The Rembrandt Affair

blood to be shed over the Journal ’s declining fortunes, it wasn’t going to be his. Zoe knew for a fact Jason was being groomed for a corner office at Latham headquarters. She knew this because, against all better judgment, they had once had a brief affair. Though they were no longer lovers, he still confided in her and regularly sought her advice and approval. Therefore it came as no surprise to Zoe when, five minutes after the meeting broke up, he phoned her at her desk.
    “How was I?”
    “A bit maudlin for my taste. Surely it’s not as bad as all that.”
    “Worse. Think Titanic. ”
    “You don’t really expect me to do my job without a proper travel and entertainment budget.”
    “The new rules apply to all editorial personnel. Even you.”
    “Then I quit.”
    “Good. That makes one fewer person I’ll have to sack. Actually, two . My God, but we pay you an outrageous amount of money.”
    “That’s because I’m special. It even says so in my title, Special Investigative Correspondent. You gave it to me yourself.”
    “Biggest mistake of my career.”
    “For the record, it was your second biggest, Jason.”
    The line had been delivered with Zoe’s trademark acid wit. Low and sultry, Zoe’s voice was one of the most dreaded sounds within the London financial world. It regularly reduced arrogant CEOs to mush and transformed even the most combative lawyers into blabbering idiots. Among the most respected and feared investigative journalists in Britain, Zoe and her small team of reporters and researchers had left a trail of broken companies and careers in their wake. She had exposed crooked accounting schemes, insider-trading practices, crimes against the environment, and countless cases involving bribery and kickbacks. And though most of her work involved British firms, she routinely reported on corporate shenanigans in other European countries and in America. Indeed, during the chaotic autumn of 2008, Zoe had spent several weeks trying to prove that an American wealth-management firm run by a highly respected strategist was actually a giant Ponzi scheme. She had been within forty-eight hours of confirming the story when Bernard Madoff was arrested by FBI agents and charged with securities fraud. Zoe’s previous reporting gave the Journal a distinct advantage over its competitors as the scandal unfolded, though privately she never forgave herself for not getting Madoff before the authorities. Fiercely competitive and disdainful of those who broke rules of any sort, Zoe Reed had vowed to never let another corrupt, thieving businessman slip through her grasp.
    At the moment, she was plugging the final holes in an upcoming exposé about a rising Labor MP who had accepted at least one hundred thousand pounds in illicit payments from Empire Aerospace Systems, a leading British defense contractor. The Journal ’s publicity department had tipped off the broadcast news networks that Zoe had an important piece in the works, and appearances had already been quietly scheduled on the BBC, CNBC, Sky News, and CNN International. Unlike most print reporters, Zoe was a fluid television performer who had the rare ability to forget she was sitting in front of a camera. What’s more, she invariably was the most attractive person on the set. The BBC had been trying to lure Zoe away from the Journal for years, and she had recently flown to New York to meet with executives at CNBC. Zoe now possessed the power to quadruple her salary simply by picking up the telephone. Which meant she was in no mood to listen to a lecture from Jason Turnbury about budget cuts.
    “May I explain why your new cost-cutting measures will make it impossible to do my job?”
    “If you must.”
    “As you well know, Jason, my sources come from the inside, and they have to be seduced into giving me information. Do you really expect me to convince a senior executive to betray his company over an egg-and-dill sandwich at Pret A Manger?”
    “Did you look at your expense form last month before you signed it? I could have employed two junior editors for the amount of money you spent in the Grill Room of the Dorchester alone.”
    “Some conversations can’t be done over the telephone.”
    “I agree. So why don’t you meet me at Café Rouge for a drink so we can continue this in person?”
    “You know that’s not a good idea, Jason.”
    “I’m suggesting a cordial drink between two professionals.”
    “That’s bollocks, and you know