It was several weeks before Klay was invited back to the tenth floor to meet Eady’s replacement. He stepped off the oak-paneled elevator and was met by a glass wall. In the middle of the wall was a door with a metal handle. He pulled, but it was locked. The PGM security badge he reluctantly wore around his neck—one of many recent changes—did not seem to work, either.

A digitized female voice said, “Please look in the direction of the light. Speak your full name clearly.” A red light appeared. Klay scowled at it and said his name. He pulled on the door handle. Locked. A moment later a thin young man wearing a wireless headset appeared. He opened the door and introduced himself as Timothy, Ms. Reif’s personal assistant. “Sorry, you’re not fully in the system yet,” Timothy said. He wore a slim-cut light blue suit, narrow tie, and shiny black Australian boots. Klay followed him inside.

“I have Tom Klay,” Timothy said to his headset.

Eady’s labyrinth had been replaced by what looked like an Apple Store, a hive of hip young people moving among white desks topped with oversized computer monitors. On two walls enormous flat-screen monitors depicted a range of digital activity in real time. The Sovereign’s web pages were up on one, with graphs measuring followers, story impressions, engagements, likes, comments. Six more screens delivered news from dozens of other Perseus Group Media platforms. An electronic news ticker at ceiling level wrapped the room in green, like a neon anaconda.

Timothy opened a glass door. Sharon Reif rose from her desk. A politician was Klay’s first thought. A TV news anchor. It was the razor-cut blonde hair set against black rectangular glasses. The instant, star-like self-assurance. “Tom Klay. Finally!”

Reif presented her hand half cupped, no thumb extended, as if she had a small bird she wanted to pass to him. Klay accepted her hand, then didn’t know what to do with it. He held it for a moment and released it.

She wore an impeccably tailored cream suit, an Apple Watch, and a well-manicured smile. Her posture, Klay noticed, was as impossibly erect as Eady’s.

Reif gestured toward her sofa. In place of Eady’s worn brown leather couch was a spotless white upholstered sofa with a chrome frame, bookended by armless white chairs.

She took a seat in one of the chairs and crossed her legs. Klay sat on the sofa, but found the seat too deep for him to sit back.

“How are you, Tom?”

He perched at the sofa’s edge. “I’m good.”

“Good is good.” She leaned forward and patted his knee. “Did they catch the poachers?”

“From Kenya? No, not yet.”