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 gobbling up the valuable assets of the old Soviet state while ordinary Russians were struggling for survival. Like most of the first-generation oligarchs, Viktor had worn out his welcome in Russia. He now lived in London in one of the city’s most valuable homes.