“I have a better story.”

“I’m sure you do.” She picked up a bottle of Beefeater, hesitated, and went for the Dewar’s instead: two fingers in a cut-glass tumbler, ice, enough water to keep her wits about her. “Who does this house belong to?”

“It’s been in the family for many years.”

“I never realized you were an English Jew.” She lifted a decorative bowl from an end table and turned it over.

“What are you looking for?”

“Bugs.”

“The pest control people came last week.”

“I was referring to listening devices.”

“Oh.”

She peered into a lampshade.

“Don’t bother.”

She lifted her eyes to him but said nothing.

“Have you never published a story that turned out to be wrong?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Really?”

“Not of this magnitude,” she elaborated.

“I see.”

“On occasion,” she said, the glass hovering beneath her lips, “I have found it necessary to put an incomplete story into print so that the target of the story feels compelled to finish it.”

“Interrogators do the same thing.”

“But I don’t waterboard my subjects or pull out their fingernails.”

“You should. You’d get better stories.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you want me to kill you in print?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“But you have to tell me. Otherwise, there’s no story.” She was right, and she knew it. “Let’s start with the basics, shall we? When did you die?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Where?”

“A British military hospital.”

“Which one?”

“Can’t say.”

“Long illness?”

“Actually, I was severely injured in a bombing.”

Her smile evaporated. She placed her drink carefully on the end table. “Where do the lies end and the truth begin?”

“Not lies, Samantha. Deception.”

“Where?” she asked again.

“I was the operative who warned British intelligence about the bomb on Brompton Road. I was one of the men who tried to move the pedestrians to safety before it exploded.” He paused, then added, “And I was the target.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Look at the CCTV video.”

“I’ve seen it. It could be anyone.”

“But it isn’t anyone, Samantha. It was Gabriel Allon. And now he’s dead.”

She finished her drink and made another: more Dewar’s, less water.

“I’d have to tell my editor.”

“Impossible.”

“I’d trust my editor with my life.”

“But it’s not your life we’re talking about. It’s mine.”

“You don’t have a life anymore, remember? You’re dead.”

Gabriel stared at the ceiling and exhaled slowly. He was growing weary of the fencing match.

“I’m sorry I brought you all the way here,” he said after a moment. “Mr. Davies will run you back to your office. Let’s pretend this never happened.”

“But I haven’t finished my drink.”

“What about your piece on Jonathan Lancaster’s plan to save the NHS?”

“It’s rubbish.”