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"Yes."

"Is this the technician."

"No."

"Then how."

"They had a second server. The one in the bedroom on the rue Bichat was the kill switch. The publication ran out of a Zurich box. The brigade are on the Zurich box now. There will be a take-down. It will not be tonight."

"Mm."

"Vivienne."

"How much of it is up."

"All of it."

"All of it."

"All of it. The personal account. The Zurich correspondence. The photographs. The letters. The piece is up. The archive is up. The take-down will not be tonight."

Vivienne did not move.

She stood at the desk with both hands flat on the leather and her face on the screen, and the part of her brain that did numbers did, Leo could see, the numbers. The share price on Monday morning. The board call on Sunday. The Hartmann letter, which had been a draft on the seventh of December and which would, by the open of business in Frankfurt on Monday, be a vote. The hundred and seventy thousand jobs. The Le Monde call at six on Sunday morning.

Vivienne looked up from the screen.

She looked, not at Leo, but at Avery.

"Avery."

"Madame."

"Will you sit with me at this desk for the next two hours? I will need you to take notes."

"Yes, Madame."

"Will you, after that, sleep on the sofa in the office at the end of this corridor, because I would like to know there is somebody at the end of the corridor."

"Yes."

"Will you do this for the next three nights?”

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"Vivienne."

"Yes."

"Of course."

Vivienne sat down at the desk. She picked up the receiver of the desk telephone. She held it. She did not, in the picking up of the receiver, look at Leo.

"Mademoiselle Cole."

"Madame."