The Rembrandt Affair

The bearer of this gloomy report was Jason Turnbury, the Journal's editor in chief. He was prowling the conference room like a matador, his necktie artfully loosened, his face still ta

"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 perso

"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 expose 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 Cafe 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 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 cha

"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 Cafe Rouge in an hour."

"And I'll see you Monday morning."

She hung up the phone and watched Martin Landesma

Landesma

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.