Chapter Twenty-One

Kishanna

 

Large, flat-screen televisions hung around the walls of the Post office. Each was tuned to a news channel, so reporters could see where they'd been scooped, or where they were ahead of the news. Kishanna reclined in her desk chair, watching the screens, waiting for the phone call she knew was coming.

Jesus, the science and tech reporters must be scrambling, she figured. Every channel was covering the environmental impact of the Canadian pipeline. Every channel was criticizing the Canadian government for allowing the line to be built. As she watched, a camera zoomed in on the White House. Huh. She might have known Silva would get in on this. Of course he would. He wouldn't want the pipeline to be built at all. Cheap, free-moving oil? That certainly didn't coincide with his interests. And of course he was going to be making a speech. Subtitles ran across the bottom of the screen.

“. . . unfortunate that our Canadian compadres don't find it important that there is a world for their children, and their children's children,” Silva was saying. “Unlike here in the United States, where our strict environmental protection laws are safeguarding the planet for our children.”

He was laying it on a little thick, Kishanna thought. But that was his style. Keep it simple; keep it short; make an impact. She assumed this media shit show was both designed and controlled by Silva and his people. Knowing what she knew about his interests, it only made sense. And it wasn't a bad plan, not at all. She saw the hand of Callahan, Silva's smart campaign manager-turned-chief of staff, in the idea. It was very Callahan. Make an issue so big that no one else could see the more important issue hiding behind it.

With scrutiny like this, she wondered how long the Canadian pipeline plan could last. Environmental agencies the world over would be wanting reports and data and to send scientists in to measure potential impact. The delays in the project would be costly, maybe costly enough to make the entire thing untenable. As she was wondering all this, her phone rang.

“Kishanna Hanson.”

“The Yards. Three o'clock.”

She sighed and put the phone down. She'd been hoping for a nice lunch, maybe a glass of wine, something on someone else's expense account for a change. But a walk in the park it would be. She settled back in to watch the rest of the news. There was plenty of time before her meeting.

 

***

 

The sun warmed her shoulders, and she set sunglasses on her nose against the glare of light on water. Casually, she strolled down the boardwalk. He'd join her when he arrived. In the meantime, she was actually enjoying being outside the office. Children laughed and played in the shallow water pools; harassed mothers, or more likely au pairs, tried to control their charges. It was a lovely day. It seemed almost a shame to spoil it with talk of corruption and misdeeds. Kishanna missed this. Missed her children being small enough that they wanted to do things with her. But then, she'd never really had time, even when they were little. She didn't regret the decision, though. Both of her kids had grown up knowing a strong female role model, and she was proud of that.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He was walking beside her. She hadn't heard his footsteps over the sounds of the park.

She didn't answer his question, instead posing one of her own: “Care to guess why we're here?”

They continued walking.

“Well, I'm thinking it's more than the usual tying up of loose ends,” he said.

“You might say it's payback time,” said Kishanna, watching the ground, seeing his shining black shoes.

For the last three years, she'd been cultivating this man. She'd done all he'd asked, and more. She'd alerted him of information that needed to be covered up, or if it couldn't be covered, that needed to be minimized. She'd fed him small crumbs of gossip. She'd bowed to the quotes he wanted used. Nothing big, nothing life changing. It was all a part of her job. Every journalist did it, and it wasn't immoral. This was a give-and-take business. But over time, all her work had added up, meaning that she was now owed a favor, and a big one. Of course he didn't have to come through, and she wondered whether or not he would in the end. But he was a smart man.

“What do you know?” he said.

They walked down the boardwalk and then around the park itself as Kishanna told him what she knew, what could be proven, who was talking, and who wasn't.

“The editors will let you print this?” he asked when she was done.

“This is potentially the biggest thing for the Post since Watergate,” she said. “I have no doubt they'll let me go to press. But you know as well as I do that I need confirmation. So, are you going to confirm? Or do I need to go around you and find someone else?”

“No names, no identifying features, no indication that it was me at all,” he said, his pace slowing slightly. “And no leaks. Ever. Understood? You know who I am and what I'm capable of, so let's be honest with each other right now. My name ever gets out there, and I'll know it came from you. And then I'll destroy you and your family. Clear?”

“Clear,” she said immediately.

The day was hot, and as they neared some trees, he steered her toward a low wall in the shade. They both sat. Kishanna took off her sunglasses.

“I confirm,” he said.

“Silva is using his position to profit himself and his allies?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Silva is using the military to forward his own interests and killing US citizens in the process?”

“Yes.”

She looked into his deep blue eyes. “I need more.”

“I'll get it to you,” he said. “Papers, quotes. You'll have what you need.”

“Damage control?” she asked.

He laughed. “I don't think anything is going to control this, do you?”

She tried to imagine why he was doing this, why he would give her this. Then she tried to put herself in his position—would she do the same? But she had no answers. Sure, he owed her, but he wasn't even putting up a fight.

“Why are you doing this?”

His blue eyes sparked.

“Because I have no choice. I failed. If you have this information, then so do others, or they will. If you can find this, so can anyone else. I've buried as much as I can, but things are spiraling outside of my control. I can't do this anymore.”

“So? Dig a little more; put the right spin on things. You don't strike me as the type to give up.”

“Do I not? You were the one that called me. You must have had some inkling that I'd do what you wanted,” he said. “But no, I'm not the type to give up. I am the type, however, to cut my losses. I've got what I wanted out of this situation; I'm a wealthy man. I can no longer keep on top of all this—I don't have enough fingers to plug the dyke, if you will. So I take what I can and then salve my conscience by talking to you, doing the right thing, coming through in the end.”

He wasn't looking at her, was looking out and over the river. Somewhere a child screamed, then dissolved into laughter. Kishanna didn't speak. She sensed he wasn't finished.

“Every man has his bottom line,” he said eventually. “Every man, no matter how immoral or evil or corrupt, has a weakness. Or would you call it a weakness? A small glimmer of the person they could have been if different choices had been made. Hitler was a vegetarian animal lover. Stalin eschewed luxury to the extent that he only owned one jacket. I am no different. I don't pretend to be a good man or a moral one. I've done what I had to do to further my own ends. But even I draw the line at some things.”

“And where did you draw the line?”

He turned his blue eyes to her. “I draw the line at beating women until they're bloody and screaming,” he said coolly.

She didn't know what to make of this. Now that he was looking at her, she could see he wasn't going to speak further on the matter. Whoever this woman was, whatever had happened to her, Kishanna silently thanked her. Her suffering had led the man to speak, and for that Kishanna was grateful.

“You'll have what you need by tomorrow morning,” he said, standing up.

“Thank you.”

He gave a short bow, turned, and walked away.

Kishanna sat in the cool, dark shade, hearing the children play and the water splash, and watching Michael Callahan disappear into the crowd.