“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…

“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.