Portrait of a Spy

him.”
    “He certainly remembers you.”
    “Describe him, please.”
    “Tallish chap. Built like a lamppost. A bit more interesting, once you get to know him. I think he did a deal a few years ago with an associate of your father.”
    “Do you happen to recall this associate’s name?”
    “Why don’t you ask Thomas for yourself?”
    “What are you saying, Zoe?”
    On the second floor of Château Treville was a somber music room with walls covered in red silk and lavish window treatments to match. At one end of the room was a harpsichord with gilded moldings and a pastoral oil painting on the lid. At the other was an antique French Renaissance table with walnut inlay where Gabriel and Eli Lavon sat staring into a pair of computers. On one was a blinking light showing Zoe Reed’s current location and altitude. On the other was a recording of the conversation she had conducted at 10:22 with Nadia al-Bakari. Ten times Gabriel and Lavon had listened to it. Ten times they could find no excuse not to proceed. It was now 11:55. Lavon frowned as Gabriel clicked the play icon one final time.
    “Do you happen to recall this associate’s name?”
    “Why don’t you ask Thomas for yourself?”
    “What are you saying, Zoe?”
    “I’m saying you should come to the party. I know Thomas would simply adore it, and it would give us a chance to spend some more time together.”
    “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate.”
    “Why ever not?”
    “Because your friend . . . forgive me, Zoe, but please tell me his name again.”
    “Thomas Fowler. Like the character in the Graham Greene novel.”
    “Who?”
    “It’s not important. What’s important is that you come.”
    “I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”
    “You wouldn’t be, for heaven’s sake. Besides, it’s my birthday, and I insist.”
    “Where exactly is your friend’s home located?”
    “Just north of Paris. The hotel’s arranged a car for me.”
    “Tell the hotel to cancel it. We’ll take my car instead. It will give us a chance to talk.”
    “Wonderful. Thomas says the dress code is château casual. But let’s go light on the security, shall we? Thomas is a bit of a fanny patter, but he’s otherwise quite harmless.”
    “I’ll see you at noon, Zoe.”
    The call went dead. Gabriel clicked on the stop icon and then looked up to find Yossi leaning in the doorway, looking every inch the prosperous private equity mogul who was spending the weekend at his French country retreat. “For the record,” he said in his lazy Oxford drawl, “I didn’t appreciate the bit about a lamppost.”
    “I’m sure she meant it as a term of endearment.”
    “How would you feel if someone compared you to a lamppost?”
    “Endeared.”
    Yossi smoothed the front of his Bond Street cashmere jacket. “Have we achieved château casual?”
    “I believe we have.”
    “Ascot or no ascot?”
    “No ascot.”
    “Ascot,” said Lavon. “Definitely ascot.”
    Yossi went out. Gabriel reached for the computer mouse again, but Lavon stilled his hand.
    “She knows it’s us, and she’s still coming. Besides,” Lavon added, “it’s too late to do anything about it now.”
    Gabriel looked at the other computer screen. The elevation reading on the icon indicated that Zoe was sinking slowly toward the lobby. This was confirmed a few seconds later when Gabriel heard the sound of the elevator doors opening, followed by the clatter of Zoe’s heels as she headed across the lobby. She bade good day to Herr Schmidt, thanked Isabelle for the complimentary fruit basket that had been left in her room the previous evening, and blew a kiss to Monsieur Didier, who was at that moment attempting to secure a reservation at the Jules Verne for Chiara and Yaakov—a reservation which, regrettably, they would later be forced to cancel. Next came a burst of traffic noise as Zoe stepped outside, followed in turn by the heavy thud of a limousine door closing. The ensuing silence was coffinlike. It was broken by the pleasant voice of a woman with unimpeachable jihadist credentials.
    “It’s so lovely to see you again, Zoe,” said Nadia al-Bakari. “I brought your friend a bottle of Latour as a château-warming gift. I hope he likes red.”
    “You shouldn’t have.”
    “Don’t be silly.”
    And with that, the icon was once again in motion, pursued by three other flashing beacons representing the surveillance teams. A moment later, they were all headed westward along the