In keeping with the spirit of Masterpiece, their romance was a whirlwind. They lunched together, window-shopped in New Bond Street together, strolled the markets of Covent Garden together, and were even spotted ducking hand-in-hand into an early-afternoon film in Leicester Square. Notoriously circumspect at work about her personal affairs, Zoe made no mention of anyone new in her life, though all agreed that her mood around the office seemed markedly improved. This prompted wild if uninformed speculation among her colleagues as to the identity of her new love interest and the source of his obvious wealth. Someone said he had made a fortune in Moscow real estate before the crash. Someone else said it was Russian oil that had made him rich. And from somewhere within the bowels of the copy desk came the completely unfounded rumor he was an arms dealer—just like the recently departed Ivan Kharkov, may God have mercy on his miserable soul.

The staff of the Journal would never learn the true identity of the tall, strikingly handsome Russian squiring Zoe about town. Nor would Zoe’s colleagues ever discover that the new couple spent most of their time sequestered inside a redbrick Victorian house located at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in Highgate. Any questions Zoe had regarding the success of the Paris operation were put to rest within seconds of her return, for the first voice she heard upon entering the drawing room was Martin Landesmann’s. It was emanating from the speakers of a computer in the corner of the room, and would continue to do so, virtually uninterrupted, for the next three days of preparation. While Zoe was pleased that her work had paid dividends, she found the constant presence of Martin’s voice deeply unsettling. Yes, she thought, Martin more than deserved the intrusion into his most private affairs. But she could not help but feel uneasy over the enormous powers of surveillance now possessed by the world’s intelligence services. Mobile technology had given governments the capability to monitor their citizens’ words, e-mails, and to some extent even their thoughts in ways that were once the stuff of science fiction. The brave new world had definitely arrived.

The team of operatives working at the safe house was largely the same with two notable additions. One was a rheumy-eyed octogenarian; the other, a strawberry-haired man with the physique of a wrestler. Zoe understood immediately that they were figures of authority. She would never be told, however, they were the former and present chiefs of the Israeli secret intelligence service.