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 tanned from a recent Caribbean holiday. Jason was a rocket, a corporate shooting star who possessed an unrivaled ability to sidestep on-coming trouble. If there was 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 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 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 Cafe 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.