Navot glanced at Gabriel, who finally ceased pacing. "The material we gathered from Martin's laptop was helpful but limited. There's still a great deal we don't know. The number of units involved. The delivery dates. The method of payment. The shipping companies."
"I assume you have an idea where you might be able to find this information."
"On a computer located on the western shore of Lake Geneva," said Gabriel. "Twelve hundred thirty-eight feet above sea level."
"Villa Elma?"
Gabriel nodded.
"A break-in?" Carter asked incredulously. "Is that what you're suggesting? A second-story job at one of the most highly guarded private residences in Switzerland, a country notorious for the unusual vigilance of its citizenry?"
Greeted by silence, Carter's gaze moved from Gabriel to Shamron.
"I don't have to remind you of the pitfalls of operating in Switzerland, do I, Ari? In fact, I seem to recall an incident about ten years ago when an entire Office team was arrested while trying to tap the phone line of a suspected terrorist."
"No one is talking about breaking into Villa Elma, Adrian."
"So what do you have in mind?"
It was Gabriel who answered. "In four days, Martin Landesmann is throwing a lavish fund-raiser for three hundred of his closest and richest friends. We plan to attend."
"Really? And how do you plan on getting in? Are you going to pose as waiters and sneak in with canapes and caviar or just go for a good old-fashioned gate crash?"
"We're going as guests, Adrian."
"And how do you plan to get an invitation?"
Gabriel smiled. "We already have one."
"Zoe?" asked Graham Seymour.
Gabriel nodded.
"Do you happen to recall the words limited in scope and short in duration?"
"I was there, Graham."
"Good," said Seymour. "Then you might also recall we made a promise. We asked Zoe to perform one simple task. And that upon completion of that task she would go on her merry way with the expectation we would never darken her door again."
"The situation has changed."
"So you want her to break into a well-guarded office in the middle of a lavish party? An assignment like that would be extremely difficult and dangerous for a seasoned agent. For a novice recruit with no experience...impossible."
"I'm not asking Zoe to break into Martin's office, Graham. All she has to do is show up at the party." Gabriel paused, then added, "With a date on her arm, of course."
"A date you intend to provide for her?"
Gabriel nodded.
"Any candidates?" asked Adrian Carter.
"Just one."
"Since I assume you're not planning to fix her up with Ari or Eli Lavon, that leaves Mikhail."
"He looks excellent in a tux."
"I'm sure he does. But he also went through hell in Russia. Is he ready for something like this?"
Gabriel nodded. "He's ready."
Carter's pipe had gone dead. He immediately reloaded it and struck a match. "May I point out that right now we are seeing everything Martin does on his phone and laptop computer? If your proposed operation in Geneva goes bad, we stand to lose everything."
"And what if Martin decides to switch phones, or his security does a sweep of his laptop and discovers software that's not supposed to be there?"
"Your point?"
"Our window into Martin's world could close in the blink of an eye," Gabriel said, snapping his fingers to illustrate the point. "We have a chance to get into Villa Elma cleanly. Given what we know about how close the Iranians might be to a weapon, it seems to me we have no choice but to take it."
"You make a compelling case. But this discussion is moot unless Zoe agrees to go back in." Carter glanced at Seymour. "Will she do it?"
"I suspect she might be talked into it. But the prime minister will have to personally approve the operation. And no doubt my rivals from across the river will demand a role for themselves."
"They can't have one," Gabriel said. "This is our operation, Graham, not theirs."
"I'll be sure to give them the message," Seymour said, gesturing with his eyes toward the MI6 man in the dining room. "But there's just one thing we haven't covered."
"What's that?"
"What do you propose to do if we actually manage to find the shipment of centrifuges?"
"If we can find those centrifuges..." Gabriel's voice trailed off. "Let's just say the possibilities are endless."
58
SOUTHWARK, LONDON
Gerald Malone, chairman and CEO of Latham International Media, brought down the ax at three p.m. the following afternoon. It came in the form of an e-mail to all Journal employees, written in Malone's usual arid prose. It seemed that recent efforts to control costs had proven insufficient to keep the paper viable in its present form. Therefore, Latham management had no choice but to impose drastic and immediate staff reductions. The cuts would be both deep and wide, with the editorial division suffering the highest casualty rate by far. One newsroom unit, the special investigative team led by Zoe Reed, conspicuously managed to avoid any redundancies. As it turned out, the reprieve was a parting gift from Jason Turnbury, who would soon be joining the same management group that had just turned the Journal into a smoking ruin.
And so it was with a heavy sense of survivor's guilt that Zoe sat at her desk that evening, watching the ritual packing of personal effects that follows any mass firing. As she listened to the tear-stained speeches of farewell, she thought it might be time to leave newspapering and accept the television job that awaited her in New York. And not for the first time, she found herself daydreaming about the remarkable group of men and woman whom she had encountered at the safe house in Highgate. Much to her surprise, she missed the company of Gabriel and his team in ways she never imagined possible. She missed their determination to succeed and their unflinching belief that their cause was just, things she used to feel when she walked into the newsroom of the Journal. But more than anything, she missed the collegial atmosphere of the safe house itself. For a few hours each night, she had been part of a family—a noisy, quarrelsome, petulant, and at times dysfunctional family but a family nonetheless.
For reasons not clear to Zoe, it seemed the family had forsaken her. During the train ride home from Paris, the operative with short dark hair and pockmarks on his cheeks had clandestinely congratulated her on a job well done. But after that there had been only silence. No phone calls, no e-mails, no staged encounters on the street or tube, no quiet summons to MI5 headquarters to thank her for her service. From time to time, she had the sense she was being watched, but it might have only been wishful thinking. For Zoe, who was used to the instant gratification of daily journalism, the hardest part was not knowing whether her work had made a difference. Yes, she had a vague sense the Paris operation had gone well, but she had no idea whether it was producing the kind of intelligence Gabriel and Graham Seymour needed. She supposed it was quite possible she never would.
As for her feelings about Martin Landesmann, she had read once that the recovery time from a romantic relationship is equal to the life span of the relationship itself. But Zoe had discovered the time could be drastically reduced when one's former lover was secretly selling restricted goods to the Islamic Republic of Iran. Her hatred of Martin was now intense, as was her desire to sever contact with him. Unfortunately, that wasn't possible since her private life was now a matter of national security. MI5 had asked her to keep open the lines of 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.