"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.