My eyebrows dart up. “You don’t?”
“Is it unprofessional? Probably. Will it influence how you write about Emerald? Definitely. Can we use it to our advantage…?” She winks. “Possibly.”
I twist my fingers together, lowering them to my lap. “I’m not sure what you mean, but I don’t like how that sounds.”
She chuckles. “Oh, don’t be such a little puritan. The man is putty in your hands. Have your fun, but… don’t be afraid to capitalize on the perks inherent to this level of intimacy. It’s an all-access pass.”
She may not realize it, but pretty much since middle school, it’s been one of my biggest pet peeves to be called some version of “little puritan.”
Prude. Goody Two-shoes. Miss Priss. Wet blanket. Killjoy.
My nostrils flare. “The award-winning articles and books you’ve written didn’t come from sleeping with the right people.”
She leans her chin on one hand with a droll look. “No, but you’d better believe I once spent two grueling hours flirting up a storm with Henry Kissinger to get some useful tidbits aboutKosovo. And that, darling, ended up being the basis of my bookDancing with Miloševic. Pulitzer Prize winner.”
The mention of my lifelong fantasy goal gives me pause before indignation prods me onward. “If I use my relationships to manipulate people for story details, my life would be littered with very short friendships. I think we’re done here.” I get up to leave.
“First of all,” she says coolly, “writers of every type—journalism, novels, screenplays, songs—mine details from the people in their lives. I wasn’t suggesting you shag the dear boy into exhaustion and go through his pockets for secrets, like some Mata Hari. Now sit down.”
I reluctantly lower into the chair.
“When I gave you this assignment,” she continues, “you mentioned Klaus Franke being resistant to interviews. An ‘all-access pass’ means he’s comfortable with you. He trusts you, so getting a good story will be easier.”
“Hedoestrust me,” I retort. “And I’d never abuse that trust.”
“Well, kudos. Very ethical—rah rah.” She lifts her pencil-line brows in amusement. “You look impatient. I’m sorry, have I become tedious? Should I and my nearly fifty years’ experience in journalism go crawl into my box until one of you plucky know-it-all youngsters feels like dusting me off to ask a question?”
I feel bad for getting snippy with her and look into my lap.
“I called you in,” she continues, “so we could circle back to the evidence you were sent on the flash drive. ‘Blueprintgate,’ as Alexander termed it.”
Oh God… did the story break somewhere, and I threw away the scoop?My panicked brain hunts for a defense. I grip the chair’s edge. “Nothing in those files seemed—”
“Don’t go to pieces,” Nefeli interjects. “Your intuition was correct. Even if you were just protecting your beau.” Her phone rings. She glares at it, then flicks the side button. “It’s been three months, and no other news outlet has broken the story. Even if the source had initially sent the material only toARJ, after a few weeks of seeing nothing done with it they’d have tried someone else. But that didn’t happen… ergo, we were the sole recipient. The question,” she poses in a stage whisper, “is why did someone wantyouto have it?”
“They didn’t. They sent it to Alexander.”
Nefeli leans back with a reluctant-sounding sigh. “About that, love. I don’t want to start a war, but… the thumb drive was addressed to you. Alexander had a wee case of professional jealousy and took it out of your inbox.”
“Wait,what?”
“Try not to hold it against him; the child has no impulse control.”
That miserable creep!Pretending it was a peace offering…
“You’re not doing him any favors by babying him,” I bite out. “He’snota child.”
“Fifty pence for your unsolicited parenting advice,” Nefeli says dryly. “The question remains: Who sent it, and what was their agenda?”
“To make Emerald look bad. And because they noticed I’m doing interviews with Klaus.”
“But if the information is a load of bollocks, to what end?”
I don’t have the luxury of thinking itis“a load of bollocks” anymore. Clearly some sort of malfeasance occurred. Klaus issuch an honorable person… I have to believe he was protecting an Emerald employee.
“So here’s a thought…” Nefeli goes on, tapping a nail against the edge of her teacup’s saucer. “Is it a red herring? Or as they call it on your side of the pond, a ‘snipe hunt’?”
She looks so smug, I want to scoff. Has she been reading too many suspense thrillers? In real life, there isn’t always a plot twist. Most answers are boringly straightforward.
