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

the chief to look at Klay and not the camera. Months after the scene was shot they called Klay and said they didn’t like the way he had entered the chief’s hut and were flying him back to the Congo to shoot it again.

“This is television,” they admonished him, nod more for the reaction shots, and would he please look more anxious? He was tracking dangerous poachers! They wore him down over time so that eventually he’d even agreed to stumble while on a contrived patrol with Bernard’s Green Guardians, Bernard reaching down to give him a hand, the way Bernard would later do for real on the last day of his life. It took nine takes for Klay to stumble acceptably, but by then his muddy clothes did not match the scene, and he’d had to change into identical clothes and do it again. The series was never made.

The basement cafeteria was The Sovereign’s only eatery now. It was empty at the moment, everyone reporting to the auditorium for Sharon’s all-hands meeting. Klay got himself a prewrapped roast beef sandwich from the refrigerator, a bag of potato chips, and a cup of hot tea. He ate his sandwich alone, peeling off a bite at a time, thinking about the changes he’d witnessed during his career.

He returned to the auditorium a half hour later to find it full. Fox was sitting in a back row. He had his brightly colored stockinged feet up on the seat in front of him and was twisting a coffee straw in his teeth. He lifted his feet, and Klay took a seat next to him.

“So, if they make you an offer, will you take it?” Fox asked, chewing his straw.

“Haven’t thought about it,” Klay said.

“PGM’s doing it every place they acquire—keeping the storefronts and using a single backend for content. I think we’ll get offers.”

Klay’s researcher, David Tenchant, paused to say hello.

“Good to see you, Tench,” Klay said. “Join us.”

Fox grudgingly lowered his feet to let Tenchant pass.

The quiet younger man with greasy black hair was dressed as usual in black motorcycle boots, T-shirt, and tight black jeans. Tenchant had been Eady’s hire, a surprise to everyone because staff writers like Klay normally did their own research, but Eady said Klay’s criminal investigations exposed The Sovereign to lawsuits in ways its other journalism did not. “Let me introduce you to your stitch in time,” he said, introducing Tenchant to Klay.

Klay had resisted at first, but it turned out Tenchant was a wizard with a computer, and a great asset.

“I know, I know,” Fox continued. “Where else do you get to do this stuff, right? But if it’s good, you know? If it’s Perseus-money good, maybe it’s worth taking the buyout?”

“Maybe,” Klay said.

“Hit a beach someplace, write a book.”

“You want to write a book?”

Fox twisted his straw.

“Mintz quit,” Fox said apropos of nothing. “Said he’d spent twenty years documenting the impact of warmongers and he wasn’t about to work for Perseus Group. Made a big to-do. ‘Blood on his hands.’ Threw his Hydro Flask across the edit room. You know how he is . . .” Fox punched Klay in his good arm. “Hey, look at that!” He pointed toward the front of the room. “Isn’t that your nemesis?”

Klay looked across the auditorium. Porfle was making his way to a seat in a front row. Walking beside Porfle was Raynor McPhee, investigative reporter for the New York Times.

“What’s Raynor McPhee doing here?” Fox asked.

Klay watched as Porfle ushered McPhee into the second row. McPhee was physically unremarkable—short, pudgy, balding, wearing what looked to be his grandfather’s cardigan—but his reporting was legendary. His recent series on human slavery in the seafood industry had him embedded on a Thai fishing boat for five months, and had won him a Pulitzer.

“Is he coming here?” Fox asked. “Do you think?”

Klay didn’t have time to think. The lights dimmed, and Sharon Reif strode to center stage wearing a wireless headset mic. “Change, move, or die. That’s evolution, I like to say,” she began. “And no one knows evolution better than The Sovereign . . .”

Erin arrived. “Sorry I’m late.” She swatted Fox’s toes, and he shifted to let her into the row. “I miss anything?”

“She’s doing a TED Talk,” Fox said.

Erin leaned across Tenchant and said, “Nice piece on the Philippines, Tom.”

“It’s still up?” Klay was surprised. He turned to Tenchant. “I thought Sharon pulled it?”

Tenchant nodded and with exaggerated concern said, “Her people told Admin to take it down. For some reason they can’t do it.” He shrugged. “Computer glitch, what I heard.”

“Jesus,” Klay said, studying him. “The talents hidden in this crew.”

“No Jesus in that story,” Erin said. “Speaking of, I heard Terry Krieger’s making an appearance.”

Fox chucked his straw into the aisle and sat up straight. Klay heard his name and looked up. The row in front of him had turned around. “Shit,” he said.

Sharon was squinting into the audience. “Is he here? Tom?”

Timothy appeared, looking down at Klay with disapproval. Klay sighed and followed him to the stage.

“Okay, now stand there.” Sharon pointed to a small red sticker on the stage. “And voilà!”

Lights flickered, and suddenly Terry Krieger rose from the floor and was standing on stage. “Hello, Tom.”

Krieger wore a sweat-stained Chadwick Elephant Orphanage T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. The billionaire was fit, five ten or so, tan, with a short Ollie North–style haircut. “I’m sorry we can’t actually shake hands, Tom. Soon, I hope . . .”

Hologram Krieger turned and faced the audience. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry I can’t be with you in person. But I’m pleased to have this opportunity to say a few words, using Perseus Group technology, to offer a hint of what we have in store as the new owners of this amazing institution. But first, I have someone with me who wants to congratulate Tom Klay on his recent work.”

Hologram Krieger stepped back, and a baby elephant bounded across the stage, its little hologram trunk swinging loosely with joy. The baby stopped at Klay’s feet