The Rembrandt Affair

communication to prevent Martin from becoming suspicious. Still unclear, though, was whether they wished her to attend Martin’s gala fund-raiser in Geneva. Zoe had no desire to set foot in Martin’s home. In fact, Zoe never wanted to see Martin’s face again.
    Her thoughts were interrupted by Jason Turnbury, who appeared in the newsroom to deliver the obligatory post-massacre eulogy about what an honor it had been to work with so talented and dedicated a group of journalists. At the conclusion of his remarks, the newsroom staff began slowly filing to the elevators like confused survivors of a natural disaster. Most headed straight for the Anchor, the historic pub located adjacent to the Journal, and began drinking heavily. Zoe felt compelled to put in an appearance but soon found herself desperate to escape. So she dried a few eyes and patted a few shoulders, then slipped quietly out the door into a drenching rain.
    There were no taxis to be had, so she struck out across Southwark Bridge. A frigid wind was howling up the Thames; Zoe put up her compact umbrella, but it was useless against the horizontal deluge. At the far end of the bridge she spotted a familiar figure standing on the pavement as if oblivious to the weather. It was the middle-aged man in a mackintosh coat who had made the initial approach to Zoe outside CNN the night of her recruitment. As Zoe drew closer, he raised his hand to his mouth as if suppressing a cough. At which point a Jaguar limousine materialized and stopped next to her. The rear door opened. Graham Seymour beckoned her inside.
    “I hear there was a fair amount of bloodletting at the Journal just now,” Seymour said as the car drew away from the curb.
    “Is there anything you don’t know?”
    “It was on the BBC.”
    The car turned left into Upper Thames Street.
    “My tube stop is in the opposite direction.”
    “I need to have a word with you.”
    “I gathered.”
    “We were wondering what your plans were for the weekend.”
    “A trashy book. A couple of DVDs. Maybe a walk in Hampstead Heath if it’s not raining.”
    “Sounds rather dull.”
    “I like dull, Mr. Seymour. Especially after Paris.”
    “We have something a bit more exciting if you’re interested.”
    “What do you want me to do this time? Break into a bank? Take down an al-Qaeda cell?”
    “All you have to do is attend a party and look ravishing.”
    “I think I can mange that. Any planning involved?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “So it’s back to Highgate?”
    “Not right away. You have a dinner date at Mirabelle first.”
    “With whom?”
    “Your new lover.”
    “Really? What’s he like?”
    “Young, handsome, rich, and Russian.”
    “Does he have a name?”
    “Mikhail Danilov.”
    “How noble.”
    “Actually, he doesn’t have a noble bone in his body. Which is exactly why he’s going to be on your arm when you walk into Martin Landesmann’s house Saturday night.”

59
    HIGHGATE, LONDON
    I n 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