The Rembrandt Affair

Aerospace?”
    Zoe was genuinely surprised. “You read the articles?”
    “I read everything you write, Zoe.”
    Of course you do. And then she remembered the first awkward moments of her encounter with Graham Seymour. We couldn’t contact you openly, Ms. Reed. You see, it’s quite possible someone is watching you and listening to your phones …
    “What did you think of the articles?”
    “They made for compelling reading. And if the Empire executives and British politicians are truly guilty, then they should be punished accordingly.”
    “You don’t seem convinced.”
    “About their guilt?” He raised an eyebrow thoughtfully and placed a portion of haricots verts at one end of the rectangular serving platter. “Of course they’re guilty, Zoe. I just don’t know why everyone in London is pretending to be surprised. When one is in the business of selling arms to foreign countries, paying bribes to politicians is de rigueur.”
    “Perhaps,” Zoe agreed, “but that doesn’t make it right.”
    “Of course not.”
    “Have you ever been tempted?”
    Martin placed two slices of quiche next to the green beans. “To do what?”
    “To pay a bribe to secure a government contract?”
    He smiled dismissively and added a few slices of stuffed chicken breast to the platter. “I think you know me well enough to answer that question yourself. We’re very choosy about the companies we acquire. And we never go anywhere near defense contractors or arms makers.”
    No, thought Zoe. Only a textile mill in Thailand worked by slaves, a chemical complex in Vietnam that fouled every river within a hundred miles, and a Brazilian agribusiness firm that was destroying the very same rain forests Martin had sworn to defend to his dying breath. And then there was a small industrial plant in Magdeburg, Germany, that was doing a brisk but secret trade with the Iranians, champions of all the principles Martin held dear. But once again her thoughts were straying onto dangerous ground. Avoid, she reminded herself.
    Martin placed a few slices of French ham on the platter and carried the food into the dining room, where a table had already been set. Zoe paused in the window overlooking the Seine before taking her usual seat. Martin filled her plate decorously with food and added wine to her glass. After serving himself, he asked about the basis of the threatened lawsuit.
    “Malicious disregard for the truth,” Zoe said. “The usual drivel.”
    “It’s a public relations stunt?”
    “Of the worst kind. I have the story nailed.”
    “I know the CEO of Empire quite well. If you’d like me to have a word with him, I’m sure I could make the matter—”
    “Go away?”
    Martin was silent.
    “That might be a little awkward, Martin, but I do appreciate the thought.”
    “Do you have the support of management?”
    “For the moment. But Jason Turnbury is already looking for the nearest foxhole.”
    “Jason isn’t long for his job.”
    Zoe looked up sharply from her plate. “How on earth do you know that?”
    “I know everything, Zoe. Haven’t you learned that by now?”
    Zoe felt her cheeks begin to burn. She gave an overly bright smile and said, “You always say that, darling. But I’m actually beginning to believe it.”
    “You should. You should also know your newspaper is in worse shape than you think. Jason has a lifeboat waiting for him at Latham headquarters. But I’m afraid the rest of the Journal ’s management will have to fend for itself, along with the editorial staff.”
    “How much longer can we stay afloat?”
    “Without a buyer or a massive infusion of cash…not long.”
    “How do you know all this?”
    “Because Latham approached me last week and asked whether I’d be willing to take the Journal off its hands.”
    “You’re joking.” His expression made clear he wasn’t. “That would make our relationship more complicated than it already is, Martin.”
    “Don’t worry, Zoe. I said I wasn’t interested. Media is a rather small portion of our overall investment picture at the moment, and I have no interest in taking on a newspaper that’s bleeding to death.” He held up his mobile phone. “How do you expect people to pay for something when you’re giving it away for free?”
    “And the Journal ?”
    “I suspect you’ll get a lifeline.”
    “From whom?”
    “Viktor Orlov.”
    Zoe recognized the name. Viktor Orlov was one of the original Russian oligarchs who had made billions