“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.”