In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

empty bottle of scotch to his bar. He stood with his back to Klay, looking out his window. “You saw Botha in the airport, are you certain?”

“Yes, Vance. There is definitely something more going on. The priest is a peace negotiator on Mindanao. Did you know that?”

“Was that in the file?”

“No. He had a photograph from the peace talks. I could come in that way. Do a story on the island’s politics.”

“No. First casualty of the new world order,” Eady said, turning. “You’re not going back there. Write up what you have on the priest. We’ll run it online.”

“I think it’s worth—”

“Damn it, Tom! He won’t print it! Krieger is a devout Catholic! Don’t you see? Get it to me. I’ll run it online before I leave. Sorry.” Eady shook his head, regaining his composure. “A lot on my mind.”

“Of course,” Klay said. Eady rarely raised his voice. “You’ll have it tonight.”

“Good.”

“Um.” Klay pointed to the ceiling. “And the public?”

Eady shook his head. There was almost nothing left of his office to conceal a microphone, but Vance Eady kept to his rule: no Agency talk in the office.

Eady got to his feet, “Sorry about all of this, Tom. I’m trying to get out of here before Monday, give my replacement an open field. Sharon Reif. She’s the future, they tell me. I expect you’ll find her . . . interesting. So, get the lay of the land and we’ll talk again. Have a drink at the club. We have some things to discuss. There may be opportunity here . . .”

“Opportunity?”

Eady smiled.

It was, Klay thought, a crevice anything might hide in.

CHANGE, MOVE, OR DIE

Sovereign Headquarters

Washington, DC

It was several weeks before Klay was invited back to the tenth floor to meet Eady’s replacement. He stepped off the oak-paneled elevator and was met by a glass wall. In the middle of the wall was a door with a metal handle. He pulled, but it was locked. The PGM security badge he reluctantly wore around his neck—one of many recent changes—did not seem to work, either.

A digitized female voice said, “Please look in the direction of the light. Speak your full name clearly.” A red light appeared. Klay scowled at it and said his name. He pulled on the door handle. Locked. A moment later a thin young man wearing a wireless headset appeared. He opened the door and introduced himself as Timothy, Ms. Reif’s personal assistant. “Sorry, you’re not fully in the system yet,” Timothy said. He wore a slim-cut light blue suit, narrow tie, and shiny black Australian boots. Klay followed him inside.

“I have Tom Klay,” Timothy said to his headset.

Eady’s labyrinth had been replaced by what looked like an Apple Store, a hive of hip young people moving among white desks topped with oversized computer monitors. On two walls enormous flat-screen monitors depicted a range of digital activity in real time. The Sovereign’s web pages were up on one, with graphs measuring followers, story impressions, engagements, likes, comments. Six more screens delivered news from dozens of other Perseus Group Media platforms. An electronic news ticker at ceiling level wrapped the room in green, like a neon anaconda.

Timothy opened a glass door. Sharon Reif rose from her desk. A politician was Klay’s first thought. A TV news anchor. It was the razor-cut blonde hair set against black rectangular glasses. The instant, star-like self-assurance. “Tom Klay. Finally!”

Reif presented her hand half cupped, no thumb extended, as if she had a small bird she wanted to pass to him. Klay accepted her hand, then didn’t know what to do with it. He held it for a moment and released it.

She wore an impeccably tailored cream suit, an Apple Watch, and a well-manicured smile. Her posture, Klay noticed, was as impossibly erect as Eady’s.

Reif gestured toward her sofa. In place of Eady’s worn brown leather couch was a spotless white upholstered sofa with a chrome frame, bookended by armless white chairs.

She took a seat in one of the chairs and crossed her legs. Klay sat on the sofa, but found the seat too deep for him to sit back.

“How are you, Tom?”

He perched at the sofa’s edge. “I’m good.”

“Good is good.” She leaned forward and patted his knee. “Did they catch the poachers?”

“From Kenya? No, not yet.”

“Well, it’s only a matter of time, right? With all the reporting we’re doing, the government there is under a lot of pressure to bring those bastards to justice. We’ll keep on it. It’s been one of my priorities. We set up a hashtag for you, WhoShotTomKlay. It’s getting a lot of traffic. Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“Reader response has been absolutely terrific. You should check out the comments when you get a chance. It might make you feel better.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. She was studying him, head cocked slightly like a chickadee, working on some theory about him.

“Okay, let’s get down to business. We only have a few minutes before the press conference, but I wanted to take the time to meet you in person.” She studied him again. “How are you?”

“Good,” he said, puzzled. “Sharon,” he added clumsily.

“Good is good. Okay, I need to lay some ground rules. No more violent crime. Legal says it’s too risky—and metrics says it doesn’t sell.”

“Except that’s what I do,” he said.

She shook her head. “Change, move, or die.”

While Sharon talked, Klay rubbed the pad of his thumb with the tip of his index finger, quietly spelling two words in one continuous script. It was a technique he used to remind himself how to handle moments like this. The words were “shut” and “up.”

“You will adapt, Tom. I’m sure of it. We just have to set up a few new rules—of the house, as it were—and get you on your way. If you haven’t guessed it yet, I love to say no. That’s why I’m here. We’re taking the magazine off line.”

“It is off-line,” Klay said. “It’s a magazine.”

“No, off line. Terminating it.” She