"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...