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

“Right and alive would be my choice, Sharon.”

“I thought so.”

Reif stood up. She put her hands on the back of her chair. “The Sovereign’s the most trusted media brand in the world. Did you know that?”

“I did.”

“Not its most profitable,” she continued. “That’s for sure. But its most trusted. We’re going to leverage that trust to get new products out. Do you have any idea how much money we’ve left on the table not patenting the discoveries our people have made over the years? New species? Tribal remedies? Genes?!” She looked at him. “Billions! I’d like you to stay on, be a part of this. Mentor a new generation. Would you like to?”

“I’m just a field guy with a pen, Sharon.”

“That’s content! We need content, Tom. It’s our competitive edge, the piece our competitors would kill us for. Our challenge is to package our content better, to deliver it dynamically.”

Klay didn’t respond.

Reif gave him the chickadee look again. “So, what are you telling me, Tom? What? You want to leave us?”

Us.

The word echoed. It was true. He was an outsider now, evicted but invited to return as a Perseus Group tenant. He ground his teeth. It was the choice Bernard had been given as a ranger—join Perseus Group or find some other way to support your family.

He looked down at his security badge. He was collared now, too.

“I just want to do my work, Sharon.”

She clapped her hands. “Excellent! We’re agreed then. It won’t be what it was, Tom. It will be better. Smells a little better already, right?” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “Whew! Right? Okay, I think we’ve covered everything for now. Any questions?”

“The obvious one,” he said. “We’ve been taken over by a mercenary.”

She raised an index finger, eager to respond.

“This is Perseus Group Media,” she emphasized. “Different companies. Totally different! That’s important to understand. Also, Perseus Group, our parent organization, will have no say at all on the editorial side. The board assures me of that. It’s my team. But I’m thrilled to know you’ll be staying with us.”

She checked her watch. “Okay. Look, we’ll be making a lot of changes. Which reminds me.” She walked to her desk. “I know you and Vance were close. He was your mentor, they tell me.”

“He was a good man.” Klay corrected himself: “Is.”

“And I don’t want to intrude on that, but I must ask that you eliminate all contact with him moving forward.”

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“Bad ear again? I’m saying we’ve got some concerns, that’s all. And I want us to get off on a fresh editorial foot. I’m sure you can understand that. I wanted to make the point to you in person.”

“I appreciate that. But I’m not cutting off my ties to Vance. He’s got cancer, for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s a lot to process, I know. Okay, we’ll put a pin in it for now. Oh, by the way, what’s your take on Alexander Porfle? As an editor, I mean?”

“Porfle?” Klay said, steeling himself. “Extraordinary. Best editor I’ve ever had.”

She nodded. “Good. Last thing . . .” She opened Eady’s coat closet and removed the curved white stick with a knot at one end. Klay suppressed a smile. It was Eady’s walrus baculum. She slapped the penis bone in her palm.

“An ivory shillelagh is what I guessed at first.” She slid a hand along its curved shaft. “Turns out it’s a walrus penis bone.” She looked at him. “I can’t imagine a man leaving his dick behind by accident, can you, Tom?”

She dropped it into her wastebasket. “We’ll come back to Mr. Eady another time.”

There was a knock at her door.

“Come!”

Timothy wore a smile that wasn’t especially sunny. He tapped his Apple Watch.

“Timothy will go over what to expect this morning.”

“What to expect for what?” Klay asked.

“Terry Krieger, Tom,” Reif said. “We want you to meet him.” She clapped her hands. “Chop-chop. Let’s go!”

ONE BEAUTIFUL BATTLEFIELD

Sovereign Headquarters

Washington, DC

Here’s where you sit,” Timothy said, pointing to an upholstered seat in the front row of The Sovereign’s auditorium, the kind with bottoms that fold up when not in use. A piece of paper with Klay’s name written on it was taped to the seat’s underside.

“I see that,” Klay said. “What’s the agenda?”

“Nope.” Timothy shook his head. “We want you totally natural.” He wiped a spot from Klay’s gray T-shirt. “So, act totally natural. Do you have a suit jacket here . . . ? Of course you don’t. You can wait in the green room until we’re ready to begin—we’ve got snacks and water back there for you. When Sharon calls for you, walk out that door and take this seat.” Timothy checked his watch. “We have about a half hour. We’ll start letting people in in ten. On my way,” he said into his headset, and hurried for the auditorium’s rear door.

Klay left the auditorium. He took a service elevator to the basement and walked the old marble hallway to the staff cafeteria. When he first joined the magazine there had been two places to eat in the building: the basement cafeteria for staff and the males-only executive dining room on the eighth floor. Lunch in the jackets-only Humboldt Room included exotic main dishes inspired by explorations past served by tuxedoed black waiters. A shortage of space not prejudice led to change. When reality television emerged as the organization’s bread and butter, the Humboldt Room was converted to TV producers’ offices, and roast quail, raw oysters, and sauterne gave way to Savage Swordfish. Young Men and Fire. Cave In!

Klay had done a reality television pilot once. The Investigator the series was to be called, featuring Klay, pitched as the Anthony Bourdain of wildlife crime. He’d been surprised at the number of takes each scene had required. Fit young associate producers dressed in the latest adventure wear asked him to step out of a helicopter again and again, or to greet a tribal chief over and over, gesturing repeatedly for