Zoe pressed her forehead against the glass and looked out over the Tuileries. The trees were white with snow. They shone in the early morning light, illuminated like Christmas ornaments. If she craned her neck, she could see the Louvre to her left, its slate-gray roof disappearing into the dawn sky. To the right, the Eiffel Tower loomed, a single spike above the horizon. She wished she could go out onto the balcony. Zoe had always wanted to stay in an apartment in the 1st arrondissement. Preferably at Le Meurice hotel, which was just next door, in one of their grand suites with balconies that overlooked all of Paris. The kind of suites that lovers took, Zoe thought, on the sort of romantic liaisons that she and Arthur had only ever taken in cities where they knew no one and were therefore in no danger of being found out. Bruges. Ljubljana. Budapest. But never Paris, where Arthur had friends and colleagues, and where, more alarming, his wife had family.
Now Zoe wondered if they would ever stay in a hotel again. How long would they keep her penned up here, in an apartment paid for by the Department of Justice? When they had arrived, the guard outside the door had told them to stay inside. No going downstairs for a walk; no cigarettes on the balcony. Too dangerous. They were to stay away from the windows, even. As though there could be snipers hiding in the trees of the Tuileries, waiting for her to emerge. Zoe wondered if the guard was still out there. Joe something, a brutish American with a crew cut and broad shoulders and a ropey neck that bulged when he spoke. When they arrived, he was standing next to the door, hands behind his back. Maybe he had switched shifts overnight, replaced by another guard. No one had told them how long this would go on, how long they could expect to live like caged rats. It would be months, Zoe suspected, maybe even years. It was the price they would pay for what they had done. Instead of going to jail like the rest of their colleagues, they would testify against them. Zoe wondered now which was worse.
A knock came at the door. Zoe hesitated; it seemed too early for official business. Arthur was sleeping. They had arrived at the apartment well past midnight. It had been a last-minute solution. No one quite knew what to do with them. They couldn’t stay at the Le Monde offices forever. Neither one could go home; it wasn’t safe. They couldn’t check into a hotel. Finally, Owen Barry had negotiated a protective custody arrangement with the Department of Justice. If the DOJ wanted Zoe and Arthur to testify, they would need to keep them alive.
Now the reality of what they had done was beginning to sink in. To the outside world, Zoe Durand and Arthur Maynard might be anonymous sources. But inside their companies, their covers were blown. They were the leak. And that meant that they would have targets on their backs for the rest of their lives.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Zoe heard Arthur stirring in the bedroom. She strode across the living room and peered through the keyhole. When she saw that it was Simon Cressy, the editor of Le Monde, she opened the door.
“Good morning, Zoe,” Simon said. Behind him stood two men she did not recognize. “I’m sorry to trouble you so early. Did you get any rest?”
Zoe shook her head. “Not really. Please, come in.”
The three men entered the apartment. Zoe gestured for them to sit.
“This is Bill Holden from the Department of Justice,” Simon explained. “And Mark Moyes from the Internal Revenue Service.”
Arthur appeared in the bedroom doorway. He wore the same clothes as yesterday: jeans and a rumpled button-down shirt. He had slept in those clothes. He would again tonight, unless someone brought him a change. He ran his hand through his hair, attempting to tame it.
“Sorry,” he said, and kissed Zoe on the cheek. “Didn’t realize we’d be having visitors so early.”
“Apologies for the intrusion,” Bill Holden said. He, too, looked like he had slept in his clothes. His shirt was creased and there was a light stain on one side of the collar. “We took the red-eye here and we thought it was better to come straight to the apartment. To be blunt, Mr. Maynard, we’re concerned for your safety here in Paris.”
“So are we.” Arthur let out a gruff chuckle. “I watched Jonas Klauser stake out my apartment with a pair of armed men less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“There is a warrant out for Mr. Klauser’s arrest. But as you probably know, that doesn’t mean you and Ms. Durand are safe to go about your daily lives.”
“I imagine we never will be again.”
Holden nodded. “Your safety will depend on the cooperation of several governments, not just us. As you know, the rules are different in Luxembourg and in Switzerland. Mr. Klauser is a US citizen, but Hans Hoffman and Peter Weber are not.”
“I don’t have much faith in law enforcement in Luxembourg,” Arthur replied. “If I did, I would have gone to them in the first place.”
“We understand. Ordinarily, the Department of Justice offers this sort of protection only to people who come to us directly as whistle-blowers. But in your case, we know why you decided to approach the press instead.”
“It’s not just the authorities in Luxembourg,” Zoe said. “Matthew Werner went to the Department of Justice. He ended up dead.”
“Mr. Werner’s tragic death was the result of the actions of one rogue Department of Justice employee. I assure you, we are doing everything we can internally to make sure that nothing like that ever happens again.”
“Has Hunter Morse been arrested?”
“Hunter Morse is dead. He killed himself.”
Zoe tightened her grip around Arthur’s hand. “That’s awful.”
“Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one. Julian White’s body turned up yesterday as well.”
“Julian White? From Swiss United?” Zoe felt his name catch in her throat.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Car wreck. His body was found in a ravine in the Vaucluse Mountains.”
“Was anyone else hurt?” Zoe heard herself ask. She didn’t want to keep talking about Julian, but it seemed like the appropriate response. She leaned in against Arthur, steadying her body against his. It hadn’t occurred to her that they’d find his body so soon. She had hoped they wouldn’t at all.
“No. He was alone in the car. We suspect it might have been intentional.”
“Intentional?”
“A suicide.”
Zoe let out a sharp exhale.
“That’s terrible,” Arthur said.
“Terrible, yes. We haven’t ruled out the possibility of foul play, of course. In either case. There will be investigations.”
“And what about Matthew Werner’s death? Is that being investigated?” Arthur pressed.
“It is.”
Zoe closed her eyes. She felt Arthur’s arm tighten around her.
“Are you all right, Ms. Durand?”
Zoe nodded. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . So many people are dead.”
“You worked in a dangerous business, Ms. Durand.”
“I know that now.”
“At this point, we think you have two options. The first is for you to enter the Witness Protection Program. We will give you new identities, appearances, passports. Your names will never appear in the press in connection with the leak.”
“Would we still have to testify? At trial, or before the US Senate?”
“Yes. But we could do it in a way that protects your identity.”
“Klauser already knows we’re the leak. If he wants us dead, he’ll find us.”
“In the twenty years I’ve been with the DOJ, we’ve never lost a witness in protection.”
“You’ve never had anyone like Jonas Klauser on trial.”
“We’ve had people testify against cartel members, mob bosses, you name it. That’s what we do.”
Arthur let out a harsh laugh. “Testifying against Klauser is the equivalent of testifying against cartel members, mob bosses, and terrorists at once. They’re all his clients.”
“I understand your hesitation, Mr. Maynard. But let me remind you that you and Ms. Durand were part of this criminal enterprise. If you choose not to testify, you will be prosecuted along with the rest of your colleagues.”
“Even though we were the ones who leaked all the data?” Zoe asked, frowning. “That seems unfair.”
Holden shrugged. “I’m sorry you feel it’s unfair, Ms. Durand. But in our country, we don’t look kindly on people who aid and abet terrorists.”
“Would we be together?” Arthur asked. “In witness protection, I mean.”
“It would be safer if you weren’t.”
“We have to be together,” Zoe said. She looked at Arthur, pleading. “Arthur, please. I can’t be alone again. Not after everything. You’re all I’ve ever had.”
“I won’t leave you,” Arthur said, his voice stern. “There must be another way.”
“There is one other option,” Moyes spoke up.
They both looked at him hopefully.
“You testify. But you do it out in the open. You give interviews. You go public. You become the Edward Snowdens of the offshore banking business.”
“That’s crazy,” Arthur said. “That will only put us in greater danger.”
“Will it? They know who you are. They know you were the leak. If you become heroes—celebrities, really—it makes it harder for them to kill you. And you could hire private security. You wouldn’t be totally unprotected.”
For a moment, they were all silent. Zoe glanced back at the balcony. The sky was bright now, a clear, cold, cerulean blue. Soon, the shops on rue de Rivoli would fill with holiday shoppers. A line at the Louvre would accumulate. Tourists would walk through the Tuileries with hot chocolate and coffee. The big Ferris wheel at the Place de la Concorde would spin.
It occurred to her now that if she were to enter witness protection, she would never see Paris again. They might send her back to some small town like the one from which she’d come, except she’d know no one, have nothing, be no one. It was a heartbreaking thought.
“How would we pay for this private security?” Arthur asked. “How will we survive? I won’t ever be able to practice law again.”
“Here’s the thing. If you are to cooperate fully—and that means giving us the names of every client you’ve ever spoken to, worked with, or were aware had money stored offshore—we believe the IRS will be able to recoup at least a billion dollars in fines and unpaid taxes.”
Arthur nodded. “At least a billion.”
“Are you aware that the IRS will pay informants an award of up to thirty percent?”
“What?” Arthur leaned forward, as though he hadn’t quite heard.
“You would pay us?” Zoe asked.
“If the information you provide to us leads to the recovery of funds, yes.”
“Thirty percent?”
“Up to thirty percent. To be frank, we’ve never had a recovery of this size, so we would need to discuss internally—”
“That’s three hundred million dollars. Conservatively,” Arthur said.
“It could be far more,” Simon added. “The offshore economy is in the trillions.”
“Up to, I said,” Moyes repeated nervously. “And of course you’d need to pay taxes—”
“What about Annabel?” Zoe asked.
The men stopped and stared at her.
“Annabel?” Arthur asked. “What about her?”
“She should get some of the money, too.” Zoe ignored the look Arthur was giving her. She turned to Bill Holden. “Matthew Werner died because he was an informant for the Department of Justice. He was doing the same thing we are, except he trusted the wrong person. His wife should get his share of the money.”
“Annabel Werner will be well taken care of, I assure you,” Bill Holden said.
“Where is she now?”
“We—we’re not sure.”
“You’re not sure? Is she safe?”
“We don’t know. But rest assured, we’re looking for her.”
“Find her. And when you do, make sure she goes into protective custody. Whatever award we get, she gets a third. I won’t have it any other way.”
“All right, Ms. Durand.” Bill Holden offered her a tight smile. “You have my word. I will do everything in my power to ensure that Annabel Werner is safe.”
“So which is it, then?” Moyes asked. “Do you want to be in protective custody? Or do you want to be heroes?”
“Heroes with a nine-figure bank account?” Arthur smiled. “Absolutely.”
“Arthur, are you sure? The money would be there either way.”
Arthur turned to Zoe. He took her hands between his hands and pressed them against his cheeks. “Zoe,” he said. “I love you. I can’t live without you. I won’t. I’d rather take our chances together.”
Zoe felt tears well up in her eyes. Arthur leaned in for a kiss. It was a deep, slow, sensual kiss. His mouth on hers, his hand pulling her body against his. Zoe closed her eyes and felt a lightness in her body that she hadn’t felt since she first fell in love with Arthur.
Holden cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” Arthur said, as he pulled back. He looked at Zoe, his fingers interwoven with hers, and they laughed. “Heroes?” he said.
“Heroes.” She nodded.
“All right, then,” Moyes responded. “We’ll still need you in protective custody before and during the trials. And you’ll need to give an interview. The sooner, the better.”
“Marina Tourneau,” Arthur replied. “I want it to be with her.”
Holden hesitated. “Not the New York Times? Or the Wall Street Journal?”
Arthur shook his head. “With Marina Tourneau. At Press magazine. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.”
“Fine.” Holden nodded. “Marina Tourneau. I don’t know who she is, but she’s about to win the goddamn Pulitzer for reporting. And you two are about to become the most famous sources since Deep Throat.”
Zoe smiled. She pushed up onto her toes and whispered into Arthur’s ear. “Mark Felt, I love you.”
Arthur smiled at the reference. It was the name he’d given to Duncan Sander when they had first started talking, back when Duncan was looking for Morty Reiss. Duncan had gotten the Watergate reference right away and had laughed. He’d never once pressed Arthur for his real identity, something for which both Arthur and Zoe had been grateful.
Now Zoe felt a small wash of sadness, as she realized that Duncan would never learn his sources’ real names. He would not see this monumental story in print, or Morty Reiss, the man he had been chasing for so many years, finally taken to task for his crimes.
Zoe squeezed Arthur’s hand.
“Are you okay?” Arthur whispered.
Zoe nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
After these men were gone, she thought, she’d go out onto the balcony. She’d gaze out over the Tuileries. She’d kiss Arthur where the whole world could see them. And that would be worth everything. Even if it lasted for only a second, it would be worth it all.