Portrait of a Spy

accent.

“We had to make certain you weren’t being followed.”

“I assume by your presence I’m not.”

“You’re clean.”

“What a relief,” she said archly. “In that case, you can take me to the Pierre for a drink. I’ve been on the air since six this morning.”

“I’m afraid your face is far too well known for that. You’ve become quite the star since coming to America.”

“I was always a star,” she replied playfully. “It just doesn’t count unless you’re on television.”

“I hear you’re getting your own show.”

“Prime time, actually. It’s supposed to be witty news chat with an emphasis on global affairs and business. Perhaps you’d like to appear on the debut program.” She lowered her voice and added conspiratorially, “We can finally tell the world how we brought down the Iranian nuclear program together. It has all the elements of a blockbuster. Boy meets girl. Boy seduces girl. Girl steals boy’s secrets and gives them to the Israeli secret service.”

“I don’t think anyone would find it credible.”

“But that’s the beauty of American cable news, darling. It doesn’t have to be credible. It just has to be entertaining.” She brushed a drop of rain from her cheek, then asked, “To what do I owe this honor? Not another security review, I hope.”

“I don’t do security reviews.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” She picked up a novel from the table and turned the cover toward Gabriel. “Ever read him? His character is a bit like you—moody, egotistical, but with a sensitive streak women find irresistible.”

“That one’s more to my taste,” he said, pointing toward a battered Rembrandt monograph.

Zoe laughed. “Please let me buy it for you.”

“It won’t fit in my carry-on. Besides, I already own a copy.”

“Of course you do.” She returned the novel to its place and with feigned casualness glanced up Fifth Avenue. “I see you brought along two of your little helpers. I believe you referred to them as Max and Sally when we were at the safe house in Highgate. Not the most realistic cover names, if you ask me. Better suited to a pair of Welsh corgis than two professional spies.”

“There is no safe house in Highgate, Zoe.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. It was all just a bad dream.” She managed a fleeting smile. “Actually it wasn’t all bad, was it, Gabriel? In fact, it went quite smoothly until the end. But that’s the way it is with affairs of the heart. They always end disastrously and someone always gets hurt. Usually, it’s the girl.”

She picked up the Rembrandt monograph and leafed through the pages until she came to a painting called Portrait of a Young Woman. “What do you suppose she’s thinking?” she asked.

“She’s curious,” replied Gabriel.

“About what?”

“About why a man from her recent past has reappeared without warning.”

“Why has he?”

“He needs a favor.”

“The last time he said that, it almost got her killed.”

“It’s not that kind of favor.”

“What is it?”

“An idea for her new prime-time cable news program.”

Zoe closed the book and returned it to the table. “She’s listening. But don’t try to mislead her. Remember, Gabriel, she’s the one person in the world who knows when you’re lying.”

The rain ended as they entered the park. They drifted slowly past the Delacorte clock, then made their way to the foot of Literary Walk. For the most part, Zoe listened in studied silence, interrupting only to challenge Gabriel or to clarify a point. Her questions were posed with the intelligence and insightfulness that had made her one of the world’s most respected and feared investigative reporters. Zoe Reed had made just one mistake during her celebrated career—she had fallen in love with a glamorous Swiss businessman who, unbeknownst to her, was selling restricted nuclear materials to the Islamic Republic of Iran. Zoe had atoned for her sins by agreeing to join forces with Gabriel and his allies in British and American intelligence. The result of the operation was an Iranian nuclear program in ruins.

“So you inject cash into the network,” she said, “and with a bit of luck, it moves through the bloodstream until it arrives at the head.”

“I couldn’t have put it any better myself.”

“Then what happens?”

“You cut off the head.”

“What does that mean?”

“I suppose that depends entirely on the circumstances.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Gabriel.”

“It could mean the arrest of important members of the network, Zoe. Or it could mean something more definitive.”

“Definitive? What an elegant euphemism.”

Gabriel paused before the statue of Shakespeare but said nothing.

“I won’t be a party to a killing, Gabriel.”

“Would you rather be a party to another massacre like the one in Covent Garden?”

“That’s beneath even you, my love.”

With a dip of his head, Gabriel conceded the point. Then he took Zoe by the elbow and led her down the walkway.

“You’re forgetting one important thing,” she said. “I agreed to work with you and your friends on the Iran case, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forsaken my values. At my core, I remain a rather orthodox left-wing journalist. As such, I believe it is essential that we combat global terrorism in ways that don’t compromise our basic principles.”

“That sort of pithy comment sounds wonderful from the safety of a television studio, but I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way in the real world.” Gabriel paused, then added, “You do remember the real world, don’t you, Zoe?”

“You still haven’t explained what any of this has to do with me.”

“We would like you to make an introduction. All you have to do is start the conversation. Then you recede quietly into the background, never to be seen again.”

“Hopefully with my head still attached.” She was joking, but only a little. “Is it anyone I know?”

Gabriel waited for a pair of lovers to pass before speaking the name. Zoe stopped walking and raised an eyebrow.

“Are you serious?”

“You know better than to ask a question like that, Zoe.”

“She’s one of the richest women in the world.”

“That’s the point.”

“She also happens to be notoriously press shy.”

“She has good reason to be.”

Zoe started walking again. “I remember the night her father was killed in Cannes,” she said. “According to the press accounts, she was at his side when he was gunned down. The witnesses say she held him as he was dying. Apparently, it was bloody awful.”

“So I’ve heard.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder and saw Eli Lavon walking a few paces behind, a Moleskine notebook under his right arm, looking like a poet in search of inspiration. “Did you ever look into it?”

“Cannes?” Zoe narrowed her eyes. “I scratched around the edges.”

“And?”