The Rembrandt Affair

it.”
    Jason made light of her rejection and quickly changed the subject.
    “Are you watching television?”
    “Are we still allowed to watch television or is that now considered a waste of expensive corporate electricity?”
    “Turn to Sky News.”
    Zoe switched the channel and saw three men standing before a gathering of reporters at the United Nations complex in Geneva. One was the UN secretary-general, the second was an Irish rock star who had worked tirelessly to eradicate poverty in Africa, and the third was Martin Landesmann. A fabulously wealthy Geneva-based financier, Landesmann had just announced he was donating one hundred million dollars to improve Third World food production. It was not the first time Landesmann had made such a gesture. Referred to as “Saint Martin” by detractors and supporters alike, Landesmann reportedly had given away at least a billion dollars of his own money to various charitable enterprises. His enormous wealth and generosity were matched only by his reclusiveness and scorn for the press. Landesmann had granted just one interview in his entire life. And Zoe had been the reporter.
    “When was this?”
    “Earlier this afternoon. He refused to take questions.”
    “I’m surprised they were able to convince Martin to even come.”
    “I didn’t realize you two were on a first-name basis.”
    “Actually, I haven’t spoken to him in months.”
    “Maybe it’s time you renewed your relationship.”
    “I’ve tried, Jason. He’s not interested in talking.”
    “Why don’t you give him a call now?”
    “Because I’m going home to take a very long bath.”
    “And the rest of 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, Jason. That’s why I’ve always been so fond of you.”
    “I’ll be at Café Rouge in an hour.”
    “And I’ll see you Monday morning.”
    She hung up the phone and watched Martin Landesmann exit the news conference in Geneva, his silver hair aglow in the flashing of a hundred cameras, his stunning French-born wife, Monique, at his side. For a devoutly private man, Landesmann certainly knew how to cut a striking figure on those rare occasions when he stepped onto the public stage. It was one of Martin’s special gifts, his matchless ability to control what the world knew and saw of him. Zoe was quite confident she knew more about Martin Landesmann than any reporter in the world. Yet even she acknowledged that there was much about Saint Martin and his financial empire that was beyond her grasp.
    Landesmann’s image was replaced by that of the new American president, who was launching an initiative to improve relations between the United States and one of its most implacable foes, the Islamic Republic of Iran. Zoe switched off the television, glanced at her watch, and swore softly. It was already a few minutes past six. Her plans for the weekend were not as lackluster as she had led Jason to believe. In fact, they were quite extensive. And she was now running late.
    She checked her e-mail, then conducted a harsh purge of her voice mail. By 6:15, she was pulling on her overcoat and heading across the newsroom. From inside his large glass-enclosed office, Jason was admiring his magnificent view of the Thames. Sensing Zoe behind him, he pirouetted and engaged in a flagrant attempt to catch her eye. Zoe lowered her gaze toward the carpet and ducked into a waiting elevator.
    As the carriage sunk toward the lobby, Zoe examined her reflection in the stainless steel doors. You were left on our doorstep by Gypsies, her mother used to say. It seemed the only possible explanation for how a child of Anglo-Saxon heritage had come into the world with black hair, dark brown eyes, and olive-complected skin. As a young girl, Zoe had been self-conscious about her appearance. But by the time she went up to Cambridge, she knew it was an asset. Zoe’s looks made her stand out from the crowd, as did her obvious intelligence and biting sense of humor. Jason had been smitten the first time she walked into his office. He’d hired her on the spot and expedited her ascent up the ladder of success. In moments of honesty, Zoe admitted that her career had been helped by her looks. But she was also smarter than most of her colleagues. And no one in the newsroom worked harder.
    As the elevator doors opened, she spotted a knot of reporters and editors gathered in the