The Rembrandt Affair

bribery scandal. The BBC got first crack at her, followed by Sky News, CNBC, and finally CNN International.

It was upon Zoe's departure from CNN's studios, located at 16 Great Marlborough Street, that she had the first inkling her evening might not go as planned. It was brought about by the sudden disappearance of the car and driver retained by the Financial Journal to ferry her from appearance to appearance. As she was reaching for her mobile, a middle-aged man in a mackintosh coat approached and informed her that, due to a scheduling problem, she had been assigned a new car, a gleaming Jaguar limousine parked on the opposite side of the street. Anxious to return home after a long day, she hurried across through the rain and climbed into the back without hesitation. At which point she realized she was not alone. Seated next to her, a mobile phone pressed to his ear, was a well-dressed man with even features and a full head of pewter-colored hair. He lowered the phone and looked at Zoe as if he had been expecting her.

'Good evening, Ms. Reed. My name is Graham Seymour. I work for the Security Service, and through no fault of my own I've been promoted to a senior position, which you can verify by speaking to the person at the other end of this call.' He handed her the mobile. 'It's my director-general. I trust you'll remember her voice, since you interviewed her just last month. You were a bit hard on her in my opinion, but your article made for good reading.'

'Is that why I'm here?'

'Of course not, Ms. Reed. You're here because we have a serious problem—a problem involving the security of the country and the entire civilized world—and we need your help.'

Zoe lifted the phone cautiously to her ear. 'Good evening, Zoe, my dear,' she heard a familiar matronly voice say. 'Rest assured you are in very good hands with Graham. And do accept my apology for disturbing your evening, but I'm afraid there was no other way.'

IN THE operations room at Thames House, there was a communal sigh of relief as they watched the Jaguar slip away from the curb. 'Now the fun begins,' said Nigel Whitcombe. 'We'd better get moving or we'll be late for the second act.'

47 HIGHGATE, LONDON

The safe house stood at the end of a hushed cul-de-sac in Highgate, three stories of sturdy Victorian red brick with chimneys at each end of its roof. Gabriel and Nigel Whitcombe arrived first and were seated before a panel of video monitors in the upstairs study when Zoe Reed came through the front entrance. A pair of docile-looking female officers immediately took possession of her raincoat, briefcase, and mobile phone; then Graham Seymour ushered her into the drawing room. It had the comfortable, musty air of a private London club. There was even a dreadful print of a country hunt scene above the fireplace. Zoe examined it with a slightly bemused expression, then, at Seymour's invitation, sat in a leather wing chair.

Seymour walked over to the sideboard, which had been laid with an array of food and drinks, and drew two cups of coffee from the pump-action thermos. The care with which he performed this task was an accurate reflection of his mood. Zoe Reed was no run-of-the-mill target for recruitment. Yes, she had been left vulnerable by her relationship with Martin Landesmann, but Seymour knew he could not be seen to exploit the affair in any way. To do so, he reckoned, would not only place his own career at risk but spoil any chance of obtaining what they needed most. Like all veterans, Seymour knew that successful recruitments, much like successful interrogations, were usually the result of playing to the dominant aspects of the target's personality. And Graham Seymour knew two critical things about Zoe Reed. He knew she despised corruption in all its forms and he knew that she was not afraid of powerful men. He also suspected she was not the sort of woman who would react well when told she had been deceived. But then few women did.

It was into this minefield of human emotion that Graham Seymour waded now, a cup of hot coffee balanced in each hand. He gave one to Zoe, then, almost as an afterthought, instructed her to sign the document lying on the table in front of her.

'What is it?'

'The Official Secrets Act.' Seymour's tone was repentant. 'I'm afraid you'll need to sign it before this conversation can continue. You see, Ms. Reed, the information I'm about to share with you can't be written about in the pages of the Journal. In fact, once you sign—'

'I'll be forbidden from discussing it even with members of my own family.' She fixed him with a mocking stare. 'I know all about the Official Secrets Act, Mr. Seymour. Who do you think you're dealing with?'

'I'm dealing with one of Britain's most accomplished and respected journalists, which is why we've gone to such lengths to keep this conversation private. Now, if you would please sign, Ms. Reed.'

'It's not worth the paper it's printed on.' Greeted by silence, Zoe gave an exasperated sigh and signed the document. 'There,' she said, pushing the paper and pen toward Seymour. 'Now, why don't you tell me exactly why I'm here.'

'We need your help, Ms. Reed. Nothing more.'

Seymour had composed the words carefully that afternoon. They were a call to colors—an appeal to patriotism without uttering so unfashionable a word—and they elicited the precise response he had been hoping for.

'Help? If you needed my help, why didn't you just call me on the telephone and ask? Why the spy games?'

'We couldn't contact you openly, Ms. Reed. You see, it's quite possible someone is watching you and listening to your phones.'

'Who on earth would be watching me?'

'Martin Landesmann.'

Seymour had tried to drop the name as casually as possible. Even so, its impact was instantly visible on Zoe's face. Her cheeks flushed slightly, then quickly regained their normal complexion. And though she did not realize it, Zoe Reed had just answered two of Gabriel's most pressing questions. She was embarrassed by her relationship with Martin Landesmann. And she had the ability to handle pressure.

'Is this some kind of a joke?' she asked, her tone even.

'I'm the deputy director of MI5, Ms. Reed. I don't have time for much of anything, let alone jokes. You should know from the outset that Martin Landesmann is the target of an investigation being conducted by the United Kingdom and two of our allies. You should also be assured that you are not a target in any way.'

'What a relief,' she said. 'So why am I here?'

Seymour advanced cautiously and according to his script. 'It's come to our attention that you and Mr. Landesmann have a close relationship. We would like to borrow your access to Mr. Landesmann to assist us in our investigation.'

'I interviewed Martin Landesmann once. I hardly think that falls into the category of—'

Seymour raised his hand, interrupting her. He had been prepared for this. In fact, he had expected nothing less. But the last thing he wanted was to place Zoe in a position where she felt compelled to lie.

'Obviously, this is not a court of law, Ms. Reed. You are under no legal obligation to talk to us, and I'm certainly not here to pass judgment on anyone. Heaven knows, we've all made mistakes, myself included. But having said that, we need to be honest with each other. And I'm afraid we don't have much time.'

Zoe appeared to give his words careful deliberation. 'Why don't you go first, Mr. Seymour? Be honest with me.'

She was testing him—Seymour could see that. He seized the opportunity without hesitation, though his tone remained one of clinical detachment.

'We know that approximately eighteen months ago you obtained an exclusive interview with Mr. Landesmann, the first and only such interview he has ever granted. We know that you are now romantically involved with him. We also know that you spend time together on a regular basis, most recently at his apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis in Paris.' Seymour paused. 'But none of that is important.'

This time Zoe made no attempt to deny the facts. Instead, she displayed a flash of her famous temper.