Savage News

by Jessica Yellin

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Matt asked her from between the seats.

  “Bad,” Natalie said.

  Matt ignored her. “The good news is that after previewing the piece, Bibb called Hal into her office to rant about it.”

  Natalie pulled up onto her knees to look over the back of the seat at Matt. “Bibb and Hal got to see the piece already? Why do they get to see it before us?”

  “You’re focusing on the wrong thing,” Matt told her. “You’ve made Bibb very unhappy. You should be proud.”

  Natalie felt herself brighten a little. “Good point.”

  “The Chief is over the moon,” Matt went on. “He told Bibb to increase your budget. He said to reimburse you for hair and makeup.”

  “What, I’m getting my own hair and makeup?” This was unprecedented in Natalie’s career. “That’s amazing. How do you know?”

  Matt put on an expression she felt was supposed to make him seem wily but really just made him look constipated. “I have my sources.”

  She squinted her eyes at him. “What’s the bad news?”

  He pointed at the monitor on the back of Natalie’s seat. She turned in time to see Ryan standing outside the embassy, this time wearing a shirt. She checked the clock—it was the top of the hour. Which meant—

  “They’re leading with Ryan instead of me?” Her hands curled into angry fists, and it started getting hard to breathe.

  “Do you need to get out?” the woman next to her asked, looking concerned.

  “No, thank you,” Natalie said, trying to sound normal as she jammed in a single earbud.

  She was just in time to hear Ryan say, “—the first time they will be in the same country since the night in question.” The monitor cut to video of Sonia Barbaro, her long black hair shining, wearing a white T-shirt and blazer walking through a crowd. It was followed by more video of Sonia, now in an emerald green sheath on a red carpet.

  “Barbaro lands in the US tomorrow night ahead of the American premiere of her new film, Trafficked,” Ryan went on. “She hasn’t spoken publicly since accusing Rigo Lystra two weeks ago. This weekend, she’ll be angling for publicity, and we can only imagine what she’ll say next. The world will be watching.”

  “Everyone knows Barbaro arrives tomorrow,” Natalie snapped. “Why is this the lead story?”

  Her phone buzzed and she glanced down to find a text from Hal complimenting her on her beyond awesome work today, adding, you were smoking hot in every sense of the word!

  Wincing, she flicked her eyes back to Ryan on the monitor. This was probably Hal’s doing. It made perfect sense.

  “Hal must have done this,” she said out loud. “When he heard the Chief liked our story, he probably lobbied for Ryan to be the lead. He’s a human barricade to the White House.”

  “Table for one at Conspiracy Café?” Matt replied. “Someone’s paranoid.”

  Before Natalie could respond, the woman next to her started pointing at the monitor. “Excuse me. What channel is that?” She gave Natalie a conspiratorial smile. “I want to see if he takes off his shirt again.”

  From behind her, Natalie heard Matt start to sing. “And I guess that’s how you get the lead on the news,” to the tune of “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues.”

  “Bet that you wish now, you’d worn that bikini...”

  “You are lucky they don’t allow weapons on planes,” Natalie muttered.

  “What was that?” the woman next to her asked.

  Natalie tried for a reassuring smile. “Nothing.”

  On the screen, Ryan was still talking, “You can be sure she’ll be swarmed with press attention on her arrival and ATN will be there.” He paused and smiled at the camera. “Also,” he said and dramatically moved his hand to the top button on his shirt.

  Natalie and the woman to her left leaned forward together in anticipation, but for different reasons.

  “Hah! Just kidding,” Ryan said, then winked. “That’s for the folks at home.”

  Watching Ryan now made Natalie want to research ritual forms of suicide. She was considering different options when Matt interrupted her reverie.

  “Hey, look.” Matt pointed at the television where, with soaring music, the First Lady’s face had appeared with Natalie’s face next to it.

  “Someone is getting an elaborate setup,” Matt said, in the kind of voice you’d use to appease a toddler.

  Natalie glared at the screen, hoping her dagger eyes would somehow project behind her to reach Matt.

  Now Heath Heatherton’s angelic face filled the screen and the knot in Natalie’s stomach coiled more tightly. Heath was reading the top headlines of the day, but she couldn’t make out his words over the sheer panic that had seized her.

  Peering at her between the seats, Matt said, “Why do you look like you’re going to throw up?”

  “There’s a high likelihood this piece will humiliate me for the world to see.”

  “The world? I don’t want to throw water on your pity party but ATN’s cable audience only averages 850,000.”

  She could barely breathe as the monitor cut to a shot of a sparsely furnished room. At the center was a figure seated at a table, head covered in a burlap bag, hands tied down to a chair, and surrounded by tattooed he-men in ski masks. It was the makeshift interrogation room at OpSec Solutions, the private military camp in North Carolina where they’d just spent the day. She’d been careful to wear her shirt buttoned extra-low with a push-up bra, and noticed with some satisfaction that—with a bag on her head—her cleavage commanded attention.

  One of the “hostage takers” was reading from a notebook: “President Crusoe, we have your wife. If you want her back, you will do what we say. If you want her back alive, you will do it quickly.”

  In the room, in real time, Natalie had thought that the ransom statement felt completely clichéd, overly dramatic, and stagey, but on camera it was tense, powerful. From a purely entertainment perspective, she had to admit, it was good TV.

  Amazing what good lighting and the right cameraperson could do.

  On screen, one of the he-men snatched the bag off Natalie’s head and now her face was on camera looking like a #BadMorningAfter. She had the hair of an unkempt child and eyeliner smudged under her eyes.

  Real Natalie shot an angry glance at Matt, who gave an exaggerated shrug, miming powerlessness. “What could I do? It looked authentic. They love authenticity! Anyway it’s good.”

  Natalie looked around and saw that people all over the plane were watching the piece. Including the woman to her left. Part of her had to admit the setup was pretty captivating.

  On screen, a voice barked, “We’ve got company! Breach! Move the package now!” The camera wavered crazily as the pling pling pling sound of gunshots erupted. Then came a bright flash of light and smoke filled the room. The smoke parted and suddenly a huge bronze-colored forearm with a tattoo of an eagle wrapped itself around Natalie’s waist.

  “This is X Team 1. I’ve got the package,” Eagle Tattoo barked into a wrist radio.

  It seemed to Natalie as though the passengers were holding their collective breath as the monitor cut to a great tracking shot of Natalie and Eagle Tattoo bolting down a corridor running hard—did they have a Steadicam on this shoot?—weaving back and forth, then out a door. They were running across a vast lawn when Eagle Tattoo pushed her into a waiting Jeep, climbed in after her, and took off, spraying gravel everywhere. Natalie remembered that two cameras had been locked down on the dashboard. She now saw that as the car rocketed forward through a flurry of gunfire, smashed through a chain-link fence and went careening down a steep rocky slope, they captured her doing an excellent imitation of Edward Munch’s The Scream.

  Natalie’s heart sped up as she watched Eagle Tattoo deftly maneuver the Jeep over a small stream, then st
op beneath a leafy tree. Then Tattoo pulled off the mask and unfolded a slow, simmering smile. “Hey. I’m Julia.”

  Tattoo, it’d turned out, was a massive woman. She’d looked like an action hero: at least six-two, ripped, with a chiseled face, cropped brown hair, gray hooded eyes, and a jaw so square it could chip ice. It was as if The Rock and Joan of Arc had a love child who grew up to do private security.

  In her airplane seat, Natalie leaned forward in anticipation of what she knew was coming next. She watched as Julia expertly ran her hands over Natalie’s arms, stomach, chest, and then grazed her nether regions, while looking into Natalie’s eyes. “Just checking for any breaks or serious injuries,” she’d said, leaning in close, “I’m sorry if we hurt you.” On the monitor, it looked as though they were about to kiss.

  “I’m, um, okay,” Natalie had replied nervously, thinking the TSA would disapprove of this pat down.

  In real life, they’d had to wait twenty minutes for the cameras to reset and Natalie flashed back to the conversation they’d had during the break.

  “Sorry about the pat down. I hope they warned you?” Julia had said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Reg said he wanted it slow and personal. Better TV.”

  “Reg?” asked Natalie, searching her mind.

  “Reginald,” Julia said, then added, “Oh wait. You guys call him the Chief, right? You’re lucky you get to work for him.” She looked almost wistful as she said the words.

  Natalie let that sink in before asking, “How do you know the Chief?”

  “I’ve done a lot of work for your parent company and their high-value targets,” explained Julia, shading her eyes from the sun. “When he was overseas, I handled personal protection for him, Katie, and the kids.” She got a gleam in her eyes. “Such a great dad. Heart of gold. He really helped me out.”

  “The Chief. Helped you out,” Natalie repeated, trying to square Julia’s picture of a sensitive, openhearted “Reg” with the boss she knew.

  “Yeah, my line of work isn’t great for women. Especially, you know, dykes like me.” She shrugged. “Reg was kind of my champion.”

  Before Natalie could ask a follow-up question, a twenty-foot-long drone—a fucking military-grade drone—had come streaking through the sky, giving them “cover” for their escape.

  That’s when Natalie had realized ATN was spending a small fortune on this shoot. It was more elaborate than anything she’d ever been part of—in fact, more elaborate than almost any news story she’d seen outside an election, a tsunami, or maybe a wedding on a morning show. At her first local station, she’d been asked to limit her use of lights because the bulbs were so expensive.

  Leaning over her chair, Matt poked Natalie on the shoulder. “This is great. You’re—”

  “Stop talking.” Her eyes were fixed on the screen and, privately, she had to admit he wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t anything she would ever have put together, but it was kind of thrilling TV. If reporting actual information weren’t a consideration.

  The piece ended with a flourish, Natalie escorted away by a cordon of sixteen motorcycles. At the end of the spot, Natalie had appeared on camera explaining that all of what had been shown had been made up, hypothetical—ATN had no reason to believe the First Lady had been kidnapped. She’d tried to make that point as forcefully as possible.

  Still, as soon as the piece ended, the woman in the seat next to Natalie said, “So, who do you think kidnapped the First Lady?”

  Didn’t she hear me say it was hypothetical? Natalie thought, feeling something that approached panic but stopped short.

  “We made it all up,” Natalie said, trying to impress on her the meaning of hypothetical. “We don’t have any reason to believe that she’s been kidnapped.”

  Shooting Natalie a disapproving look, the woman said, “Please. You wouldn’t do a kidnapping story if you didn’t know something we don’t. Was it the Arabs? Or the Colombians?”

  Seeing the pointlessness of any counter argument, Natalie offered her a stiff sort of smile and said, “I sure wish we knew.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” the woman continued, as she glanced down to Natalie’s lap and back up. “Word of advice? You should button up that shirt. No one’s going to take you seriously if you don’t dress like a lady.”

  “Thanks for the feedback,” Natalie said, hoping she sounded cheery rather than homicidal.

  Matt’s hand appeared from around the back of her seat with a handful of Xanax. He mimed taking one. She didn’t even have to debate this. Natalie accepted the blue pills and swallowed one without water.

  She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, embarrassment warring with gratification. Natalie knew the proper reaction was to shake her head at the incredible waste of resources for the pretend news story that had just aired. Imagine if we’d poured all that time and money into investigating where FLOTUS really is, or figuring out what the Lystras are up to. But a part of her felt almost giddy at the network’s support for her story.

  “Excuse me.”

  Natalie opened her eyes to find the same woman pointing at the arm rest and glaring.

  “We’re supposed to share armrests.”

  Sitting up, Natalie silently fumed. You don’t approve of me and my sleep style? I don’t approve of the tuna fish sandwich you’re eating, so we’re even.

  Now too annoyed to sleep, Natalie grabbed her phone and opened her Twitter feed to see how the world was reacting to the piece. She read messages from strangers that ranged from You RULE to Stupid cunt, racy dating profiles, and a DM from a personal trainer offering to share his patented interval training workout guaranteed to thin your thighs. But the vast majority said some version of ATN reports FLOTUS was kidnapped. Who has her? There were at least five hundred tweets guessing where she’d been taken.

  Her phone buzzed with a text.

  MOM: Great story, dear! You looked more flirty than usual. Much improved.

  MOM: When do you get the ratings? Think they’ll be on TVBuzzster soon?

  Natalie searched her mind, trying to remember when she’d told her mother about TVBuzzster.

  She was about to check Ryan’s feed when she saw a text from the Chief’s personal cell. It was all emojis. Positive emojis.

  Excited in a hazy, buzzy kind of way, Natalie held the phone between the seats to show Matt. “That’s good, right? I mean they are all positive emojis.”

  Matt nodded. “I guess. I’d say the Chief is giving us two thumbs-up. Although that’s the only emoji he did not actually give you.”

  “I think he’s post-language,” she giggled.

  “I think you’ve had too many Xanax.”

  Ho ho, Matt was hilarious. But she had to admit he’d been right. Not about the Xanax but about how to fight Ryan. The straight hair, the push-up bra, letting someone else edit the piece, doing what the Chief wanted had paid off. Their segment had been terrible by the standards of journalism, but amazing TV by any other measure. And in her relaxed state, she was starting to see that maybe this wasn’t selling out. The truth is, she had to get people to like her, to care about her personally before they’d care about what she said on air. Once they were invested in her, Natalie, as a reporter, a character on TV, then they’d pay attention to her reports. Ryan had a platform. And if she kept playing by the Chief’s rules, she could, too. For the first time since the competition started, she felt like she was getting traction. She was on solid ground again and well on her way to...

  To what? she demanded of herself.

  Time will tell, her self responded as she closed her eyes and dozed off.

  THE EARLYBIRD™/ FRIDAY / 5:53 A.M.

  THE E-NEWSLETTER TRUSTED BY WASHINGTON'S POLITICAL ELITE

  Good morning, EarlyBirders™. Here are the morning’s need-to-know stories:

  EARLY EXCLUSIVE: A TOP WHITE HOUSE SOURCE, tells EARLYBIRD™ that the FIRST L
ADY is recovering from exhaustion at a SILENT RETREAT in New England. No ETA on her return. Anyone have a second source? A sighting? Email: earlytipster@theearlybird.com.

  Say, What? According to Condé Nast Traveler, Silence Tourism is “the latest in detox vacations.” Popular with Hollywood celebs, silent spas offer everything from “naptime” to “forest bathing.” We hope it’s working for you, Mrs. C!

  SONIA’S SUCCESS. Entertainment Weekly is calling Trafficked, Sonia Barbaro’s new film about a survivor of sex trafficking, a “mesmerizing study of a woman facing human depravity,” and lauds Barbaro for a “tour de force performance.” Do we smell an Oscar on the horizon? Film premieres this Friday.

  Spotted: Defrocked celebrity chef Mario Batali on hand at the Colombian embassy last night to serve his signature nacho meatballs to Rigo Lystra’s guests.

  **EarlySponsor™: GlobalCom’s™ TruHR™ Automated Human Resources. Giving Every Employee a Hearing, Every Employer Cost-Saving Strategies for Liability Protection.**

  21

  Into the Madding Crowd

  Natalie was in the collapsed back seat of a Lyft that, like a disturbing number of DC cars, smelled of food and sweat. But between the prospect of seeing James again and the text she’d gotten from Karima that afternoon—Darling, can’t wait to see you tonight. You’ll be the toast of the town!—she felt like a debutante riding to her coming-out ball.

  Did you really just think that? Debu—no. Just no.

  She felt like she’d been body snatched by a debutante.

  Better.

  Thanks to the kidnapping shoot, her FaceTwitSnapGram followers were through the roof: Instagram had doubled to 150,000 and Facebook was up to 850,000. The VOP hadn’t come out yet but the Chief seemed so pleased he’d sent her an email promising “more exciting surprises,” which augured well for her career if not her professional integrity.

  The car snaked up Massachusetts Avenue, a broad tree-lined street bordered by massive stone mansions, the Vatican embassy, the vice president’s residence, and the Cosmos Club where, she’d heard, they had a wall of photos dedicated to members who were on the postage stamp. The car started to slow.