Portrait of a Spy

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