A line appeared between Karima’s brows as she frowned with confusion. After a beat she gave another trill of laughter. “Oh. No, I did not mean—” She laughed a little more, then wiped her eyes. “Pardon me. No, I was not suggesting you use your female charms in the bedroom. Although, there are, of course, the network executives.” Karima sighed. “The men in New York, they like to date the female staff in Washington and Chicago. Bureaus they can visit away from their wives. Do you golf? They like to take the girls to ‘corporate golf tournaments.’ This way they can expense it.” She winked. “And Bibb would be powerless to stop it.” For a moment Karima studied Natalie. “But no. I do not think you have what it takes to make it that way.”
Where Natalie should have felt indignation and pride, she was instead overcome by a gaping vacuum of insecurity. She forced a laugh and said, “I guess I don’t really have the looks for that. Or the lingerie.”
Karima smiled. “I was thinking more you don’t have the stomach for it. I wouldn’t worry about the looks. Several of the men in the restaurant got cricks in their neck watching you when you walked in.” She shook her head. “No, it is better the other way. You rely on our network.”
“Your network?” Karima made it sound like a spy organization.
“Of women. In this town, the women help one another,” Karima confided with a smile.
Bibb must not have gotten that memo, Natalie thought.
“Of course, not all of them,” Karima added, as if reading Natalie’s mind. “Your Bibb for example. She doesn’t play well with other women. She only helps herself. But others...” Karima pointed across the room to a woman with a neck like a goose and short salt-and-pepper bobbed hair. “You see over there? That is Helen Cay.”
Helen Cay needed no introduction to Natalie. She was one of the most respected political reporters in town.
“Seven years ago, she was hired from radio to cover Congress for network TV, but the executives in New York refused to put her on air. They said she was too ugly. Of course they knew what she looked like when they’d hired her.” Karima made a gesture to convey the absurdity of this world. “The female senators she’d been covering for years saw what was happening and started feeding her stories, turning down interviews with anyone else. Left with no choice, the network eventually put Helen on air. Now they say she will get the Sunday show as soon as the anchor chair opens up.”
Karima shifted, turning her gaze to an Indian woman in a bright blue silk blouse. “That’s Carla Jacobs, one of the top lobbyists for the tech industry. Three female clients put her back in business when her husband ran off with the masseuse. Apparently he’s since contracted an STD.” She gave a mischievous wink. “Chasing youngsters comes with its risks.”
Natalie flashed back to the moment she’d met Karima, and the feeling of secret sisterhood she’d felt at Salon Badem. She loved the idea that there might be an alternate hidden power structure in DC, one that let women like Helen Cay and Carla Jacobs wend their way around the obstacles that faced them. One to which Karima was offering her access.
“I would like very much if you could join me at my home for a cocktail party next Friday night,” Karima said as she reached for her phone and started typing. “You will receive an invitation from my office. I’ve just asked them to email you.” She placed her phone on the table and smiled warmly. “There will be many wonderful people for you to meet there. I will introduce you.”
“Why are you helping me?” Natalie blurted, the question finally too loud in her head to hold in. “I know there are reporters who can give you more for a lunch than I can.”
Karima didn’t hesitate before answering. “I am helping you because you will owe me.” She looked Natalie full in the eye and unapologetic. “And I am helping you because you are young and new and smart. You will figure this town out and I want to be among the first on your team. I require friends in the press and you will remember the people who helped you at the beginning.”
“But I don’t cover the energy sector. Or foreign policy. I really won’t be able to report on oil,” Natalie explained, wishing it were otherwise.
“You needn’t report on my world to be helpful!” Karima said, looking amused. “I have many friends from the White House, Congress, the business world, always looking for a way to place information. I help them reach you, they help me reach my goals.” She smiled warmly. “Everyone wins.”
“And what are your goals?” Natalie asked.
Karima smiled in a genuine way that made creases at the corners of her eyes.
“I like that you ask this. Many wouldn’t. You are a good reporter.”
Karima’s cell phone, sitting on the table, began to buzz. When Natalie glanced at the screen, it read Jimmy’s. Apologizing, Karima answered the call impatiently.
“Goodness, no!” she cried. “All of it must be out until I say so. No deliveries, not even wine. I thought we explained. Nothing at all.” She paused. “Yes, the whole wine cellar. Dry.” She hung up the phone, shaking her head. “I am trying to rid my house of alcohol. It’s impossible to leave anything to others. Is it so difficult to understand what ‘all of it’ means?”
Until now, it hadn’t occurred to Natalie how strange it must be for Karima Sahadi, a Muslim, to play the part of American hostess while following Islamic law. Did she have to have a dry house always, she wondered, or just when she entertained Muslim guests. That had to be complicated.
Karima’s eyes went to Natalie’s plate. “You have not touched the food. You do not like it?”
Embarrassed, Natalie glanced at Karima’s plate and saw that it was still bare. She hadn’t even taken any food. Apparently she wasn’t one of those women who pretended they could eat anything they wanted and still keep a waiflike figure. She just avoided food altogether. In a twisted way, it endeared her to Natalie. Maybe this meant Karima made her moves in the open, Natalie thought, and didn’t engage in elaborate pretend.
“It looks delicious, I’m just—I feel a bit overwhelmed,” Natalie answered candidly.
Karima smiled at her with understanding. “Washington, DC, can feel unnerving at first. It appears to be a place of much guile, but really it is very simple.” She gestured to the room. “Here’s what you should know. Everyone here wants more power. Mostly power comes through access. Of course, with money, too. You ask my job? My job is to be a fulcrum, the delicate point that maintains balance. Between the US and the Arab world, between my friends who are sometimes enemies with one another. If the balance is overturned, hurt feelings can become a tantrum. From spark to fire in no time.”
“All relationships here are transactional,” Natalie said, more as an observation than a question.
For a moment Karima seemed distracted, lost in thought. “You remind me of Anita when she and Patrick first got to DC. He had been preparing for it for years. But she—she was still surprised at how things worked.” She shook her head, withdrawn. “Poor Anita.”
At the mention of the First Lady, Natalie perked up. She understood that Karima was name-dropping, her relationship with the First Lady was likely no less transactional than all other DC relationships. Still any insight was valuable.
“You know, I urged her to stay with him. I told her they are good together,” Karima said.
“So, she did leave him?” Natalie asked, on alert. “Are they separating?”
Karima tensed. “I meant early on, when they were still dating. We’ve known them for years. Raheem worked with Patrick in his mineral and gas days, before he made his money.” She sighed and her eyes became slightly unfocused. “They were perfectly matched. Her beauty, his drive. And Patrick was a good friend.” She shook her head and her gaze became direct again. “His speech in Dubai was a deep disappointment. You know about it, of course? Dismissing years of alliance between the US and the Middle East. It’s put a real strain on the relationship, as you might imagine.” She
frowned. “And now he sits by as Anita’s good name and reputation are slandered. It’s astonishing he’s doing nothing about it!”
“In fairness, the First Lady hasn’t pushed back either,” Natalie said, seeing an opportunity to get information. “Why do you think she isn’t appearing in public and answering reporters’ questions? She could just tell us who this guy is. It’d be really easy for her to put this to bed.” She stopped when she realized that might not sound good. “I mean, put this whole thing behind her.”
She was relieved to see Karima chuckle. “Why should she come out and show herself? If she were to state the truth, she would be disbelieved, attacked—by the press, by the public. Surely by Washington. Too much truth makes you a threat. No, they would ruin her reputation beyond what we’ve seen.” She paused, as if she was trying to convince herself. “No. The White House should be expressing outrage. Her husband should defend her. That would, as you say, put it to bed.”
Natalie leaned forward. “You’re convinced she’s not having an affair?”
“This is silliness.” Karima waved her hand.
“But the video,” Natalie said. “It might not prove an affair, but it certainly suggests it. Do you have any idea who leaked it?”
Karima shifted in her seat. “These are good questions. But as you know, the public story is so rarely the real one. Like with your little Ryan getting his scoop. Ask yourself who stands to benefit from that tape? From making it? From leaking it?”
“I don’t know,” Natalie said, feeling frustrated with herself.
“Not yet,” Karima said. “But you are smart. And if you keep your ears open, you will.”
After a moment of consideration, Karima added, “Here’s a bit of a head start. Perhaps you will do me a favor? Look into a company called Sallee LLC. You can remember that name? Let me know what you find.”
“Do you have a—?” Natalie was interrupted when her cell phone started to jump. Bibb.
Glancing apologetically at Karima, she answered it.
Bibb was speaking before Natalie finished saying hello. “An aide from the First Lady’s office was overheard on his cell phone at a Starbucks. He said the First Lady is in St. Tropez. You’re on a 3 p.m. flight out of National Airport. Get there ASAP.”
Natalie’s heart soared. Breaking news—and a trip to the French Riviera. Score!
Karima took it well. She stood and kissed Natalie on both cheeks. Right before they parted, she whispered. “Sallee LLC. Don’t forget.”
THE EARLYBIRD™/ TUESDAY / 6:34 A.M.
THE E-NEWSLETTER TRUSTED BY WASHINGTON'S POLITICAL ELITE
Good morning, EarlyBirders™. Here are the morning’s need-to-know stories:
BREAKING NEWS: STAFFER OVERHEARD—FLOTUS FLEES TO FRENCH RIVIERA—WHITE HOUSE PANICKED—IS THIS A RUNAWAY WIFE?
Situational Awareness: An EarlyBird™ Timeline of FLOTUS Developments
*8 Days Ago: First Lady a No-Show at Summit Dinner
*4 Days Ago: Video Surfaces of FLOTUS with Mystery Man
*1 Day Ago: Late Word Leaks FLOTUS on Escapade in St. Tropez
*This Morning: No White House Comment, No First Lady Sightings
Networks will be live from St. Tropez’s white sand beaches all day.
¡ATENCIÓN! With 21-year-old Colombian party boy Rigo Lystra still in hiding, Venezuela’s president tells the Washington Post the situation is “ridículo.”
HOLLYWOOD LOVES SONIA: Lystra’s accuser, Venezuelan actress Sonia Barbaro, set to arrive in US this week. Her prize winning film Trafficked premieres in Los Angeles, Friday.
**EarlySponsor™: GlobalCom™ Is Proud to Support the Union of Latin American Nations. In Times of Crisis, ULAN Boosts Regional Cooperation for Peace and Stability.**
16
The Cameraman and the Sea
Natalie sat motionless in a desk chair in front of the muted TV in a room at the Miami Beach Hampton Inn, longing for at least twenty minutes of uninterrupted silence. She was tired of all the voices, including her own. The last time she’d been by herself was in a stall at the Miami airport bathroom seventeen hours earlier. Now she found herself fondly recalling the comparative quiet of flushing toilets and Dyson hand driers.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of Nelly Jones’s voice, suddenly at full volume, asking, “How would a White House divorce work? We’ll tell you, tonight. 10 p.m. Eastern on TalkTalk Live.”
Opening her eyes, Natalie looked at Matt, seated next to her. He was gripping a remote control which was wrapped in a plastic bag.
Eyeing the baggie, she tried not to giggle.
“What?” Matt asked, spinning toward her. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m glad to see you’re taking precautions with the remote control. Are you practicing safe TV set?”
“The hotel remote control is a biological petri dish. Touching it would expose me and everyone around me to near-certain contagion.” He said holding the plastic-covered device up for her to see. “The front desk was kind enough to provide this remote control sanitation option and I feel it is prudent to use it.”
“Is bag from ice bucket,” Dasha said from her chair by the camera. “Maybe used. For sure not clean.”
Matt squinted at her and went back to the TV.
“I smoke,” Dasha said, exiting the room.
Natalie, Matt, and Dasha had been holed up in the ground floor suite at the Miami Beach Hampton Inn, “Where Breakfast Is On Us! And The Fun Is On YOU!” for seventeen of the longest hours of her life.
This was not what Natalie had expected when she’d boarded the flight out of DC the prior afternoon. At the airport they’d received a call from a What Girl: “You’re ticketed to go to Miami on the 3 p.m. flight.”
Foolishly leaning on logic, Natalie had attempted to clarify, “You mean St. Tropez, right?”
This prompted the What Girl to scoff, “No. Bibb says you’ll be out of position if we send you to St. Tropez. Plus it’s too expensive. We got you a hotel not far from South Beach.”
The words hit Natalie like a noxious cloud. All her journalistic instincts told her to run. Flee. Get on a flight to St. Tropez where she’d find the real story about FLOTUS and career oxygen. But Dasha was on the phone lining up a rental car and Matt, maneuvering his roll-y bag with one hand and a Starbucks and his cell phone with the other, announced that the control room needed them live on air from Miami ASAP. She took a deep breath—better get used to this—and followed Matt’s roll-y bag through the terminal.
They’d arrived at the Hampton Inn just before 6 p.m. and made their way to suite 155 which was decorated with matching comforter, drapes, and upholstery in a motif that could best be described as monkeys having sex.
Instantly Dasha had swung into gear. In a feat bordering on genius, she’d removed a pane of glass from the window, instructed the satellite truck to back up right outside, then she’d run cables from the truck through the empty window frame, hooking them up to the lights and camera inside. By 6:45 p.m., Dasha had positioned Natalie on top of a stepladder, which meant that on camera all you could see was Natalie’s torso against a dusk backdrop of the sand and darkening sea beyond.
“Is how we do in Irbil,” Dasha had explained as she was setting up the camera. Gesturing to the windowless indoor set, she’d said, “Is safer from shrapnel.”
Natalie understood that reporting from the Miami Beach Hampton Inn was a bad idea, a news disaster waiting to happen. It might lead viewers to believe she was reporting from St. Tropez, which would be a lie. It also might cause her to tumble three feet off a stepladder onto the floor of a Hampton Inn while live on TV. One of these fears was confirmed when, during her first live shot, the anchor tossed to her, saying, “We go to our Natalie Savage, live from St. Tropez.”
As soon as the camera was off, she’d called the news desk. “We’ll get crucified when
people figure out we’re in Miami. Can you imagine the item they’ll write in TVBuzzster?” she’d moaned to Hal on the phone. “Would you please get me reassigned to St. Tropez where the story is actually happening?”
“You’re right. We can’t mislead viewers,” Hal replied, followed by, “So I will personally make sure the anchors never again say where you are. Everyone is good with it,” he assured her. Implying she should be, too.
A tingle of apprehension shot down her spine. Before getting off the phone, he advised her to disable the location settings on her Facebook and Twitter apps.
“In fairness, we’re not misleading anyone,” Matt said. “As long as they don’t say you’re in St. Tropez, we’re in the clear. It’s on viewers if they assume you’re in Europe.”
“Great. I’ll remind my credibility of that when it’s taking a beating in a dark Twitter alley,” Natalie said, wondering whether it was a coincidence that the very characteristic for which the Chief had praised her—her credibility—was being tested by Bibb.
The more she thought about it, the more it seemed deliberate. Now her mind was stuck in a loop, playing out the dual admonitions she seemed to get from everyone in the business. “Be a team player” and “beat them at their own game.” Did no one notice that the two things were at odds?
Her stomach grumbled and she realized she hadn’t eaten in forever. She glanced at the clock. 11:35 a.m. Well past breakfast time, for normal people. In her current world, nice distinctions like breakfast and lunch had simply become a question of Doritos or Cheez-Its.
Natalie’s phone buzzed and she welcomed the distraction, until she saw who it was.
MOM: Hi, dear. I was away from the TV for the last 20 minutes. Were you on again?
MOM: Judging by the bags under your eyes, I think you might have blocked sinuses. Am I right? Maybe you want to do a steam in the shower, it will loosen your mucus.
MOM: When you’re home for the wedding, I’ll give you a saline rinse for your sinuses.
Savage News Page 15