"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."