job and soon became the target of a criminal investigation into whether he had violated Swiss bank-secrecy laws by stealing the wartime records. Meili was hailed around the world as a "document hero," but in his native land he was hounded by public denunciations and death threats. Much to Switzerland's shame, the security guard who acted on his conscience had to be granted political asylum by the U.S. Senate and was quietly resettled with his family in New York.

At the time, Maurice Durand concluded that Meili's actions, while admirable and courageous, were ultimately foolhardy. Which made it all the more strange that Durand had now decided he had no choice but to embark on a similar path. Ironically, his motivations were identical to Meili's. Though Monsieur Durand was a career criminal who habitually violated two of God's most sacred commandments, he regarded himself as a deeply spiritual and honorable man who tried to operate by a certain code. That code would not allow him to ever accept payment for a painting stained in blood. Nor would it permit him to suppress the document he had discovered hidden inside. To do so would not only be a crime against history but make him an accessory after the fact to a mortal sin.

There were, however, two aspects of the Meili affair Maurice Durand was determined not to repeat—public exposure and the threat of prosecution. Meili's lapse, he concluded, had been to place his trust in a stranger. Which explained why, late that afternoon, Durand decided to close his shop early and personally deliver a pair of eighteenth-century lorgnette opera glasses to one of his most valued clients, Hannah Weinberg.

Fifty years of age and childless, Madame Weinberg had two passions: her impressive collection of antique French eyewear and her tireless campaign to rid the world of racial and religious hatred in all its forms. Hannah's first passion had caused her to form an attachment to Antiquites Scientifiques. Her second had compelled her to found the Isaac Weinberg Center for the Study of Anti-Semitism in France, named for her paternal grandfather who was arrested during Jeudi noir, Black Thursday, the roundup of Jews in Paris, on July 16, 1942, and subsequently murdered at Auschwitz. Hannah Weinberg was now regarded as the most prominent so-called memory militant in France. Her fight against anti-Semitism had earned her a legion of admirers—including the current French president—but many determined enemies as well. The Weinberg Center was the target of constant threats, as was Hannah Weinberg herself. As a result, Maurice Durand was one of the few people who knew that she lived in her grandfather's old apartment at 24 rue Pavee, in the fourth arrondissement.

She was waiting for him on the landing outside her apartment, dressed in a dark sweater, a pleated wool skirt, and heavy stockings. Her dark hair was streaked with gray; her nose was narrow and aquiline. She greeted Durand warmly with kisses on each cheek and invited him inside. It was a large apartment, with a formal entrance hall and a library adjoining the sitting room. Antique furniture covered in faded brocade stood sedately about, thick velvet curtains hung in the windows, and an ormolu clock ticked quietly on the mantel. The effect of the decor was to create the impression of a bygone era. Indeed, for a moment Durand felt as though he were standing in an annex of Antiquites Scientifiques.

Durand formally presented Hannah with her opera glasses and informed her about a number of interesting pieces that might soon be coming into his possession. Finally, he opened his attache case and in an offhanded tone said, "I stumbled upon some interesting documents a few days ago, Madame Weinberg. I was wondering whether you might have a moment to take a look."

"What are they?"

"To be honest, I have no idea. I was hoping you might know."

He handed the sheath of old wax paper to Hannah Weinberg and watched as she removed the delicate sheets of paper.

"It was hidden inside a telescope I purchased a few weeks ago," he said. "I found it while I was doing some repair work."

"That's odd."

"I thought so, too."

"Where did the telescope come from?"

"If it's all right with you, Madame Weinberg, I'd rather not—"

She held up a hand. "Say no more, Monsieur Durand. You owe your clients absolute discretion."

"Thank you, madame. I knew you would understand. The question is, what is it?"

"The names are clearly Jewish. And it obviously has something to do with money. Each name is assigned a corresponding figure in Swiss francs, along with an eight-digit number of some sort."

"It looks like wartime paper to me."

She fingered the edge of one page carefully. "It is. You can tell by the shoddy quality. In fact, it's a miracle the pages are even intact."

"And the eight-digit numbers?"

"Hard to say."

Durand hesitated. "Is it possible they're account numbers of some sort, Madame Weinberg?"

Hannah Weinberg looked up. "Swiss bank accounts?"

Durand gave a deferential smile. "You're the expert, madame."

"I'm not, actually. But it's certainly plausible." She studied the pages again. "But who would assemble a list like this? And why?"

"Perhaps you know someone who might be able to answer that question. Someone at the center, for example."

"We really don't have anyone who focuses purely on financial matters. And if you're right about the meaning of the numbers, these documents need to be reviewed by someone who knows a thing or two about Swiss banking."

"Do you happen to know someone like that, madame?"

"I'm sure I can track down someone qualified." She looked at him for a moment, then asked, "Is that your wish, Monsieur Durand?"

He nodded. "But I have a small favor. I would appreciate it if you would keep my name out of it. My business, you understand. Some of my clients might—"

"Don't worry," Hannah Weinberg said, cutting him off. "Your secret is safe with me, Maurice. This will be strictly entre nous. I give you my word."

"But you'll call if you learn anything interesting?"

"Of course."

"Thank you, madame." Maurice Durand closed his attache case and gave her a conspiratorial smile. "I hate to admit it, but I've always loved a good mystery."

HANNAH WEINBERG stood in the window of her library and watched Maurice Durand recede into the gathering darkness along the rue Pavee. Then she gazed at the list.

Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld...

She wasn't at all sure she believed Durand's story. Regardless, she had made a promise. But what to do with the list? She needed an expert. Someone who knew a thing or two about Swiss banks. Someone who knew where the bodies were buried. In some cases, literally.

She opened the top drawer of her writing desk—a desk that had once belonged to her grandfather—and removed a single key. It opened a door at the end of an unlit corridor. The room behind it was a child's room, Hannah's old room, frozen in time. A four-poster bed with a lace canopy. Shelves stacked with stuffed animals and toys. A faded pinup of an American heartthrob actor. And hanging above a French provincial dresser, shrouded in heavy shadow, was a painting, Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, by Vincent van Gogh. Several years earlier, she had lent it to a man who was trying to find a terrorist—a man from Israel with the name of an angel. He had given her a number where he could be reached in an emergency or if she needed a favor. Perhaps it was time to renew their relationship.

45 THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

The conference room was preposterously large, as was the gleaming rectangular table that ran nearly the entire length of it. Shamron sat at his assigned place, dwarfed by his executive swivel chair, and gazed across the river toward the Emerald City-like headquarters of MI6. Gabriel sat next to him, hands neatly folded, eyes flickering over the two men opposite. On the left, dressed in an ill-fitting blazer and crumpled gabardine trousers, was Adrian Carter, director of the CIA's National Clandestine Service. On the right was Graham Seymour, deputy director of MI5.

The four men seated around the table represented a secret brotherhood of sorts. Though each remained loyal to his own country, their close bond transcended time and the fickle whims of their political masters. They did the unpleasant chores no one else was willing to do and worried about the consequences later. They had fought for one another, killed for one another, and in some cases bled for one another. During multiple joint operations, all conducted under conditions of extreme stress, they had also developed an uncanny ability to sense one another's thoughts. As a result, it was painfully obvious to both Gabriel and Shamron that there was tension on the Anglo-American side of the table.

"Something wrong, gentlemen?" asked Shamron.

Graham Seymour looked at Carter and frowned. "As our American cousins like to say, I'm in the doghouse."

"With Adrian?"

"No," Carter interjected quickly. "We revere Graham. It's the White House that's angry with him."

"Really?" Gabriel looked at Seymour. "That's quite an accomplishment, Graham. How did you manage that?"

"The Americans had an intelligence failure last night. A significant failure," he added. "The White House has gone into full damage-control mode. Tempers are flaring. Fingers are pointing. And most of them seem to be pointing at me."

"What exactly was this failure?"

"A Pakistani citizen who sometimes resides in the United Kingdom attempted to blow himself up on a flight from Copenhagen to Boston. Luckily, he was as incompetent as the last fellow, and international passengers seem to have become quite adept at taking matters into their own hands."

"So why is anyone angry with you?"

"Good question. We alerted the Americans several months ago that he was associating with known radicals and was probably being groomed for an attack. But according to the White House, I wasn't forceful enough in my warnings." Seymour glanced at Carter. "I suppose I could have written an op-ed piece in the New York Times, but I thought that might be a bit excessive."

Gabriel looked at Carter. "What happened?"

"His name was misspelled by someone on our end when it was entered into the database of suspected militants."

"So he never made it onto the no-fly list?"

"That's correct."

Graham Seymour shook his head in amazement. "There's a ten-year-old American Boy Scout who can't get his name off the no-fly list, but I can't get a known jihadi on it. Quite the contrary, they gave him an open-ended visa and allowed him to get on an airplane with a one-way ticket and explosive powder in his carry-on."

"Is that true, Adrian?" asked Gabriel.

"In a nutshell," Carter conceded morosely.

"So why take it out on Graham?"

"Political convenience," Carter said without hesitation. "In case you haven't noticed, there are powerful people around our new president who like to pretend there's no such thing as a war on terror. In fact, I'm no longer allowed to utter those words. So when something does happen..."

"The powerful men around your president go looking for a scapegoat."

Carter nodded.

"And they picked Graham Seymour?" asked Gabriel incredulously. "A loyal friend and ally who's been at your side from the beginning of the war on terror?"

"I've pointed that out to the president's counterterrorism adviser, but he's in no mood to listen. Apparently, his job is less than secure at the moment. As for Graham, he'll survive. He's the only person in Western intelligence who's been in his job longer than I have."

Seymour's mobile telephone purred softly. He dispatched the call to his voice mail with the press of a button, then rose from his chair and walked over to the credenza for a cup of coffee. He was dressed, as usual, in a perfectly fitted charcoal gray suit and a regimental tie. His face was even featured, and his full head of hair had a rich silvery cast that made him look like a model one sees in ads for costly but needless trinkets. Though he had worked briefly as a field officer, he had spent the lion's share of his career toiling behind locked doors at MI5 headquarters. Graham Seymour waged war against Britain's enemies by attending briefings and reading dossiers. The only light that shone upon his patrician features emanated from his halogen desk lamp. And the only surface his handmade English shoes ever trod upon was the fine woolen carpet stretching between his office and the director-general's.

"How goes the search for the missing Rembrandt?" Seymour asked.

"It's evolved."

"So I'm told."

"How much do you know, Graham?"

"I know that after leaving Christopher Liddell's studio with a rubber glove filled with evidence, you headed to Amsterdam. From there, you traveled to Argentina, where, two days later, one of the country's most important voices of conscience was killed in a bombing." Seymour paused. "Was it an old enemy or have you already managed to make a new one?"

"We believe it was Martin Landesmann."

"Really?" Seymour brushed a bit of invisible lint from his trousers.

"You don't seem terribly surprised, Graham."

"I'm not."

Gabriel looked at Adrian Carter and saw he was doodling on his MI5 notepad.

"And you, Adrian?"

Carter looked up briefly from his labors. "Let's just say I've never been one to bow at the altar of Saint Martin. But do tell me the rest of it, Gabriel. I could use a good story after the day I've had."

ADRIAN CARTER was easily underestimated, an attribute that had served him well throughout his career at the CIA. Little about Carter's churchy appearance or clinical demeanor suggested he oversaw the most powerful covert intelligence apparatus in the world—or that before his ascension to the seventh floor at Langley he had operated on secret battlefields from Poland to Central America to Afghanistan. Strangers mistook him for a university professor or a therapist of some sort. When one thought of Adrian Carter, one pictured a man grading a senior thesis or listening to a patient confessing feelings of inadequacy.

But it was Carter's ability to listen that set him apart from lesser rivals at Langley. He sat transfixed throughout Gabriel's story, legs crossed, hands thoughtfully bunched beneath his chin. Only once did he move and that was to brandish his pipe. This gave Shamron license to draw his own weapon, despite Seymour's halfhearted attempt to enforce MI5's ban on smoking. Having heard Gabriel's story already, Shamron occupied his time by contemptuously inspecting his imposing surroundings. He had begun his career in a building with few amenities other than electricity and running water. The grandness of Britain's intelligence monuments always amused him. Money spent on pretty buildings and nice furniture, Shamron always said, was money that couldn't be spent on stealing secrets.

"For the record," Graham Seymour said at the conclusion of Gabriel's presentation, "you've already managed to violate several provisions of our agreement. We allowed you to take up residence in the United Kingdom on the proviso that you were retired and that your only work would be art related. This affair stopped being art related when you stumbled back into the arms of your old service after the bombing in Buenos Aires. And it certainly stopped being art related when your prime minister signed off on a full-scale investigation of Martin Landesmann. Which, by the way, is long overdue."

"What do you know about Martin that the rest of the world doesn't?"

"A few years ago, Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs began a major effort to crack down on British subjects who were concealing money in offshore tax havens. During the course of their investigation, they discovered an unusually large number of our citizens, many with questionable sources of income, had deposited money in something called Meissner Privatbank of Liechtenstein. After some digging, they concluded that Meissner wasn't much of a bank at all but a portal to a massive money-laundering operation. And guess who owned it?"

"Global Vision Investments of Geneva?"

"Through various fronts and subsidiaries, of course. When the boys at Revenue and Customs were preparing to go public with their findings, they expected a big pat on the back. But much to their surprise, word came from on high to shut down the investigation, and the case was dropped."

"Any reason given?"

"Not one that anyone dared to say aloud," Seymour said. "But it was clear Downing Street didn't want to jeopardize the flow of Swiss investment money into the United Kingdom by starting a public row with a man regarded as Switzerland's patron saint of corporate responsibility."

Carter tapped his pipe like a gavel against an ashtray and began slowly reloading the bowl.

"Is there something you wish to add, Adrian?" asked Gabriel.

"Zentrum Security."

"What is it?"

"A corporate security firm based in Zurich. A couple of years ago, a number of American firms doing business in Switzerland became convinced they were the targets of corporate espionage. They approached the administration and asked for help. The administration quietly dropped it in my lap."

"And?"

"We discovered that all the firms involved in the complaint had been targeted by Zentrum. It isn't merely a 'guns, guards, and gates' kind of firm. Along with the usual range of protective services, it does a lucrative trade in what it refers to as overseas consulting."

"Translation?"

"It arranges deals between clients and foreign entities, be they corporate or government."

"What kind of deals?"

"The kind that can't be handled in the traditional manner," Carter said. "And you can guess who owns Zentrum Security."

"Global Vision Investments."

Carter nodded.

"Have they ever arranged any deals for a company called Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg, Germany?"

"Keppler has never popped up on our radar screens," Carter said. "But as you know, thousands of international companies are currently doing business in Iran. Our friends in China are among the worst offenders. They'll do business with anyone, but the Germans aren't much better. Everyone wants their market share, and in times like these, they're reluctant to give it up over something as trivial as Iran's nuclear ambitions. At least seventeen hundred German firms are doing business in Iran, many of them makers of sophisticated industrial equipment. We've been pleading with the Germans for years to scale back their business ties to the Iranians, but they refuse. Some of our closest allies are in bed with Tehran for one reason and one reason only. Greed."

"Isn't it ironic," said Shamron. "The country that brought us the last Holocaust is doing a brisk business with the country promising to bring us the next one."

All four men lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. It was Gabriel who broke it.

"The question is," he said, "is Martin Landesmann shipping sensitive material to the Iranians through the back door? If that's the case, we need to know two things. What exactly is he selling them? And how is it getting there?"

"And how do you propose we find out?" asked Seymour.

"By getting inside his operation."

"Good luck. Martin runs a very tight ship."

"Not as tight as you might think." Gabriel laid a surveillance photograph on the table. "I assume you recognize her?"

"Who wouldn't?" Seymour tapped the photo with his forefinger. "But where did you take this?"

"Outside Martin's apartment in Paris. She spent the night with him."

"You're sure?"

"Would you like to see more photos?"

"God, no!" Seymour said. "I've never cared for operations involving matters of the heart. They can be extremely messy."

"Life is messy, Graham. That's what keeps people like you and me in business."

"Perhaps. But if this recruitment of yours isn't handled carefully, I won't be in this business for long." Seymour looked down at the photo and shook his head slowly. "Why couldn't Martin fall for a waitress like every other cad?"

"He has excellent taste."

"I'd withhold judgment on that until you meet her. She has something of a reputation. It's quite possible she'll turn you down." Seymour paused, then added, "And, of course, there's another possibility."

"What's that?"

"She could be in love with him."

"She won't be when I'm finished."

"Don't be so sure. Women have a way of looking past the faults of the men they love."

"Yes," Gabriel said. "I've heard that somewhere before."

46 THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

Operation Masterpiece became a joint American-British-Israeli undertaking at 11:45 the following morning, when Graham Seymour emerged from No. 10 Downing Street with the last of the required ministerial authorizations tucked safely inside his secure briefcase. The speed with which the agreement was concluded was a testament to Seymour's current standing in Whitehall. It was also, Seymour would later admit, a rather astute display of good old-fashioned realpolitik. If Martin Landesmann were to go down, the mandarins reckoned, chances were good a great deal of British money would go down with him. In their calculation, it was better to be a party to Gabriel's operation than a spectator. Otherwise, there might be nothing left of Martin's financial carcass but bleached bones and a bit of loose change.

For the moment, the Americans were content to play the role of confidant and trusted adviser. Indeed, within hours of the interservice gathering at Thames House, Adrian Carter was Langley-bound aboard his Gulfstream V executive jet. Gabriel Allon had no airplane of his own, nor did he have any intention of leaving his operation solely in the hands of even a trusted friend like Graham Seymour. Gabriel had found the target and Gabriel intended to personally close the deal. This presented MI5's lawyers with a bit of a problem. Yes, they declared after much deliberation, it was permissible for an officer of a foreign intelligence service to take part in such a discussion. But only after said officer had been told, in no uncertain terms, the legal facts of life.

And so shortly after two that afternoon, Gabriel was once more seated at the preposterous table in the ninth-floor conference room, this time confronted by what appeared to be the entire legal department of MI5. After a brief review of Gabriel's past actions on British soil—their catalogue was remarkably complete—the lawyers laid down the rules of engagement for Masterpiece. Given the sensitive nature of the target's work, the recruitment would have to be handled with extreme care. There would be no coercion of any kind, nor a whiff of anything that smelled remotely of blackmail. Any Israeli surveillance of the subject on British soil was to cease forthwith. And any future surveillance of the subject on British soil, if approved, would be carried out only by MI5. "Now sign this," said one of the lawyers, thrusting an impressive-looking document into Gabriel's hand, along with an impressive-looking gold pen. "And God help you if you violate a word of it."

Gabriel had no such intentions—at least none at the time—so he scribbled something illegible on the line indicated and retreated to the anteroom. Waiting there was Nigel Whitcombe, a young MI5 field officer who had cut his operational teeth working with Gabriel against Ivan Kharkov. Whitcombe's pious appearance concealed a mind as devious as any career criminal's.

"I'm surprised you're still in one piece," he said.

"They managed to do it without leaving any cuts or bruises."

"They're good at that." Whitcombe tossed aside a two-week-old copy of The Economist and stood. "Let's head downstairs. Wouldn't want to miss the opening act."

They rode a lift to the lowest level of the building and followed a harshly lit corridor to a secure door marked OPS CENTER. Whitcombe punched the code into the keypad and led Gabriel inside. At the front of the room was a wall of large video monitors, watched over by a select group of senior operations officers. The chair marked SEYMOUR was empty—hardly surprising, since the man who usually occupied it was at that moment preparing to make his much-anticipated return to the field. Whitcombe tapped Gabriel's arm and pointed to a CCTV image at the center of the video wall.

"Here comes your girl."

Gabriel glanced up in time to see a rain-spattered sedan passing through a security gate outside a grim-looking modern office building. At the bottom left of the image was the location of the camera that had captured it: Wood Lane, Hammersmith. Ten minutes later, Nigel Whitcombe pointed to a new image on the video wall, a direct feed of the British Broadcasting Corporation. One of the technicians turned up the audio in time to hear the news presenter read the introduction.

"There were new allegations today..."

Whitcombe looked at Gabriel and smiled. "Something tells me this is going to be an interesting evening."

IT WAS fitting commentary on the deplorable state of print journalism that Zoe Reed, regarded as one of the brightest stars of the British press, spent the final hours before her recruitment bathed in the flattering glow of television lights. Ironically, her appearances that evening would prove to be a major embarrassment to Downing Street, for they involved allegations that yet another Labor MP had been caught up in the Empire Aerospace bribery scandal. The BBC got first crack at her, followed by Sky News, CNBC, and finally CNN International.

It was upon Zoe's departure from CNN's studios, located at 16 Great Marlborough Street, that she had the first inkling her evening might not go as planned. It was brought about by the sudden disappearance of the car and driver retained by the Financial Journal to ferry her from appearance to appearance. As she was reaching for her mobile, a middle-aged man in a mackintosh coat approached and informed her that, due to a scheduling problem, she had been assigned a new car, a gleaming Jaguar limousine parked on the opposite side of the street. Anxious to return home after a long day, she hurried across through the rain and climbed into the back without hesitation. At which point she realized she was not alone. Seated next to her, a mobile phone pressed to his ear, was a well-dressed man with even features and a full head of pewter-colored hair. He lowered the phone and looked at Zoe as if he had been expecting her.

"Good evening, Ms. Reed. My name is Graham Seymour. I work for the Security Service, and through no fault of my own I've been promoted to a senior position, which you can verify by speaking to the person at the other end of this call." He handed her the mobile. "It's my director-general. I trust you'll remember her voice, since you interviewed her just last month. You were a bit hard on her in my opinion, but your article made for good reading."

"Is that why I'm here?"

"Of course not, Ms. Reed. You're here because we have a serious problem—a problem involving the security of the country and the entire civilized world—and we need your help."

Zoe lifted the phone cautiously to her ear. "Good evening, Zoe, my dear," she heard a familiar matronly voice say. "Rest assured you are in very good hands with Graham. And do accept my apology for disturbing your evening, but I'm afraid there was no other way."

IN THE operations room at Thames House, there was a communal sigh of relief as they watched the Jaguar slip away from the curb. "Now the fun begins," said Nigel Whitcombe. "We'd better get moving or we'll be late for the second act."

47 HIGHGATE, LONDON

The safe house stood at the end of a hushed cul-de-sac in Highgate, three stories of sturdy Victorian red brick with chimneys at each end of its roof. Gabriel and Nigel Whitcombe arrived first and were seated before a panel of video monitors in the upstairs study when Zoe Reed came through the front entrance. A pair of docile-looking female officers immediately took possession of her raincoat, briefcase, and mobile phone; then Graham Seymour ushered her into the drawing room. It had the comfortable, musty air of a private London club. There was even a dreadful print of a country hunt scene above the fireplace. Zoe examined it with a slightly bemused expression, then, at Seymour's invitation, sat in a leather wing chair.

Seymour walked over to the sideboard, which had been laid with an array of food and drinks, and drew two cups of coffee from the pump-action thermos. The care with which he performed this task was an accurate reflection of his mood. Zoe Reed was no run-of-the-mill target for recruitment. Yes, she had been left vulnerable by her relationship with Martin Landesmann, but Seymour knew he could not be seen to exploit the affair in any way. To do so, he reckoned, would not only place his own career at risk but spoil any chance of obtaining what they needed most. Like all veterans, Seymour knew that successful recruitments, much like successful interrogations, were usually the result of playing to the dominant aspects of the target's personality. And Graham Seymour knew two critical things about Zoe Reed. He knew she despised corruption in all its forms and he knew that she was not afraid of powerful men. He also suspected she was not the sort of woman who would react well when told she had been deceived. But then few women did.

It was into this minefield of human emotion that Graham Seymour waded now, a cup of hot coffee balanced in each hand. He gave one to Zoe, then, almost as an afterthought, instructed her to sign the document lying on the table in front of her.

"What is it?"

"The Official Secrets Act." Seymour's tone was repentant. "I'm afraid you'll need to sign it before this conversation can continue. You see, Ms. Reed, the information I'm about to share with you can't be written about in the pages of the Journal. In fact, once you sign—"

"I'll be forbidden from discussing it even with members of my own family." She fixed him with a mocking stare. "I know all about the Official Secrets Act, Mr. Seymour. Who do you think you're dealing with?"

"I'm dealing with one of Britain's most accomplished and respected journalists, which is why we've gone to such lengths to keep this conversation private. Now, if you would please sign, Ms. Reed."

"It's not worth the paper it's printed on." Greeted by silence, Zoe gave an exasperated sigh and signed the document. "There," she said, pushing the paper and pen toward Seymour. "Now, why don't you tell me exactly why I'm here."

"We need your help, Ms. Reed. Nothing more."

Seymour had composed the words carefully that afternoon. They were a call to colors—an appeal to patriotism without uttering so unfashionable a word—and they elicited the precise response he had been hoping for.

"Help? If you needed my help, why didn't you just call me on the telephone and ask? Why the spy games?"

"We couldn't contact you openly, Ms. Reed. You see, it's quite possible someone is watching you and listening to your phones."

"Who on earth would be watching me?"

"Martin Landesmann."

Seymour had tried to drop the name as casually as possible. Even so, its impact was instantly visible on Zoe's face. Her cheeks flushed slightly, then quickly regained their normal complexion. And though she did not realize it, Zoe Reed had just answered two of Gabriel's most pressing questions. She was embarrassed by her relationship with Martin Landesmann. And she had the ability to handle pressure.

"Is this some kind of a joke?" she asked, her tone even.

"I'm the deputy director of MI5, Ms. Reed. I don't have time for much of anything, let alone jokes. You should know from the outset that Martin Landesmann is the target of an investigation being conducted by the United Kingdom and two of our allies. You should also be assured that you are not a target in any way."

"What a relief," she said. "So why am I here?"

Seymour advanced cautiously and according to his script. "It's come to our attention that you and Mr. Landesmann have a close relationship. We would like to borrow your access to Mr. Landesmann to assist us in our investigation."

"I interviewed Martin Landesmann once. I hardly think that falls into the category of—"

Seymour raised his hand, interrupting her. He had been prepared for this. In fact, he had expected nothing less. But the last thing he wanted was to place Zoe in a position where she felt compelled to lie.

"Obviously, this is not a court of law, Ms. Reed. You are under no legal obligation to talk to us, and I'm certainly not here to pass judgment on anyone. Heaven knows, we've all made mistakes, myself included. But having said that, we need to be honest with each other. And I'm afraid we don't have much time."

Zoe appeared to give his words careful deliberation. "Why don't you go first, Mr. Seymour? Be honest with me."

She was testing him—Seymour could see that. He seized the opportunity without hesitation, though his tone remained one of clinical detachment.

"We know that approximately eighteen months ago you obtained an exclusive interview with Mr. Landesmann, the first and only such interview he has ever granted. We know that you are now romantically involved with him. We also know that you spend time together on a regular basis, most recently at his apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis in Paris." Seymour paused. "But none of that is important."

This time Zoe made no attempt to deny the facts. Instead, she displayed a flash of her famous temper.

"Not important?" she snapped. "How long have you been following me?"

"We've never followed you."

"So much for honesty."

"I am being honest, Ms. Reed. We found out about you by accident. Martin Landesmann was under surveillance when you visited his apartment. Unfortunately, you were swept up in the wash."

"Is that a legal term?"

"It is what it is, Ms. Reed."

Zoe dispensed with denials and resorted to righteous indignation, the trusted friend of journalists the world over. "Even if this came into your possession in the manner you claim, you had no right to act upon it or even handle it."

"In point of fact, we did. I can show you the Home Secretary's signature if you like. But that said, we are not interested in your personal life. We asked you here because we have some sensitive information—information we will share with you if you help us."

Seymour's offer of classified intelligence did nothing to mollify Zoe's anger. "Actually," she said pointedly, "I think it's time I had a word with my barrister."

"That's not necessary, Ms. Reed."

"How about my publisher?"

"Latham? I doubt they would react well to being dragged into this."

"Really? And how do you think the British public would react to an expose on how MI5 is spying on reporters?"

After years of being hounded by the press, Seymour was tempted to point out that the British public was more likely to enjoy reading about her affair with Martin Landesmann than yet another dreary scandal involving MI5. Instead, he lifted his gaze reflectively toward the ceiling and allowed the anger of the exchange to dissipate. In the quiet of the upstairs study, the two men seated before the video monitors had conflicting reactions to the verbal sparring. Nigel Whitcombe feared Zoe was a lost cause, but Gabriel saw her defiance as a positive sign. As Ari Shamron always said, a recruit who agreed too quickly was a recruit who couldn't be trusted.

"Unfortunately," Seymour resumed, "Martin Landesmann is not the man you think he is. That shiny image is nothing but a carefully constructed cover. And you're not the first to be fooled. He's involved in money laundering, tax evasion, corporate espionage, and much worse." Seymour gave Zoe a moment to absorb his words. "Martin Landesmann is dangerous, Ms. Reed. Extremely dangerous. And, present company excepted, he doesn't care for reporters—not because of some false modesty, but because he doesn't like people digging into his affairs. One of your fellow journalists discovered that not long ago when he made the mistake of asking Martin the wrong question. That man is now dead."

"Martin Landesmann? A murderer? Are you completely mad? Martin Landesmann is one of the most respected and admired businessmen in the world. My God, he's practically—"

"A saint?" Seymour shook his head. "I read all about Saint Martin's good works in your article. But if I were you, I'd hold off on Martin's canonization until you hear all the evidence. This may be hard to accept at the moment, but he's deceived you. I'm offering you a chance to hear the truth."

Zoe appeared to wrestle for a moment over the word truth. Gazing at her face in the video monitors, Gabriel thought he detected the first signs of doubt in her eyes.

"You're not offering me anything," she shot back. "You're trying to blackmail me. Do you not see anything remotely unethical about that?"

"I've spent my entire professional life working for the Security Service, Ms. Reed. I'm conditioned to deal not in black-and-white but shades of gray. I see the world not as I would like it to be but as it is. And, for the record, we are not blackmailing you or pressuring you in any way. Quite simply, you have a choice."

"What sort of choice?"

"Option one, you can agree to help us. Your work will be extremely limited in scope and short in duration. No one will ever know a thing—unless you choose to violate the Official Secrets Act, which, obviously, we strongly discourage."

"And the second option?"

"I'll take you home, and we'll pretend this never happened."

She appeared incredulous. "And what happens to all the dirt you and your allies have accumulated? I tell you what will happen to it. It will find its way into a nice little file that will remain within easy reach of powerful fingers. And if I ever step out of line, or do anything to irritate Her Majesty's Government, the contents of that file will be used against me."

"If that were the case, Ms. Reed, we would have used it to prevent you from going to print with the Empire Aerospace scandal. But that's not the way it works in the real world, only in bad television dramas. The Security Service exists to protect the British people, not oppress them. We aren't bloody Russians, for God's sake. And you have my word that the material you refer to will be destroyed the moment you leave here."

She hesitated. "And if I stay?"

"You will be told an extremely compelling story by a very interesting man." Seymour leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, fingers intertwined. "You have a reputation as a consummate professional, Ms. Reed. I'm counting on that reputation to help us get past any uncomfortable feelings this conversation might have provoked. Everything you think you know about Martin Landesmann is a lie. This is a chance for you to bring down a corrupt and dangerous businessman from the inside. It's also an opportunity for you to help make us all a bit safer."

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."

"And Martin was there?"

She nodded. "He and his entourage were having drinks in the corner, protected by a wall of bodyguards. I ordered a glass of wine and immediately found myself in a horrendously boring conversation with a finance minister from Africa about debt relief. After ten minutes, I was ready to slit my wrists. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a blond chap, dark suit, buzz cut, German accent. Said his name was Jonas Brunner. Said he worked for Mr. Landesmann. Said Mr. Landesmann was wondering whether I might join him for a drink. I accepted, of course, and a few seconds later I was seated next to the man himself."

"And what did the man want?"

"I'd been badgering him for months for an interview. He told me he wanted to meet the world's most persistent woman, or so he said at the time."

"Why would any businessman in his right mind want to give you an interview?"

"It wasn't going to be that kind of piece. I wanted to do something different from my usual scorched-earth investigations. I wanted to write about a wealthy businessman who was actually doing something decent with his money. I told Martin I wanted my readers to meet the man behind the curtain."

"But your conversation that night was off the record?"

"Completely."

"What did you talk about?"

"Remarkably, me. Martin wanted to know about my work. My family. My hobbies. Anything but himself."

"And you were impressed?"

"Dazzled, actually. It's hard not to be. Martin Landesmann is incredibly handsome and wealthy beyond belief. And not many of the men I meet ever want to talk about anything but themselves."

"So you were attracted to him?"

"At the time, I was intrigued. And remember, I was after an interview."

"And Martin?"

She gave a faint smile. "As the evening wore on, he became quite flirtatious—in an understated, subliminal Martin sort of way," she added. "He finally asked whether I would have dinner with him in the privacy of his suite. He said it would give us a chance to get to know each other better. When I told him that I didn't think it was appropriate, he seemed quite shocked. Martin isn't used to people telling him no."

"And the interview?"

"I thought I'd lost any chance of getting it. But the opposite turned out to be true. Scott Fitzgerald was right about the rich, Mr. Allon. They are different from you and me. They want everything. And if they can't have something, they want it more."

"And Martin wanted you?"

"So it seemed."

"How did he pursue you?"

"Quietly and persistently. He would call every couple of days, just to chat and swap insights. British politics. Bank of England monetary policy. The budget deficit in America." She paused, then added, "Very sexy stuff."

"Nothing personal?"

"Not then," she said. "After about a month, he finally called me late one night and said a single word: Yes. I got on the next plane to Geneva and spent three days inside Martin's bubble. Even for a jaded reporter like me, it was an intoxicating experience. When the piece ran, it was an earthquake. It was required reading for businessmen and politicians around the world. And it cemented my reputation as one of the top financial journalists in the world."

"Did Martin like it?"

"At the time, I didn't have a clue."

"No phone calls?"

"Radio silence." She paused. "I confess I was disappointed when I didn't hear from him. I was curious to know what he thought of the article. Finally, two weeks after publication, he called again."

"What did he want?"

"He said he wanted to celebrate the fact that he was the first businessman to survive the slashing pen of Zoe Reed. He invited me to dinner. He even suggested I bring a date."

"You accepted?"

"Instantly. But I didn't bring a date. Martin and I had dinner here in London at L'Autre Pied. Afterward, I let him take me back to his hotel. And then..." Her voice trailed off. "Then I let him take me to bed."

"No qualms about journalistic ethics? No guilt about sleeping with a married man?"

"Of course I had qualms. In fact, I swore to myself it would never happen again."

"But it did."

"The very next afternoon."

"You began seeing him regularly after that?"

She nodded.

"Where?"

"Anywhere but London. My face is far too recognizable here. We always met somewhere on the Continent, usually in Paris, sometimes in Geneva, and occasionally at his chalet in Gstaad."

"How do you communicate?"

"The normal way, Mr. Allon. Martin's communications are very secure."

"For good reason," Gabriel said. "Any plans to see him in the future?"

"After what you've just told me?" Zoe laughed. "Actually, I'm supposed to see him in Paris four days from now. A week after that, I'm scheduled to go to Geneva. That's actually a work trip—Martin's annual Christmas gala at Villa Elma. Each year three hundred very rich, very lucky people are allowed to spend a few hours inside Martin's inner sanctum. The price of admission is a hundred-thousand-euro contribution to his One World foundation. Even then, he has to turn away hundreds of people each year. I go for free, of course. Martin enjoys bringing me to Villa Elma." She paused, then added, "I'm not sure Monique feels the same way."

"She knows about you?"

"I've always thought she must suspect something. Martin and Monique pretend to have the perfect relationship, but in reality their marriage is a sham. They reside under the same roof but for the most part lead completely separate lives."

"Has he ever discussed the possibility of leaving her for you?"

"Surely you're not as old-fashioned as that, Mr. Allon." She frowned. "Being around Martin Landesmann is very exciting. Martin makes me happy. And when it's over..."

"He'll go back to his life, and you'll go back to yours?"

"Isn't that the way it always works?"

"I suppose," said Gabriel. "But it might not be so easy for you."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you're in love with him."

Zoe's cheeks turned vermilion. "Is it that obvious?" she asked quietly.

"I'm afraid so."

"And you still want to use me?"

"Use you? No, Zoe, I have no intention of using you. But I would be honored if you would agree to join our endeavor as a full partner. I promise it will be the experience of a lifetime. And you'll see things no other British reporter has seen before."

"Perhaps now might be a good time to tell me exactly what it is you want me to do, Mr. Allon."

"I need you to see Martin Landesmann at his apartment in Paris one more time. And I need you to do me a favor while you're there."

IT WAS a few minutes after midnight when the Jaguar limousine bearing Zoe Reed and Graham Seymour eased away from the curb outside the Highgate safe house. Gabriel departed five minutes later, accompanied by Nigel Whitcombe. They headed south through the quiet streets of London, Whitcombe chattering with edgy excitement, Gabriel emitting little more than the occasional murmur of agreement. He climbed out of the car at Marble Arch and made his way on foot to an Office safe flat overlooking Hyde Park on Bayswater Road. Ari Shamron was waiting anxiously at the dining-room table, wreathed in a fog of cigarette smoke.

"Well?" he asked.

"We have our agent in place."

"How long do we have to get her ready?"

"Three days."

Shamron smiled. "Then I suggest you get busy."

49 HIGHGATE, LONDON

It was an alarmingly short period of time, even for an intelligence service used to working under the pressure of a ticking clock. They would have just three days to turn a British investigative reporter into a professional spy. Three days to prepare her. Three days to train her in the basics of tradecraft. And three days to teach her how to perform a pair of critical procedures—one involving Martin Landesmann's secure mobile phone, a Nokia N900, the other involving his Sony VAIO Z Series notebook computer.

Their task was made even more difficult by Gabriel's decision to leave Zoe's work schedule unchanged, a step he took to avoid any disruption in her daily routine. It meant the team would have her for only a few hours each evening, and only after she had already put in an exhausting day at the office. Graham Seymour quietly voiced doubts as to whether she would be ready, as did the Americans, who were now following the affair closely. But Gabriel held firm. Zoe had a date with Martin in Paris in three days. Break that date, and Martin might become suspicious. Send her into Martin's bed too many times with her head filled with secrets, and she might end up like Rafael Bloch.

For his classroom, Gabriel chose the familiar surroundings of the Highgate safe house, though by the time Zoe arrived for her first session it no longer bore any resemblance to a private London club. Its walls were covered with maps, photographs, and diagrams, and its rooms were occupied by a large group of Israelis who seemed more like harried graduate students than accomplished intelligence operatives. They greeted the new arrival as though they had been expecting her for a long time, then crowded around the dining-room table for a quick takeaway curry. The warmth displayed by Gabriel's team was genuine, even if the names they hid behind were not. Zoe gravitated naturally toward the tweedy, Oxbridge-educated Yossi, though she was clearly intrigued by an attractive woman with long dark hair who referred to herself as Rachel.

The enormous operational constraints forced Gabriel to dispense with normal methods of training and design a true crash course in the basics of espionage. It began immediately after dinner when Zoe was placed on a conveyor belt of sorts that whisked her from room to room, briefing to briefing. They trained her in the basics of countersurveillance and impersonal communication. They taught her how to move in public and how to conceal emotion and fear. And they even gave her a few lessons in self-defense. "She's naturally aggressive," Rimona told Gabriel, a bag of frozen peas pressed to her swollen eye. "And she has a wicked left elbow."

She was a gifted pupil, but then they had expected nothing less. By the end of the first night, the team unanimously declared her an amazingly quick study—high praise, given the quality of past recruits. Blessed with the skills of an elite reporter, she was able to store, sort, and retrieve vast amounts of information with remarkable speed. Even Dina, who carried a database of terrorism in her brain, was impressed by Zoe's power of recall. "She's used to working under a deadline," Dina said. "The harder we push, the better she reacts."

Her final stop each night was the small upstairs study. There, alone with Gabriel, she would repeatedly rehearse the procedures that were the central purpose for her recruitment. If successful, Gabriel promised, Martin's world would be an open book. One mistake, he cautioned, and she would sink the entire operation and place herself in grave danger. She was to assume that the wolf was just outside the door waiting to catch her in the ultimate act of betrayal. To defeat him would require speed and near silence. Speed came easily; silence proved far more elusive. It was finally achieved late on the second night, when a recording of the session revealed nothing audible to the human ear.

Zoe's rapid training, however, was only one of Gabriel's concerns. There were vehicles to rent, additional personnel to move into place, and a safe flat to acquire on the Right Bank of the river Seine, not far from the Hotel de Ville. And given the high-profile involvement of the British, there were many high-profile meetings to attend. The Iran team from MI6 found its way to the planning table, as did representatives of the Foreign Office and the Ministry of Defence. Indeed, each time Gabriel entered Thames House, the crowd seemed larger. There were obvious risks to working in such close proximity to sister intelligence services—namely, that those same services were taking careful note of every operational tendency they were able to observe. Gabriel's exposure was increased by the fact that he was living and working inside an MI5 safe house. Though Graham Seymour denied he was listening in on the preparations, Gabriel was confident that every word uttered by his team was being recorded and analyzed by MI5. But such was the price to be paid for British cooperation against Martin Landesmann. And for Zoe.

Gabriel remained faithful to the original operational accord and grudgingly allowed Graham Seymour to handle Zoe's surveillance. Over the objections of the lawyers, Seymour extended the zone of coverage to include Zoe's telephone and computer inside the offices of the Financial Journal. The intercepts of her calls and electronic correspondence exposed no indiscretion or second thoughts of any kind. Nor did they reveal any undisclosed contact from one Martin Landesmann, chairman of Global Vision Investments of Geneva.

On Zoe's final night at the Highgate safe house, she seemed more focused than ever. And if she was at all frightened by what lay ahead, she gave no sign of it. She resolutely stepped onto Gabriel's conveyor belt and was whisked one last time from room to room, briefing to briefing. Her night ended, as usual, in the upstairs study. Gabriel switched off the lights and listened carefully while she rehearsed for a final time.

"Done," she said. "How long did it take?"

"Two minutes, fourteen seconds."

"That's good?"

"Very good."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Not a sound."

"Are we finished?"

"Not quite." Gabriel switched on the lights and looked at her thoughtfully. "It's not too late to change your mind, Zoe. We'll find some other way of getting to him. And I promise that none of us will think any less of you."

"Yes, but I might." She was silent for a moment. "You should know something about me, Mr. Allon. Once I've made a decision, I stick to it. I never break promises, and I hate to make mistakes."

"We share that affliction."

"I thought so."

Zoe picked up the rehearsal phone. "Any last-minute advice?"

"My team has prepared you well, Zoe."

"Yes, they have." She looked up at him. "But they're not you."

Gabriel took the phone from her grasp. "Once you start, move quietly but quickly. Don't creep around like a cat burglar. Visualize your actions before you take them. And don't think about the bodyguards. We'll worry about the bodyguards. All you have to worry about is Martin. Martin is your responsibility."

"I'm not sure I can pretend to be in love with him."

"Humans are natural liars. They mislead and dissemble hundreds of times each day without even realizing it. Martin Landesmann happens to be an extraordinary liar. But with your help, we can beat him at his own game. The mind is like a basin, Zoe. It can be filled and emptied at will. When you walk into his apartment tomorrow night, we don't exist. Only Martin. You just have to be in love with him one more night."

"And after that?"

"You go back to your life and pretend none of it ever happened."

"And what if that's not possible?"

"The mind is like a basin, Zoe. Pull the plug, and the memory drains away."

With that, Gabriel walked her downstairs and helped her into the back of an MI5 Rover. As usual, Zoe immediately switched on her mobile phone to conduct a bit of work during the short drive home to Hampstead. Because the device had spent a few minutes in the capable hands of Mordecai earlier that evening, the team now knew Zoe's altitude, latitude, longitude, and the speed at which she was traveling. They were also able to hear everything she was saying to her MI5 minder and were able to monitor both ends of a call she placed to her editor in chief, Jason Turnbury. Within five minutes of the call's termination, they had downloaded her e-mail, text messages, and several months' worth of Internet activity. They also downloaded several dozen photographs, including one she snapped six months earlier of a shirtless Martin Landesmann sunning himself on the deck of his chalet in Gstaad.

The presence of the photograph on Zoe's telephone provoked a fierce debate among Gabriel's team, which they conducted in a terse form of colloquial Hebrew no MI5 listener would ever be able to translate. Yaakov, a man with a complicated personal life of his own, moved for immediate termination of the entire operation. "There's just one reason why a woman would keep a picture like that. She's still in love with him. And if you send her into his apartment tomorrow night, she'll sink us all." But it was Dina—Dina of the much-broken heart—who talked Yaakov down from his ledge. "Sometimes a woman likes to stare at a man she hates just as much as one she loves. Zoe Reed hates Martin more than she's ever hated anyone in her life. And she wants to bring him down just as much as we do."

Oddly enough, it was Zoe herself who settled the dispute an hour later, when Martin phoned from Geneva to say how much he was looking forward to seeing her in Paris. The call was brief; Zoe's performance, exemplary. After severing the connection, she immediately dialed Highgate to report the call, then settled into bed for a few hours of sleep. As she switched off her bedside lamp, they overheard a single word that left little doubt about her true feelings for Martin Landesmann.

"Bastard..."

The following morning when Gabriel arrived at Thames House, it seemed the whole of Whitehall was waiting in the ninth-floor conference room. After enduring an hour of rigorous questioning, he was made to swear a blood oath that, if caught on French soil, he would say nothing of British or American involvement in the affair. Seeing no papers to sign, Gabriel raised his right hand, then slipped quickly out the door. Much to his surprise, Graham Seymour insisted on driving him to St. Pancras Station.

"To what do I owe the honor?" Gabriel asked as the car pulled into Horseferry Road.

"I wanted a word in private."

"About?"

"Zoe's mobile phone." Seymour looked at Gabriel and frowned. "You signed an agreement to let us handle her surveillance and you violated it the moment our backs were turned."

"Did you really think I was going to send her into Martin's apartment without audio coverage?"

"Just make sure you shut down the feed once she's safely back on British soil. So far, we've managed to avoid shooting ourselves in the foot. I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"The best way to shoot ourselves in the foot would be to lose Zoe in Paris tomorrow night."

"But that's not going to happen, is it, Gabriel?"

"Not if we run the operation my way."

Seymour gazed out the window at the Thames. "I don't have to remind you that a good many careers are in your hands, mine included. Do whatever you need to do to get Martin's phone and computer. But make sure you bring our girl home in one piece."

"That's the plan, Graham."

"Yes," Seymour said distantly. "But you know what they say about the best laid schemes of mice and men. They sometimes go astray with disastrous results. And if there's one thing Whitehall doesn't like, it's a disaster. Especially one that occurs in France."

"Would you like to come and personally supervise?"

"As you well know, Gabriel, I'm forbidden by law from operating on foreign soil."

"How do you manage to gather any intelligence with all these rules?"

"We're not like you, Gabriel. We're British. Rules make us happy."

50 MAYFAIR, LONDON

As with nearly every other aspect of Masterpiece, choosing the location of an operational command post was the source of tense negotiation. For reasons of both design and statute, the ops center at MI5 was deemed unsuitable for a foreign venture, even one as close as Paris. MI6 made a predictable play to stage the event at Vauxhall Cross—an offer summarily rejected by Graham Seymour, who was already fighting a losing battle to keep his glamorous rival out of what he regarded as his operation. Since the Israelis had no London operations center—at least not a declared one—that left only the Americans. Running the show from the CIA's shop made sense for both political and technical reasons since American capabilities on British soil far exceeded those of the British themselves. Indeed, after Seymour's last visit to the Agency's colossal underground facility he had concluded that the Americans could run a world war from beneath Grosvenor Square with Whitehall none the wiser. "Who allowed them to build it?" the prime minister had asked. "You did, sir," Seymour had replied.

Having settled on the venue, there was the small matter of the invitees. As Seymour feared, the list of those wishing to attend quickly grew atrociously long—so long, in fact, he felt compelled to remind his brethren it was an intelligence operation they were staging, not a West End premiere. Moreover, since the operation was likely to produce material inappropriate for broad dissemination, it had to be conducted with more than the usual sensitivity. Other agencies would eventually be briefed on the haul, Seymour declared, but under no circumstances could they be present when it was obtained. The guest list would be limited to the three principals—the three members of a secret brotherhood who did the unpleasant chores no one else was willing to do and worried about the consequences later.

Though the precise location of the CIA's London ops center was a carefully guarded secret, Graham Seymour knew with considerable certainty that it was located some forty feet beneath the southwest corner of Grosvenor Square. He had always been somewhat amused by this, since on any given day several hundred anxious visa applicants were queued overhead, including the occasional jihadi bent on attacking the American homeland. Because the facility did not officially exist, it had no official name. Those in the know, however, referred to it as the annex and nothing else. Its centerpiece was an amphitheater-like control room dominated by several large video screens capable of projecting images securely from almost anywhere on the planet. Directly adjacent was a glass-enclosed soundproof meeting room known affectionately as the fishbowl, along with a dozen gray cubicles reserved for the alphabet soup of American agencies involved in counterterrorism and intelligence collection. Even Graham Seymour, whose primary task remained counterespionage, could scarcely remember them all. The American security establishment, he thought, was much like American automobiles—large and flashy but ultimately inefficient.

It was a few minutes after six p.m. by the time Seymour finally gained admittance to the annex. Adrian Carter was seated in his usual chair on the back deck of the control room with Ari Shamron perched at his right, looking as though he were already in the throes of a full-blown nicotine fit. Seymour settled into his usual spot at Carter's left and fixed his gaze on the video screens. In the center of the display was a static CCTV image of the exterior of the Financial Journal, workplace of their soon-to-be agent in place, Zoe Reed.

Unlike her colleagues at the Journal, Zoe's day had been the subject of close scrutiny by the intelligence services of three nations. They knew that it had begun badly with a twenty-minute delay on the dreaded Northern Line tube. They knew she arrived for work at 9:45 looking deeply annoyed, that she lunched with a source at a quaint bistro near St. Paul's, and that she ducked into a Boots pharmacy on the way back to work to pick up a few personal items, which they were never able to identify. They also knew she had been forced to endure several unpleasant hours with a Journal lawyer because of a threatened libel suit stemming from her Empire Aerospace expose. And that she was then dragooned into Jason Turnbury's office for yet another lecture about her expenses, which were even higher than the previous month.

Zoe finally emerged from Journal headquarters at 6:15, a few minutes later than Gabriel had hoped, and hailed a taxi. By no accident, one pulled to the curb immediately and ferried her at inordinate speed to St. Pancras. She navigated passport control in record time and headed to the boarding platform, where she was recognized by a lecherous City banker who proclaimed himself her biggest fan.

Zoe feared the man would be seated near her on the train but was relieved when her traveling companion turned out to be the quiet, dark-haired girl from Highgate who called herself Sally. Four other members of the team were also aboard Zoe's carriage, including an elfin figure with wispy hair she knew as Max and the tweedy Englishman who called himself David. Neither bothered to inform the ops center at Grosvenor Square that Zoe had made her train. CCTV did it for them.

"So far, so good," said Shamron, his gaze fastened on the video screens. "All we need now is our leading man."

BUT EVEN as Shamron uttered those words, the three spymasters already knew that Martin Landesmann was running alarmingly behind schedule. After starting his day with an hour-long scull across the flat waters of Lake Geneva, he boarded his private jet along with several top aides for the short hop to Vienna. There he visited the offices of a large Austrian chemical concern, emerging at three in the afternoon into a light snow. At which point, the intelligence gods decided to throw a spanner in the works. Because in the time it took Landesmann and his entourage to reach Schwechat Airport, the light snowfall had turned into a full-fledged Austrian blizzard.

For the next two hours, Saint Martin sat with monastic serenity in the VIP lounge of Vienna Aircraft Services while his entourage worked feverishly to obtain a departure slot. All available weather data pointed to a long delay or perhaps even airport closure. But by some miracle, Martin's jet received the only clearance that night and by half past five was Paris bound. In accordance with Gabriel's standing order, no photographs were snapped as Martin and his entourage deplaned at Le Bourget and filed into a waiting convoy of black S-Class Mercedes sedans. Three of the cars headed to the Hotel de Crillon, one to the graceful cream-colored apartment house on the Ile Saint-Louis.

For Gabriel Allon, standing in the window of the safe flat directly across the river Seine, the arrival of Martin Landesmann was a momentous occasion since it represented the first time he saw his quarry in the flesh. Martin emerged from the back of his car, a smart leather computer bag in one hand, and slipped unaccompanied through the entrance of the building. Martin the man of the people, thought Gabriel. Martin who was a few hours away from being an open book. Like nearly all his public appearances, it had been brief, though the impression it left was indelible. Even Gabriel could not help but feel a certain professional admiration for the completeness of Martin's cover.

Gabriel raised his night-vision binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the battlefield. Yaakov was in a Peugeot sedan parked along the river, Oded was in a Renault hatchback wedged into the narrow street at the side of Martin's building, and Mordecai was in a Ford van parked near the foot of the Pont Marie. All three would maintain a sleepless vigil for the duration of the evening, as would the three men in the black S-Class Mercedes parked outside 21 Quai de Bourbon. One was Henri Cassin, Martin's usual driver in Paris. The other two were officially licensed bodyguards employed by Zentrum Security. Just then, Gabriel heard a sharp crackle of static. Lowering his binoculars, he turned to Chiara, who was hunched over a laptop computer monitoring the live audio stream from Zoe's mobile phone.

"Is there a problem?"

Chiara shook her head. "It just sounds like the train is passing through a tunnel."

"Where is she?"

"Less than a kilometer north of the station."

Gabriel turned toward the window again and raised his binoculars. Martin was now standing at the edge of his rooftop terrace, his gaze fixed on the river, his Nokia phone pressed to his ear. A few seconds later, Gabriel heard a two-note ring emanating from Chiara's computer, followed by Zoe's voice.

"Hello, darling."

"Where are you?"

"The train's pulling into the station."

"How was the trip?"

"Not bad."

"And your day?"

"Indescribably dreadful."

"What's wrong?"

"Lawyers, darling. The bloody lawyers are what's wrong."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"I certainly hope so."

"See you in a few."

The connection went dead. Chiara looked up from the computer screen and said, "She's good."

"Yes, she is. But it's easy to lie on the telephone. Much harder when you're face-to-face."

Gabriel returned to his post at the window. Martin was talking on his mobile phone again, but this time Gabriel could not hear the conversation.

"Is Zoe off the train yet?"

"She's stepping onto the platform right now."

"Is she heading in the right direction?"

"At considerable speed."

"Wise girl. Now let's hope she makes it to her car before anyone can steal her bag."

IT HAD always been a mystery to Zoe why the London-to-Paris Eurostar, arguably the most glamorous rail link in the world, terminated in a dump like the Gare du Nord. It was an inhospitable place in the light of day, but at 10:17 on a cold winter's night it was positively appalling. Paper cups and food wrappers spilled from overflowing rubbish bins, dazed drug addicts wandered aimlessly about, and weary migrant workers dozed on their battered luggage waiting for trains to nowhere. Stepping outside into the darkness of the Place Napoleon III, Zoe was immediately set upon by no fewer than three panhandlers. Lowering her head, she slipped past without a word and climbed into a black sedan with the name REED in the window.

As the car lurched forward, Zoe felt her heart banging against the side of her rib cage. For an instant, she considered ordering the driver to take her back to the station. Then she peered out the window and saw the comforting sight of a motorcycle ridden by a single helmeted figure. Zoe recognized the shoes. They belonged to the lanky operative with blond hair and gray eyes who spoke with a Russian accent.

Zoe looked straight ahead and politely fended off the driver's attempt to engage in conversation. She didn't want to make small talk with a stranger. Not now. She had more important things on her mind. The two tasks that were the reason for her recruitment. The two tasks that would turn Martin's life into an open book. She rehearsed one final time, then closed her eyes and tried her best to forget. Gabriel had given her a series of simple exercises to perform. Tricks of memory. Tricks of the trade. Her assignment was made easier by the fact she didn't have to become someone else. She only had to turn back the hands of time a few days to the moment before she was summoned into Graham Seymour's car. She had to become Zoe before revelation. Zoe before truth. Zoe who was keeping a secret from her colleagues at the Journal. Zoe who was risking her reputation for a man known to all the world as Saint Martin.

The mind is like a basin, Zoe. It can be filled and emptied at will...

And so it was this version of Zoe Reed who alighted from her car and bade good night to her driver. And this Zoe Reed who punched the code into the entry keypad from memory and stepped into the elegant lift. There is no safe house in Highgate, she told herself. No tweedy Englishman called David. No green-eyed assassin named Gabriel Allon. At that moment, there was only Martin Landesmann. Martin who was now standing in the doorway of his apartment with a bottle of her favorite Montrachet in his hand. Martin whose lips were pressing against hers. And Martin who was telling her how much he adored her.

You just have to be in love with him one more night.

And after that?

You go back to your life and pretend none of it ever happened.

NEWS OF Zoe's arrival flashed on the screens of the ops center at 9:45 p.m. London time. In contravention of long-standing regulations, Ari Shamron immediately ignited one of his foul-smelling Turkish cigarettes. Nothing to do now but wait. God, but he hated the waiting.

51 ILE SAINT-LOUIS, PARIS

He was dressed like the lower half of a gray scale: slate gray cashmere pullover, charcoal gray trousers, black suede loafers. Combined with his glossy silver hair and silver spectacles, the outfit gave him an air of Jesuitical seriousness. It was Martin as he wished to see himself, thought Zoe. Martin as freethinking Euro-intellectual. Martin unbound by notions of conventionality. Martin who was anyone but the son of a Zurich banker named Walter Landesmann. Zoe realized her thoughts were straying into unguarded territory. You know nothing about Walter Landesmann, she reminded herself. Nothing about a woman named Lena Herzfeld, or a Nazi war criminal named Kurt Voss, or a Rembrandt portrait with a dangerous secret. At this moment, there was only Martin. Martin whom she loved. Martin who had removed the cork from the Montrachet and was now pouring the honey-colored wine carefully into two glasses.

"You seem distracted, Zoe." He handed her a glass and raised his own a fraction of an inch. "Cheers."

Zoe touched her glass to Martin's and tried to compose herself. "I'm sorry, Martin. Do forgive me. It's been a perfectly ghastly day."

Since ghastly days were not a part of Martin's repertoire, his attempt to adopt an expression of sympathy fell somewhat short. He drank more wine, then placed the glass on the edge of the long granite-topped island in the center of his glorious kitchen. It was artfully lit by a line of recessed halogen lamps, one of which shone upon Martin like a spotlight. He turned his back to Zoe and opened the refrigerator. It had been well stocked by his housekeeper that afternoon. He removed several white cardboard containers of prepared food and laid them out in a neat row along the counter. Martin, she realized, did everything neatly.

"I always thought we could talk about anything, Zoe."

"We can."

"So why won't you tell me about your day?"

"Because I have very little time with you, Martin. And the last thing I want to do is burden you with the dreary details of my work."

Martin gave her a thoughtful look—the one he always wore when taking a few prescreened questions at Davos—and began opening the lids of the containers. His hands were as pale as marble. Even now, it seemed surreal to watch him engage in so domestic a chore. Zoe realized it was all part of the illusion, like his foundation, his good deeds, and his trendy politics.

"I'm waiting," he said.

"To be bored?"

"You never bore me, Zoe." He looked up and smiled. "In fact, you never fail to surprise me."

His Nokia emitted a soft chime. He removed it from the pocket of his trousers, frowned at the caller ID, and returned it to his pocket unanswered.

"You were saying?"

"I might be sued."

"By Empire Aerospace?"

Zoe was genuinely surprised. "You read the articles?"

"I read everything you write, Zoe."

Of course you do. And then she remembered the first awkward moments of her encounter with Graham Seymour. We couldn't contact you openly, Ms. Reed. You see, it's quite possible someone is watching you and listening to your phones...

"What did you think of the articles?"

"They made for compelling reading. And if the Empire executives and British politicians are truly guilty, then they should be punished accordingly."

"You don't seem convinced."

"About their guilt?" He raised an eyebrow thoughtfully and placed a portion of haricots verts at one end of the rectangular serving platter. "Of course they're guilty, Zoe. I just don't know why everyone in London is pretending to be surprised. When one is in the business of selling arms to foreign countries, paying bribes to politicians is de rigueur."

"Perhaps," Zoe agreed, "but that doesn't make it right."

"Of course not."

"Have you ever been tempted?"

Martin placed two slices of quiche next to the green beans. "To do what?"

"To pay a bribe to secure a government contract?"

He smiled dismissively and added a few slices of stuffed chicken breast to the platter. "I think you know me well enough to answer that question yourself. We're very choosy about the companies we acquire. And we never go anywhere near defense contractors or arms makers."

No, thought Zoe. Only a textile mill in Thailand worked by slaves, a chemical complex in Vietnam that fouled every river within a hundred miles, and a Brazilian agribusiness firm that was destroying the very same rain forests Martin had sworn to defend to his dying breath. And then there was a small industrial plant in Magdeburg, Germany, that was doing a brisk but secret trade with the Iranians, champions of all the principles Martin held dear. But once again her thoughts were straying onto dangerous ground. Avoid, she reminded herself.

Martin placed a few slices of French ham on the platter and carried the food into the dining room, where a table had already been set. Zoe paused in the window overlooking the Seine before taking her usual seat. Martin filled her plate decorously with food and added wine to her glass. After serving himself, he asked about the basis of the threatened lawsuit.

"Malicious disregard for the truth," Zoe said. "The usual drivel."

"It's a public relations stunt?"

"Of the worst kind. I have the story nailed."

"I know the CEO of Empire quite well. If you'd like me to have a word with him, I'm sure I could make the matter—"

"Go away?"

Martin was silent.

"That might be a little awkward, Martin, but I do appreciate the thought."

"Do you have the support of management?"

"For the moment. But Jason Turnbury is already looking for the nearest foxhole."

"Jason isn't long for his job."

Zoe looked up sharply from her plate. "How on earth do you know that?"

"I know everything, Zoe. Haven't you learned that by now?"

Zoe felt her cheeks begin to burn. She gave an overly bright smile and said, "You always say that, darling. But I'm actually beginning to believe it."

"You should. You should also know your newspaper is in worse shape than you think. Jason has a lifeboat waiting for him at Latham headquarters. But I'm afraid the rest of the Journal's management will have to fend for itself, along with the editorial staff."

"How much longer can we stay afloat?"

"Without a buyer or a massive infusion of cash...not long."

"How do you know all this?"

"Because Latham approached me last week and asked whether I'd be willing to take the Journal off its hands."

"You're joking." His expression made clear he wasn't. "That would make our relationship more complicated than it already is, Martin."

"Don't worry, Zoe. I said I wasn't interested. Media is a rather small portion of our overall investment picture at the moment, and I have no interest in taking on a newspaper that's bleeding to death." He held up his mobile phone. "How do you expect people to pay for something when you're giving it away for free?"

"And the Journal?"

"I suspect you'll get a lifeline."

"From whom?"

"Viktor Orlov."

Zoe recognized the name. Viktor Orlov was one of the original Russian oligarchs who had made billions gobbling up the valuable assets of the old Soviet state while ordinary Russians were struggling for survival. Like most of the first-generation oligarchs, Viktor had worn out his welcome in Russia. He now lived in London in one of the city's most valuable homes.

"Viktor got his British passport a few months ago," Martin said. "Now he wants a British newspaper to go with it. He thinks owning the Journal will grant him the social standing in London he craves most. He also wants to use it as a club to beat his old adversaries in the Kremlin. If he succeeds in getting his hands on it, your publication will never be the same."

"And if he doesn't buy us?"

"The paper could fold in short order. But remember, Zoe, you didn't hear that from me."

"I never hear anything from you, darling."

"I certainly hope not."

Zoe laughed in spite of herself. She was surprised at how easily she had fallen into the familiar, comfortable pattern of their relationship. She tried not to resist these feelings, just as she tried not to think about the mobile phone at Martin's elbow or the notebook computer resting on the island in the kitchen.

"How well do you know Viktor?"

"Well enough." Martin jabbed at his food. "He forced me to invite him to the fund-raiser at Villa Elma next week."

"How did he manage that?"

"By writing a million-euro check to One World. I don't care for Viktor or the way he does business, but at least you'll have a chance to rub shoulders with your new owner." He looked at her seriously. "You are still planning to come, aren't you, Zoe?"

"I suppose that depends on whether I'll be safe there."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your wife, Martin. I'm talking about Monique."

"Monique lives her life, and I live mine."

"But she might not enjoy seeing your life paraded in front of her wearing a Dior evening gown with the most scandalous neckline I've ever seen."

"You got my gift?"

"Yes, Martin, I did. And you absolutely shouldn't have."

"Of course I should have. And I expect you to be wearing it next week."

"I'm sure my date will enjoy it very much."

He looked down at his plate and casually asked who Zoe was planning to bring to the party.

"Jason was hoping to come again, but I haven't decided yet."

"Maybe you could bring someone other than one of your old lovers."

"Jason and I weren't lovers, Martin. We were a mistake."

"But he obviously still cares for you a great deal."

She gave him a playful look. "Martin Landesmann, I do believe you're jealous."

"No, Zoe, I'm not. But I don't want to be deceived, either."

Her expression turned serious. "If you're wondering whether there's another man in my life, there isn't, Martin. For better or worse, there's only you."

"You're sure about that?"

"Very sure. And if you're interested, I'd be more than willing to prove it."

"Finish your dinner, Zoe."

Zoe smiled. "I am finished."

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, in the safe flat on the other side of the Seine, Gabriel sat hunched over his computer, fists to his temples, eyes closed, listening. Somewhere inside him, buried beneath a thousand lies and the scar tissue of countless wounds, there was an ordinary man who wanted desperately to lower the volume. Professionalism would not allow it. It was for her own good, he told himself. For her own protection. Sorry, Zoe. Had to be done.

To distract himself, Gabriel walked to the window, night-vision binoculars pressed to his eyes, and checked the disposition of his troops. Yaakov was in his Peugeot. Oded was in his Renault. Mordecai was in his Ford van. Mikhail and Yossi were drinking beer with a group of young toughs along the quay. Rimona and Dina were sitting astride a pair of motor scooters near the Hotel de Ville. He gave them each a tap on the shoulder by way of encrypted radio. They replied one by one, crisp and alert, Gabriel's soldiers of the night.

The last stop of Gabriel's battlefield tour was the entrance of the cream-colored apartment house at 21 Quai de Bourbon, where one of Martin's Zentrum bodyguards was pacing slowly in the lamplight. I know how you feel, thought Gabriel. The waiting can be hell.

52 ILE SAINT-LOUIS, PARIS

Moonlight shone through the uncurtained window and cast a rhombus of pale blue light across the tangled satin sheets of Martin Landesmann's enormous bed. Zoe lay very still, listening to the wet hiss of the early-morning traffic moving along the Seine. Somewhere two drunken lovers were having a noisy quarrel. Martin's breathing ceased momentarily, then resumed its normal rhythm. Zoe looked at the clock on the bedside table. It had not changed since the last time she checked it: 3:28...

She looked carefully at Martin. After completing the act of love for a second time, he had retreated with marital discretion to his usual side of the bed and fallen into a satisfied slumber. His pose had not changed in nearly an hour. Bare to the hips, he was lying prone, with his legs in something akin to a running position and one hand stretched longingly toward Zoe. In sleep, his face had assumed a peculiar childlike innocence. Zoe felt compelled to look away. In the street the lovers' quarrel had ended, replaced now by male voices murmuring in German. It was nothing, she assured herself. Just the 3:30 a.m. shift change at Zentrum Security.

Don't think about the bodyguards, Gabriel had reminded her on the final night in Highgate. We'll worry about the bodyguards. All you have to worry about is Martin. Martin is your responsibility...

Martin still hadn't moved. Neither had Zoe. Only the clock.

3:32...

Once you start, move quietly but quickly. Don't creep around like a cat burglar...

She closed her eyes and pictured the location of the four items she would need to complete her assignment. Two of the items—her mobile phone and the USB flash drive—were tucked into her handbag, which lay on the floor next to the bed. Martin's Nokia was still on the dining-room table; the Sony computer was still on the kitchen counter.

Visualize your actions before you take them. Once you get his phone and computer in a secure location, follow my instructions to the letter, and Martin will have no more secrets...

She reached into her bag, took hold of her phone and the flash drive, and slipped quietly from the bed. Her clothing lay scattered across the floor. Ignoring it, she padded quickly toward the door, her heart banging against her breastbone, and stepped into the hallway. Though Gabriel had advised against it, she couldn't help but take one final look at Martin. He appeared to still be sleeping soundly. She closed the door halfway and made her way silently through the apartment to the dining room. Their dishes were still on the table, as was Martin's telephone. She snatched it up and headed to the kitchen, dialing her own mobile as she moved. Gabriel answered after a single ring.

"Hang up. Count to sixty. Then go to work."

The connection went dead as Zoe entered the kitchen. In the darkness, she could just make out the faint outline of the black Sony VAIO computer at the end of the island. Martin had left the computer on standby mode. Zoe immediately shut it down and inserted the flash drive into one of the USB ports. Then she picked up the Nokia again and stared at the screen, counting silently to herself.

Twenty-five...twenty-six...twenty-seven...twenty-eight...

AFTER SEVERING his connection to Zoe, Gabriel quickly informed the rest of the team via secure radio that the operation was now hot. Only Mordecai had a task to perform at that point, and it required merely throwing the power switch on the device resting on the passenger seat of the Ford van. Essentially, the apparatus was a cell tower in a suitcase, designed to deceive Martin's phone into thinking it was on his usual network when in reality it was on the Office's. Its signal, while tightly focused on the building at 21 Quai de Bourbon, would temporarily obliterate most cellular service on the Ile Saint-Louis. At that moment, any inconvenience to French telecom customers was the least of Gabriel's worries. He was standing in the window of the safe flat, gaze focused on the darkened windows of Martin Landesmann's bedroom, counting silently in his head.

Fifty-seven...fifty-eight...fifty-nine...sixty...

Now, Zoe. Now...

AS IF ON CUE, Zoe began punching a number into Martin's phone. It was a number she had dialed hundreds of times in the Highgate safe house. A number she knew as well as her own. After entering the last digit, she pressed the call button and lifted the phone to her ear. A single ringtone sounded, followed by several sharp beeps. Zoe looked at the display screen. A dialogue box appeared, asking whether she wished to accept an over-the-air software update. She immediately pressed YES on the touch screen. A few seconds later, another message appeared: DOWNLOAD IN PROGRESS.

Zoe placed the phone gently on the counter, then powered on the Sony notebook while holding down the F8 key. Rather than starting normally, the computer automatically took Zoe to the boot menu. She clicked on the option to enable boot logging, then instructed the computer to start up using the software contained on the flash drive. It did so without objection, and within a few seconds a box appeared on the screen, informing her that an upload was in progress. Because of its large size—every bit of data stored on Martin's hard drive—the upload would take one hour and fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, it was necessary to leave the flash drive in the USB port throughout the process, which meant Zoe would have to make a second trip to the kitchen to remove it when the task was complete.

She dimmed the brightness on the computer screen and picked up Martin's mobile phone again. The "software update" was complete. All that was required now was rebooting, a simple matter of switching the phone off and on once. She did so, then quickly checked the list of recent calls. There was no evidence of the one call Zoe had placed. In fact, according to the directory, the last call made from the phone was at 10:18, when Martin had phoned Monique in Geneva. As for the last call received, it was the one that had come through while Martin was preparing dinner. Zoe looked at the number.

Monique...

Zoe returned the phone to standby mode and opened the refrigerator. On the top shelf was a one-liter bottle of Volvic. She removed it, closed the door gently, and headed into the dining room, staying just long enough to deposit Martin's phone. Returning to the bedroom, she found the door slightly ajar, just as she had left it. Martin was lying motionless on the bed, the pale skin of his torso aglow in the moonlight. She padded to her side of the bed and dropped her mobile phone into her handbag. Then she slipped beneath the satin sheets and looked at Martin. His eyes opened suddenly, and his expression appeared childlike no more.

"I was beginning to get worried about you, Zoe. Where have you been?"

THERE ARE MOMENTS in even the simplest of operations when time stops. Gabriel had experienced more such moments than most professional intelligence officers. And he certainly experienced one at 3:36 a.m. in Paris while waiting for Zoe Reed, special investigative correspondent of the venerable Financial Journal of London, to respond to her lover, Martin Landesmann. He did not tell London about the potential problem. He did not tell his team. Instead, he stood in the window of the safe flat, binoculars to his eyes, Chiara at his side, and did what every experienced fieldhand does at a time like that. He held his breath.

The silence seemed to last an eternity. Later, when reviewing the recording, he would discover it was only three seconds. She began by complaining of a ferocious thirst, then playfully chastised Martin for hurling her clothing across the floor in his frenzy to undress her. And finally she suggested several things they might do now that they both happened to be awake at 3:36 in the morning.

Somewhere inside Gabriel was an ordinary man who wanted desperately not to eavesdrop. Professionalism would not allow it. And so he stood in the window of the safe flat with his wife at his side and listened while Zoe Reed made love one final time to a man whom Gabriel had convinced her to hate. And he listened, too, one hour and fifteen minutes later, as Zoe rose from Martin's bed to retrieve the flash drive from Martin's computer—a flash drive that had beamed the contents of Martin's hard drive to a sturdy redbrick Victorian house in Highgate.

Gabriel's partners in London would never hear the recordings from that night in Paris. They had no right. They would only know that Zoe Reed emerged from the apartment building on Ile Saint-Louis at 8:15 a.m. and that she climbed in the back of a chauffeured Mercedes-Benz with the name REED in the window. The car ferried her directly to the Gare du Nord, where she was once again waylaid by several panhandlers and drug addicts as she hurried across the ticket hall toward her waiting train. A dread-locked Ukrainian with a mud-caked leather jacket proved to be the most persistent of her suitors. He finally backed down when confronted by a man with short dark hair and pockmarks on his face.

Not by coincidence, that same man was seated next to Zoe on the train. His forged New Zealand passport identified him as Leighton Smith, though his real name was Yaakov Rossman, one of four members of Gabriel's team who accompanied Zoe on her return to London. She passed most of the train ride reading the morning papers, and upon her arrival at St. Pancras was covertly returned to the custody of MI5. They drove her to work in an ersatz taxi and snapped several pictures as she disappeared through the entrance. As promised, Gabriel ordered the digital tap on Zoe's phone disconnected, and within minutes she vanished from the Office's global surveillance grid. Few members of the Masterpiece team seemed to notice. Because by then they were all listening to the voice of Martin Landesmann.

53 HIGHGATE, LONDON

To some extent, computer networks and communications devices can be shielded from outside penetration. But if the attack occurs from the inside—or by gaining access to the devices themselves—there is little the target can do to defend himself. With but a few lines of well-crafted code, a mobile phone or laptop computer can be convinced to betray its owner's most closely guarded secrets—and continue betraying them for months or even years. The machines are perfect spies. They do not require money or validation or love. Their motives are beyond question, for they have none of their own. They are reliable, dependable, and willing to work extraordinarily long hours. They do not become depressed or drink too much. They do not have spouses who berate them or children who disappoint them. They do not become lonely or frightened. They do not burn out. Obsolescence is their only weakness. More often than not, they are discarded merely because something better comes along.

The nature of the intelligence assault on Martin Landesmann, while breathtaking in scale, was routine in the world of twenty-first-century espionage. Gone were the days when the only option for eavesdropping on a target involved planting a battery-powered radio transmitter in his home or office. Now the targets willingly carried transmitters with them in the form of their own cellular phones and other mobile devices. Intelligence operatives didn't have to recharge weakening batteries because the targets did that themselves. Nor was it necessary for operatives to spend endless hours sitting in dreary listening posts since material acquired from a wi-fi device could be fed via the Internet to computers anywhere in the world.

In the case of Operation Masterpiece, those computers were tucked away in a redbrick Victorian house located at the end of a hushed cul-de-sac in the Highgate section of London. After working around the clock preparing for the operation in Paris, Gabriel and his team now worked around the clock sorting and analyzing the immense haul. In the blink of an eye, the life of one of the world's most reclusive businessmen was now an open book. Indeed, as Uzi Navot would describe it to the prime minister during their weekly breakfast meeting, "Anywhere Martin goes, we go with him."

They listened to his phone calls, they read his e-mail, they peered quietly over his shoulder while he surfed the Web. They negotiated deals with him, ate lunch with him, and went to cocktail receptions tucked in his breast pocket. They slept with him, bathed with him, exercised with him, and overheard a quarrel with Monique over his frequent trips to Paris. They accompanied him on a flying visit to Stockholm and were forced to endure an excruciating evening of Wagner with him. They knew his exact position on the planet at all times, and if he happened to be in motion, they knew the speed he was traveling. They also discovered that Saint Martin liked to spend a great deal of time alone sequestered in his office at Villa Elma, an expansive room located on the southeast corner of the mansion overlooking Lake Geneva, at precisely 1,238 feet above sea level.

There can be an obvious drawback to receiving such a vast amount of intelligence—the possibility that a vital piece of the puzzle might be swamped by a tsunami of useless information. Gabriel sought to avoid this pitfall by making certain that at least half the team remained focused on the true prize of the Paris operation, Martin's laptop. The haul was not limited to the material contained on the computer the night of the operation in Paris. Indeed, through a clever feat of engineering, the computer automatically sent an update each time data was added or subtracted. It meant that whenever Martin opened a document, Gabriel's team opened it, too. They even instructed the computer to transmit video from its built-in camera in thirty-minute loops. Most of the video was silent and black. But for an hour or so each day, whenever Martin was at task, he seemed to be peering directly into the Highgate safe house, watching Gabriel's team as it rummaged through the secrets of his life.

The contents of Martin's computer were encrypted, but the barriers quickly crumbled under the assault led by the two MIT-educated geniuses from Technical. Once they had penetrated the outer walls, the computer quickly belched forth thousands of documents that laid bare the inner workings of the Landesmann empire. Though the information was potentially worth millions to Martin's many competitors, it had little value to Gabriel, for it provided no additional intelligence on GVI's links to Keppler Werk GmbH or precisely what Keppler was secretly selling to the Iranians. Gabriel had learned from experience not to focus on what was visible in a computer's memory but on what was no longer there—the temporary files that floated like ghosts across the hard drive, the discarded documents that had lived there briefly before being tossed into the trash. Files are never truly deleted from a computer. Like radioactive waste, they can live on forever. Gabriel directed the technicians to focus their efforts on Martin's recycle bin, especially on a ghost folder lurking there that had been impervious to all attempts at retrieval.

Gabriel's team did not toil in isolation. Indeed, because Masterpiece was an international endeavor, dissemination of its hard-earned product was international as well. The Americans received a feed over a secure link from Highgate to Grosvenor Square, while the British, after much internal bickering, decided that MI6 was the logical first recipient since Iran was its responsibility. Graham Seymour managed to retain overall operational ascendancy, however, and Thames House remained the nightly meeting point for the principals. The atmosphere remained largely collegial, despite the fact each side brought to the table different assumptions about Iranian intentions, different styles of analysis, and different national priorities. For the Americans and the British, a nuclear Iran represented a regional challenge; for Israel, an existential threat. Gabriel didn't dwell on such issues at the conference table. But then he didn't need to.

His final stop at Thames House each night was the windowless cell of Nigel Whitcombe, who been handed control of the Zoe Reed watch. Despite the potential hazards involved in surveilling a British journalist, Whitcombe accepted the assignment without reservation. Like nearly everyone involved in Masterpiece, he had developed a bit of a schoolboy crush on Zoe and relished the opportunity to admire her for a few more days, even if from afar. The daily watch reports revealed no transgressions on her part and no evidence that she had broken discipline in any way. Each time Martin made contact with her, she duly reported it. She even forwarded to MI5 a brief message he had left on her home machine.

"What did it say?" asked Gabriel.

"The usual. I so enjoyed our time together, darling. Can't wait to see you in Geneva next week, darling. Something about a dress. I didn't understand that part." Whitcombe straightened the papers on his little headmasterly desk. "At some point, we're going to decide whether she has to attend Martin's little soiree or whether she should come down with a sudden case of swine flu instead."

"I'm aware of that, Nigel."

"May I offer an opinion?"

"If you must."

"Swine flu."

"And what if her absence makes Martin suspicious?"

"Better a suspicious Martin Landesmann than a dead British investigative reporter. That might not be good for my career."

It was nearly midnight by the time Gabriel returned to the Highgate safe house. He found his team hard at work and an intriguing message from King Saul Boulevard waiting in his encrypted in-box. It seemed an old acquaintance from Paris wanted a word. Reading the message a second time, Gabriel ordered himself to be calm. Yes, it was possible this was what they were looking for, but it was probably nothing. A mistake, he thought. A waste of time when he had none to spare. But it was also possible he had just been granted the first piece of good fortune since Julian Isherwood had appeared on the cliffs of Cornwall to ask him to find a missing portrait by Rembrandt. Someone would have to check it out. But given the demands of Operation Masterpiece, it would have to be someone other than Gabriel. All of which explains why Eli Lavon, surveillance artist, archaeologist, and tracker of missing Holocaust assets, returned to Paris early the next morning. And why, shortly after one that afternoon, he was walking along the rue des Rosiers, twenty paces behind a memory militant named Hannah Weinberg.

54 THE MARAIS, PARIS

She rounded the corner into rue Pavee and disappeared into the apartment house at No. 24. Lavon walked the length of the street twice, searching for evidence of surveillance, before presenting himself at the doorway. The directory identified the resident of apartment 4B as MME. BERTRAND. Lavon pressed the call button and peered benignly into the security camera.

"Oui?"

"I'm here to see Madame Weinberg, please."

A silence, then, "Who are you, monsieur?"

"My name is Eli Lavon. I'm—"

"I know who you are, Monsieur Lavon. Just a moment."

The entry buzzer moaned. Lavon crossed the damp interior courtyard, entered the foyer, and headed up the stairs. Waiting on the fourth-floor landing, arms folded, was Hannah Weinberg. She admitted Lavon into her apartment and quietly closed the door. Then she smiled and formally extended her hand.

"It is an honor to meet you, Monsieur Lavon. As you might expect, you have many admirers at the Weinberg Center."

"The honor is mine," Lavon said humbly. "I've been watching you from a distance. Your center is doing marvelous work here in Paris. Under increasingly difficult conditions, I might add."

"We do what we can, but I'm afraid it's probably not enough." A sadness crept into her gaze. "I'm so sorry about what happened in Vienna, Monsieur Lavon. The bombing affected all of us very deeply."

"These are emotional issues," Lavon said.

"On both sides." She managed a smile. "I was just making some coffee."

"I'd love some."

She led Lavon into the sitting room and disappeared into the kitchen. Lavon looked around at the stately old furnishings. He had worked on the operation that had drawn Hannah Weinberg into the gravitational pull of the Office and knew her family history well. He also knew that in a room located at the end of the hall hung a painting by Vincent van Gogh called Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table. The blood-soaked operation involving the little-known work was one of many Gabriel Allon productions Lavon had tried hard to forget. He tamped down the memory now as Hannah Weinberg returned carrying two cups of cafe au lait. She handed one to Lavon and sat.

"I assume this isn't a courtesy call, Monsieur Lavon."

"No, Madame Weinberg."

"You're here because of the documents?"

Lavon nodded and sipped his coffee.

"I didn't realize you were connected to..." Her voice trailed off.

"To what?" Lavon asked.

"Israeli intelligence," she said sotto voce.

"Me? Do I really look cut out for that sort of work?"

She examined him carefully. "I suppose not."

"After the bombing in Vienna, I returned to my first love, which is archaeology. I'm on the faculty of Hebrew University in Jerusalem, but I still have many contacts in the Holocaust restitution field."

"So how did you hear about the documents?"

"When you called the embassy here in Paris, they immediately contacted a friend of mine who works at Yad Vashem. He knew I was coming to Paris on other business and asked whether I would be willing to look into it for him."

"And what sort of business brought you to Paris?"

"An academic conference."

"I see." She drank some of her coffee.

"Are the documents here, Madame Weinberg?"

She nodded.

"May I see them, please?"

She peered at him over the rim of her coffee cup as if judging the veracity of his words, then rose and entered the library. When she returned, she was holding a discolored sheath in her hand. Lavon felt his heart begin to beat a little faster.

"Is that wax paper?" he asked as casually as possible.

She nodded. "That's how it came to me."

"And the documents?"

"They're inside." She handed the sheath to Lavon and said, "Be careful. The paper is quite fragile."

Lavon lifted the covering and carefully removed three pages of brittle onionskin paper. Then he slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, fingers trembling slightly, and read the names.

Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld...

Herzfeld...

He stared at the name a moment longer, then lifted his eyes slowly to Hannah Weinberg.

"Where did you get this?"

"I'm afraid I'm not in a position to say."

"Why not?"

"Because I promised the person complete confidentiality."

"I'm afraid that's not a promise you should have made."

She noticed the change in Lavon's tone. "You obviously seem to know something about this document."

"I do. And I also know that many people have died because of it. Whoever gave you this is in very serious danger, Madame Weinberg. And so are you."

"I'm used to that." She regarded him silently. "Were you telling me the truth when you said a friend from Yad Vashem asked you to come here?"

Lavon hesitated. "No, Madame Weinberg, I wasn't."

"Who sent you?"

"A mutual friend." Lavon held up the list. "And he needs to know the name of the person who gave you this."

"Maurice Durand."

"And what does Monsieur Durand do for a living?"

"He owns a small shop that sells antique scientific instruments. He says he found the documents while doing some repair work on a telescope."

"Did he?" Lavon asked skeptically. "How well do you know him?"

"I've done a great deal of business with him over the years." She nodded toward a circular wooden table arrayed with several dozen antique lorgnettes. "They're something of a passion of mine."

"Where's his shop?"

"In the eighth."

"I need to see him right away."

Hannah Weinberg rose. "I'll take you."

55 RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS

The Weinberg Center was located just around the corner on rue des Rosiers. Hannah and Lavon stopped there long enough to make several copies of the list and lock them away. Then, with the original tucked safely inside Lavon's leather satchel, they rode the Metro to the rue de Miromesnil and made the two-minute walk to Antiquites Scientifiques. The sign in the door read OUVERT. Lavon spent a moment admiring the window display before trying the latch. It was locked. Hannah rang the bell, and they were admitted without delay.

The man waiting to receive them was equal to Lavon in height and weight, though in every other respect was his precise opposite. Where Lavon was shoddily attired in several layers of crumpled clothing, Maurice Durand wore an elegant blue suit and a wide necktie the color of Beaujolais nouveau. And where Lavon's hair was wispy and unkempt, Durand's monkish tonsure was cropped short and combed close to the scalp. He kissed Hannah Weinberg formally on both cheeks and offered Lavon a surprisingly strong hand. As Lavon accepted it, he had the uncomfortable feeling he was being eyed by a professional. And unless Lavon was mistaken, Maurice Durand felt exactly the same way.

"You have a beautiful shop, Monsieur Durand."

"Thank you," the Frenchman replied. "I consider it my shelter against the storm."

"What storm is that, monsieur?"

"Modernity," Durand replied instantly.

Lavon gave an empathetic smile. "I'm afraid I feel the same way."

"Really? And what is your field, monsieur?"

"Archaeology."

"How fascinating," Durand said. "When I was young, I was very interested in archaeology. In fact, I considered studying it."

"Why didn't you?"

"Dirt."

Lavon raised an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid I don't like to get my hands dirty," Durand explained.

"That would be a liability."

"A rather large one, I think," Durand said. "And what is your area of expertise, monsieur?"

"Biblical archaeology. I do most of my work in Israel."

Durand's eyes widened. "The Holy Land?"

Lavon hesitated, then nodded.

"I've always wanted to see it for myself. Where are you working now?"

"The Galilee."

Durand seemed genuinely moved.

"You are a believer, Monsieur Durand?"

"Devout." He looked at Lavon carefully. "And you, monsieur?"

"At times," said Lavon.

Durand looked at Hannah Weinberg. "That shipment of lorgnettes has finally arrived. I set aside the best pieces for you. Would you like to see them now?"

"Actually, my friend has something he needs to discuss with you."

Durand's gaze returned to Lavon. It betrayed nothing but a mild curiosity, though Lavon once again had the feeling Durand was taking his measure.

"How can I help you?"

"Would it be possible to speak in private?"

"But of course."

Durand gestured toward the doorway at the back of the shop. Lavon entered the office first and heard the door close behind him. When he turned around, the expression on Maurice Durand's face was far less amiable than it had been a moment earlier.

"Now what is this all about?"

Lavon removed the wax paper sheath from the satchel. "This."

Durand's eyes didn't move from Lavon's face. "I gave that document to Madame Weinberg on the condition she keep my name out of it."

"She tried. But I convinced her to change her mind."

"You must be very persuasive."

"Actually, it wasn't hard. All I had to do was explain how many people have been killed because of these three pieces of paper."

Durand's expression remained unchanged.

"Most people would be a bit uncomfortable after hearing something like that," Lavon said.

"Perhaps I'm not easily frightened, monsieur."

Lavon returned the sheath to his satchel. "I understand you found the document inside a telescope."

"It was a piece from the late eighteenth century. Brass and wood. Dollond of London."

"That's odd," Lavon said. "Because I know for a fact that very recently it was hidden inside a painting by Rembrandt called Portrait of a Young Woman. I also know that the painting was stolen and that a man was killed during the robbery. But that's not why I'm here. I don't know how you got these documents, but you should know there are people looking for them who are very dangerous. And they assume these papers are still inside the painting." Lavon paused. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say, Monsieur Durand?"

"I believe I do," Durand said carefully. "But I know nothing at all about a painting by Rembrandt—or anyone else, for that matter."

"You're sure, monsieur?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But perhaps you hear things from time to time. Or perhaps you have friends in the business who hear things. Friends who might know the whereabouts of this painting."

"I don't make a habit of associating with people from the art business. They tend to look down their noses at people like me."

Lavon handed Durand a business card. "But if you do happen to hear anything about the Rembrandt—anything at all, monsieur—please call this number. I can guarantee you complete confidentiality. Rest assured recovery of the painting is our only concern. And do be careful. I wouldn't want anything unpleasant to happen to you."

Durand slipped the card into his pocket, obviously anxious to end the conversation. "I wish I could be of help, monsieur, but I'm afraid I can't. Unless there's something else you require, I really should be getting back to the shop."

"No, nothing. Thank you for your time."

"Not at all."

Durand opened the door. Lavon started to leave, then stopped and turned.

"Actually, Monsieur Durand, there is one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Just remember that God is watching you. Please don't disappoint Him."

"I'll keep that in mind, Monsieur Lavon."

ELI LAVON and Hannah Weinberg parted at dusk in the Place de la Concorde. Hannah took the Metro back to the Marais, while Lavon made the short walk to 3 rue Rabelais, location of the Israeli Embassy. There, by the power vested in him by Operation Masterpiece, he instructed the Office station chief to put a security detail on Hannah Weinberg and a team of watchers on Maurice Durand. Then he requisitioned a car and driver to run him out to Charles de Gaulle Airport. "And make sure the driver has a gun in his pocket," Lavon said. "Maybe someday I'll be able to explain why."

Lavon was able to secure an economy-class seat on the 8:50 Air France flight to Heathrow and by eleven that night was making his way wearily up the walkway of the Highgate safe house. Stepping inside, he was greeted by the sight of the entire team engaged in a tumultuous celebration. He looked at Gabriel and asked, "Would someone like to tell me what's going on?"

"Valves, pipes, vacuum pumps, bellows, autoclaves, feed and withdrawal systems, frequency converters, motor housings, molecular pumps, rotors, magnets."

"He's selling them centrifuges?"

"Not just centrifuges," Gabriel said. "Saint Martin Landesmann is selling the Iranians everything they need to build their uranium enrichment plants."

"And I thought I had a good day."

"What have you got?"

"Nothing much." Lavon held up the wax paper sheath. "Just Kurt Voss's list of Zurich bank accounts."