Her thoughts were interrupted by Jason Turnbury, who appeared in the newsroom to deliver the obligatory post-massacre eulogy about what an honor it had been to work with so talented and dedicated a group of journalists. At the conclusion of his remarks, the newsroom staff began slowly filing to the elevators like confused survivors of a natural disaster. Most headed straight for the Anchor, the historic pub located adjacent to the Journal, and began drinking heavily. Zoe felt compelled to put in an appearance but soon found herself desperate to escape. So she dried a few eyes and patted a few shoulders, then slipped quietly out the door into a drenching rain.

There were no taxis to be had, so she struck out across Southwark Bridge. A frigid wind was howling up the Thames; Zoe put up her compact umbrella, but it was useless against the horizontal deluge. At the far end of the bridge she spotted a familiar figure standing on the pavement as if oblivious to the weather. It was the middle-aged man in a mackintosh coat who had made the initial approach to Zoe outside CNN the night of her recruitment. As Zoe drew closer, he raised his hand to his mouth as if suppressing a cough. At which point a Jaguar limousine materialized and stopped next to her. The rear door opened. Graham Seymour beckoned her inside.

“I hear there was a fair amount of bloodletting at the Journal just now,” Seymour said as the car drew away from the curb.

“Is there anything you don’t know?”

“It was on the BBC.”

The car turned left into Upper Thames Street.

“My tube stop is in the opposite direction.”

“I need to have a word with you.”

“I gathered.”

“We were wondering what your plans were for the weekend.”

“A trashy book. A couple of DVDs. Maybe a walk in Hampstead Heath if it’s not raining.”

“Sounds rather dull.”

“I like dull, Mr. Seymour. Especially after Paris.”

“We have something a bit more exciting if you’re interested.”

“What do you want me to do this time? Break into a bank? Take down an al-Qaeda cell?”

“All you have to do is attend a party and look ravishing.”

“I think I can mange that. Any planning involved?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“So it’s back to Highgate?”

“Not right away. You have a dinner date at Mirabelle first.”

“With whom?”

“Your new lover.”

“Really? What’s he like?”

“Young, handsome, rich, and Russian.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Mikhail Danilov.”

“How noble.”

“Actually, he doesn’t have a noble bone in his body. Which is exactly why he’s going to be on your arm when you walk into Martin Landesmann’s house Saturday night.”

CHAPTER 59

59

HIGHGATE, LONDON