The Rembrandt Affair

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 Île 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.
    “Not important?” she snapped. “How long have you been following