June 13th, 1954
Constitutional Daily Paper
“There is a story here, goddamnit!” He shouted, slamming the papers in his hand onto the wooden desk. The clock mounted to the wall shook, while the light and shadows danced wildly along the walls from the sudden back and forth swinging of the fluorescent light fixture hung overhead. The noisy hustle and bustle of the office outside the door to the room the two men occupied slammed to a halt, the dead silence hanging onto the tense stares given by either man to the other. “What are you afraid of, the Crown?! A lawsuit?! Some spooks?!”
The man across from him sighed, his tense stare dropping into a drained tiredness as he slipped his glasses off and massaged his temple. “Hardly.” He responded, not bothering the make eye contact with the man towering over his seat. “Ezra, it’s more complica-”
“It isn’t complicated at all!” Ezra interrupted, face reddening. “Tate, what are you afraid of?” He paused, his voice softening as he finally slumped back down into his chair as the light settled back into place. “Your bonus? Your Job? I’ve got a lead, a damn solid one at that.”
Tate leaned forward, his red tie straining against gravity and held back only by a single tie-clip. “A damn solid lead? Ez, you’ve got a coincidence. So, what if the Crown Prince goes to every showing of a specific acting troupe, we’re meant to be a place of deep journalistic values. This… this is little more than tabloid dribble.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it.” Ezra stated, catching a second wind as he launched once more into his argument. “The Crown Prince goes to every show of a specific acting troupe which stars a specific dancer. He regularly holds private audiences with this specific dancer in the royal box. At royal properties. On royal boats.” He slid over several photographs, each with the same two figures “Financial gifts, jewelry, exotic travels and tours.” He ran his finger down a handwritten list. “What more do you want Tate, a giant neon sign shouting it?”
Tate glanced back and forth between Ezra and the documents. “This is all suggestive, not concrete. That’s what I need to push the story, concrete evidence. Airtight. So concrete not even the craftiest crown censor can touch us.” He sighed, gazing at the door. “If you fumble this, the paper will lose every shred of credibility we’ve built over the years.”
“You’re not saying no anymore.”
Tate sighed again, closing his eyes briefly. “Six months, Moscou Bureau. They need an experienced political writer; this will be a side project of yours. You’ll publish twice a month, four thousand words at least.”
Ezra grinned wolfishly, “I’ll find the evidence, it’s so close I can almost taste it.” He said, his mind already wondering as he thought about his query. “I’m going to need tickets to the Imperial Theatre and every show of Rinceoir, naturally.”
“You will have the necessary expenditure account privileges. Within reason, this isn’t a license to spend. I’ll be watching.”
“No, you’ll be getting the story of a generation.”
“Nail the royal bastard.”