Savage News

by Jessica Yellin

  Looking at Cronkite now, Natalie felt her chest go tight with sadness. At the memory, and at her consciousness of how far she’d strayed from her dad’s ideal. She had been nothing like dogged in pursuit of the truth, nothing like stalwart in the face of tyranny. Everything she’d learned tonight—about the Colombians and the pipeline—had been right in front of her all along. But she’d been so caught up competing, chasing scandal to advance her career that it had stopped her from chasing down the story that mattered.

  Well, that was going to change.

  Natalie looked back at James and flashed to an image of him shirtless, then chastised herself to focus on the business at hand.

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?” she asked. “Does everyone in DC know that Karima is from the GlobalCom family? Why doesn’t anyone talk about it?”

  James shrugged. “I suppose because it’s understood. And no one wants to do anything that would risk losing GlobalCom’s ad dollars.” He looked up and grinned at her. “Or the party invites.”

  “I only went to her party to develop sources,” she said defensively.

  “Okay.” He laughed, then looked back at the computer. “I’m going to try a couple other options, see if we can get another angle,” James said. “Want to come see this?”

  She felt a flush of warmth as she moved to stand beside him. After a moment, they were looking at crisp clean images of what appeared to be a body of water.

  “I’m not sure how much this will tell us, but this is a fleet of private satellites,” he said, pointing at the images. “You can’t move them, they operate in always-on mode. Still, we can get a time-lapse picture of what’s been happening the last few days in the ocean.”

  There was more tapping and James whistled. “Whoa. That’s crazy.” He pointed to a bunch of dots in the ocean. “You see these formations?”

  Natalie nodded yes.

  “So odd,” James repeated, almost to himself. He started typing, and over the satellite image, he pulled up a document. The title read, “US Naval Forces Southern Command, Fourth Fleet.” He started scrolling through documents. Finally he stopped on one.

  “SouthCom announced a MAGTAF last week,” James said steadily, as if this meant something to her. “They’ve got ships from the Fourth Fleet moving to SouthCom’s area of operations to conduct regional security training.” He gave her a puzzled look. “Strange, right?”

  She raised her eyebrows in surrender. “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “Oh sorry. Military speak. Basically it means we’re doing a naval training exercise in the Caribbean Sea. They’re moving some big ships there.” Now he toggled back to the satellite image. “You see the dots? They’re US ships. Surface ships. All stationed off the coast of Venezuela,” James said.

  “Okay,” Natalie replied, wondering at the implications.

  He hit a few keys and looked at the dots from a different angle.

  “I spent my childhood looking at maps of naval formations. I can tell you about amphibious assault ships, cruisers, destroyers. I grew up around this. And this here is a big deck amphibious assault ship. No way that’s there for a training exercise.”

  She looked back at the image. The dots were located just north of Maraicabo, the port city of Venezuela. “That seems unusual?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said emphatically.

  “Like it’s a little threatening?”

  “More than a little.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell followed by keys in the lock and two sets of feet walking upstairs.

  “I’ve never even heard of cashew crema, what on earth is that?” Natalie heard General Harding’s voice as he climbed the stairs.

  “It’s sauce made out of cashews instead of cheese,” Anne Harding replied.

  The couple emerged in James’s living room, carrying bags of takeout and dressed looking ready for dinner at the country club: crisp khakis, pressed golf shirts, blue for him, purple for her.

  “James, your mother is making us eat vegan,” General Harding declared, wearing the stern look of a grandfather who’d let you sneak ice cream when your parents went out.

  “It’s much better for your cholesterol,” Anne said, one hand holding her tote, the other on her hip.

  “VIMOM,” the general replied and headed for the kitchen.

  “What does that mean?” his wife called after him.

  “Vomiting in my own mouth. It’s what the kids say at my office.” The general gave Natalie and James a mischievous smile as he passed.

  Ignoring her husband, Anne walked to Natalie and leaned in to give her a light hug. She was elegant with high cheekbones, hair swept up in a tight bun and only small laugh lines to show for her sixty-plus years. “Lovely to meet you, dear. I’ve heard so much about you.” She smiled in a way that put Natalie at ease. “And I’m sorry about your terrible mix-up on television. Don’t worry, reporters get it wrong all the time.”

  The blood rushed to Natalie’s cheeks. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to her that James’s parents would be aware of her screwup. Now she was sure the Hardings must see her like something that had escaped from a petri dish. Behold the accursed woman who was transformed from rising cable star into cautionary tale in less than two weeks! Shame all that great hair is going to waste.

  “You know, you weren’t entirely wrong,” Anne continued. “Anita does have a drinking problem. Karima hosts her all over the world and any time Anita stays, she has to have the house cleared of everything. No liquor on the premises, not even wine!” She winked.

  Why did I leave the apartment? Natalie, wishing she could vaporize, shot James a look that said SOS.

  “Mom, let’s pick a new topic,” James suggested mercifully. He looked from his mom to Natalie and back before calling out, “Hey, Dad, would you check this out?”

  As Mrs. Harding moved to the kitchen, General Harding reemerged with a scotch in hand and offered Natalie a friendly handshake which she accepted, trying to mask her mortification. He moved to stand beside James and together they studied the image on the big monitor.

  “Well, look what you’ve found,” General Harding said finally.

  “Why do we have two littoral combat ships and an amphibious assault warship off the coast of Venezuela?” James asked his dad. “It looks like we’re preparing for an attack.”

  “Indeed,” his dad said, taking a swig of his scotch. “After the Rigo Lystra blowup last week, I thought we might be kinetic already, but reason has won out. So far.”

  Natalie blinked at the general, expecting him to take that back. Or call it a joke. Or declare it off the record.

  “Is this about the pipeline?” Natalie asked, alarms going off in her head. “The president wants the Venezuelans to hand over control to Colombia.”

  “And the Venezuelans are resisting, so we’re sending ships to make sure it happens,” James concluded.

  “Occam’s razor, my friends,” James’s dad said. “The most obvious explanation is usually the right one. Follow the money.”

  Natalie considered the half-a-trillion-dollar oil field. It’s hard to imagine a president going to war for oil, again. And in this hemisphere, she told herself.

  “But the US will get oil no matter who controls that pipeline,” James said. “Why are we siding with Colombia?”

  Natalie added, “And there’s no reporting about this anywhere.”

  The general took a sip of his scotch and smiled at Natalie. “I’m sure your friends in the press will take an interest just as soon as the Tomahawks start flying.” He let his voice trail off.

  Tomahawk missiles. How did I miss this story? Natalie thought.

  “Enough work,” Anne Harding called out. “Let’s eat dinner!”

  * * *

  For the family of a former deputy secretary of defense, the Hardings we
re surprisingly easy to be around. As they passed her vegan curry and asked about her mother’s wedding, Natalie smiled and nodded in all the right places, but her mind raced with everything she’d learned over the last few hours. She wanted to understand the timing and how the oil field related to Karima’s tips about the president. She needed some quiet to piece it all together.

  They were nearing dessert when Natalie’s phone rang. She let it go to voice mail. But the ringing started again and on the third round, she couldn’t take it anymore.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said apologetically. “I just want to check that. Could be my mom.”

  Walking into the next room, she raced to her phone.

  “You’re not going to believe this.” It was Matt, skipping the hello. “LXX is the Lystras.”

  “What?”

  “Twelve years ago the Lystras bought the president’s company, Sallee LLC. They hold it through LXX. I guess you could say they bought the president. And apparently own that oil field.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “With this info we can get you your job back,” Matt said.

  “What? No. I don’t think so,” she said reflexively. “I mean, the Chief won’t let us report something that happened last week, let alone twelve years ago. There’s no NOWness.”

  “Good point. Meet me at your place. We need to figure this out,” he said, hanging up.

  * * *

  Whenever a big story started coming together, Natalie found that if she let instinct lead her, she could almost intuit where she’d find the next puzzle piece. She began pacing James’s living room. Was it possible the president had been bought and paid for? That he was threatening war in the region as a make-good to an old investor?

  Thinking about the Lystras, the oil, the president, and Karima’s tip about Sallee LLC, Natalie flashed back to her lunch with Karima at the Bombay Club. What did she want me to know?

  The thought was a taunt, shaming her for her current predicament. There had to be another piece of information, something obvious. The challenge grew in her head and turned until she saw it again from another perspective. And the awareness burst on her like a compression grenade blowing the door off her prison.

  The words Anne Harding had used earlier came back to her. She’d said that whenever Karima had hosted the First Lady, she had to get rid of all the liquor. Everything, even the wine.

  Now Natalie remembered. At the Bombay Club, Karima had said the exact same thing when the delivery man had called. No deliveries, not even wine. I thought we explained. At the time Natalie had assumed Karima was emptying her house of liquor to entertain Muslim guests. But now she understood. Karima wasn’t hosting visitors from the Middle East. She was hosting a guest from the White House.

  Heart thudding, she reached for her cell phone and punched in Karima’s number.

  “Hi, Karima, it’s Natalie Savage,” she said as soon as voice mail picked up. “I’d like to talk to you about your houseguest. The sober one, staying at the Colorado house? Please call me back.”

  Electrified, she hung up. This time, she knew she was right. She had the story.

  “All good?”

  Natalie nearly jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t seen James come in.

  “Everything okay with your mom?” He flashed her that dimpled smile. “Or you just trying to sit out the tempeh spread?”

  Oh god, she thought with a sinking feeling. It was happening all over again. Either she could stay for dinner and for the night, triggering the endless dance of subtle dissatisfaction that would end in three to six weeks with him saying he didn’t think she was available for a relationship, and her saying no it was just her job. Or her desperation to get a job.

  Or she could end it now. Like a mature, considerate adult.

  “It was Matt on the phone,” she said feeling guilty. “He has a lead.”

  “Cool, come tell us about it.”

  “I can’t,” she said, almost a whisper. “I have to go.”

  “No, you don’t. You can relax and finish dinner,” he said warmly.

  She imagined how James would soon remember her. Selfish woman, used me for my satellite reading skills and my parent’s bad takeout.

  “James, let’s not do this,” she said. “I’m probably done here. I’ll be gone from DC in a few days.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Well. I’ve become kind of attached to your dog. I wouldn’t mind having a long-distance relationship with Cronkite.”

  Natalie laughed. “I wish the timing was different.”

  “You can make it different,” he said sincerely. “You don’t have to go.”

  As they looked at one another, she remembered kissing him and felt a rush of doubt. Maybe she was making a mistake. Maybe she should stay.

  “God, I know that look.” James laughed ruefully. “It’s how my dad looked when he explained why he couldn’t make my middle school soccer finals. Okay, I get it. You gotta go.”

  The words stung. He wasn’t going to fight for her.

  “I’d better take Cronkite with me,” she said, feeling her throat tighten. “I’ll have my sister, Sarah, come pick him up from my place.”

  He stood aside as she went into the next room, made her apologies to James’s parents, and rounded up Cronkite. When she returned, James was waiting by the door.

  She approached him, and standing close, he tipped her chin up. “It’s been nice getting to know you, Natalie Savage,” he told her, his thumb resting on her bottom lip. His eyes held hers for one perfect moment. Then he released her and said, “You’ll get your story, don’t worry. I just hope you get the happy ending, too. You’re worth it.”

  She was shaking when she led Cronkite down the stairs.

  30

  On Lies, Secrets, and Breaking the Silence

  Anita Crusoe was standing in front of the big picture window, on the phone, looking at the landscape without seeing it. Part of her had been expecting this call. Some part of her knew it had only been a matter of time.

  “Yes, I’m sure, Karima. Send her,” Anita said. “I’m ready.”

  When she hung up, she found Anthony standing in the doorway, and she answered the question that was written on his face. “One of the reporters figured it out. The pipeline, Colorado.” She let out a small laugh. “It’s the girl who said I was in rehab. Patrick’s games backfired.”

  “And what does Karima think you should do?” Anthony asked.

  “Oh you know Karima,” Anita said, making a sweeping gesture to indicate the Sahadis’ largesse. “She has homes in Gstaad, Tahiti, Oman, Costa Rica. She offered them all.”

  “I’ll pack.”

  She could tell he meant it, but it was silly and she laughed at the thought. “Really, should we go to Oman? And stay indoors for years so no one finds us?” She sucked in her breath and let out a slow exhale. “No, we’re not hiding. I told Karima to send the reporter here. I’m giving her an interview.”

  “Anita, you don’t have to do that,” Anthony said, his voice full of worry. “It’s not necessary.”

  “Yes. I want it out in the open,” she said. “I want to speak. It’s time.”

  THE EARLYBIRD™/ MONDAY / 5:49 A.M.

  THE E-NEWSLETTER TRUSTED BY WASHINGTON'S POLITICAL ELITE

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

  EMPTY PROVOCATION: That’s what Venezuela’s President Gomez calls the Lystra family accusations. “BamBam Lystra is using the scandal involving his son’s brutality to divert from the real issues.”

  NEUTRAL: That’s the White House posture, per Adam Majors: “This is a matter for Colombia and Venezuela to resolve. We won’t interfere in the business of sovereign states.”

  NO FLOTUS: Twelve days, three false reports, and still no word from the First Lady. Why? Why the silence? Your guess is
as good as ours!

  HAIRY SITUATION: Ultra-hot VIP stylist Osman Badem has settled a case with explosive allegations of pay discrimination and harassment. Three former employees say they’ll use the alleged six figure payout to open a rival salon, opposite the White House.

  **EarlySponsor™: GlobalCom™. Proud to Support Peace Strategies International. Diffusing Conflict and Crisis By Promoting Cross Border Cooperation In Difficult Times.**

  31

  The Art of the Score

  Natalie, Matt, and Dasha were alone inside the formal living room of Karima’s Colorado estate. Natalie thought it looked like a cross between a Swiss day spa and a carpet store. The floors were covered in overlapping Persian rugs while the rest of the place was a sea of off-white—bone-white furniture, cream ceilings, snow-white upholstery—which gave Natalie the anxious feeling she might accidentally open an artery and start bleeding over everything.

  At the moment she was perched at the edge of an overstuffed white chair, spitting on her hand and using the moisture to flatten out flyaways that were sticking up on the top of her head.

  “Flyaways are the surest way to ruin a good shot on TV,” she could hear Bibb say.

  Stop acting like a hostage, Bibb isn’t here to torture you, she told herself.

  But she’ll be watching, her self replied. No harm in looking good.

  Karima had called the night before to offer Natalie the interview. When Natalie had accepted it, she told Matt they would do it online. “We can livestream it on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, and there’s nothing Bibb can do to stop us.”

  And yet, for the last fourteen hours Natalie had been panicked that Bibb would somehow intuit the plan and ruin it. All night, during the four-hour flight here, and the two hour drive up the mountain, Natalie had imagined arriving at the house only to find Ryan, fresh off the elevator and ready to get started.

  So far, no sign of McChesty.