“Traffic,” the driver said. “It’s that guy at the embassy. Everyone stopping to see the protests.”
Natalie knew it was a Washington cliché that political reporters resorted to polling drivers and doormen for “public opinion” because it was their only contact with blue-collar Americans, so she was working to resist the urge to ask the driver what he thought of Rigo, when he volunteered.
“I had a guy in the car the other day, from the State Department. He said the Colombians got something on the president. Maybe drugs? Sex with kids? Maybe video of sex with an animal? Something.”
Natalie nodded to be polite. She’d heard versions of this before. The car made a right turn onto a leafy residential street and crawled into a line of brake lights. Lincoln Town Cars and black SUVs with satellite antennae stretched in a line as far as the eye could see in front of them. No one else was in a silver Honda.
Note to self, she thought. Next time order the black car.
At the front of the line, one of a phalanx of valet attendants leaped forward to open her door. She looked up to see a sprawling brown Tudor Revival home that was either brand-new or very recently and aggressively renovated, complete with a perfectly trimmed faux English garden.
As she stepped onto the cobblestone walkway, she felt a sizzle race through her veins. She was about to parade into the epicenter of DC power. She was missing her mom’s rehearsal dinner, but any guilt she’d been feeling vanished.
Throwing her shoulders back, she envisioned herself cutting a path, unimpeded, into the house. In reality the cobblestones were so crowded with partygoers she found herself inching, rather than marching, into her future.
Making her way forward. Natalie caught a snippet of the conversation in front of her—
“I just started on an anti-obesity campaign for Nestlé. If that’s not a contradiction wrapped in a Hot Pocket.”
“At least when Nestlé buys your soul, they make it worth your while. I’m trying to get LipoGone FDA approval, and they don’t want to pay more than thirty a month. I mean, who does FDA approval for less than fifty?”
Natalie marveled at how precisely these people conformed to a certain Washington stereotype. Political insiders measuring their worth by the company they keep and the companies that, basically, keep them.
She turned and came face-to-face with Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg.
“Oh excuse me,” the justice said, stepping aside to make way for Natalie.
“No, you first. I insist,” Natalie said, wide-eyed, as she gestured for the judge to pass.
She was gaping in her wake when Matt materialized at her side. “Jesus, don’t eye fuck Ruth Bader Ginsberg,” he said.
She hadn’t considered the possibility Matt would be here, but she was too starstruck to care. “This is amazing,” she gushed, nearly giggling with delight as she watched Justice Ginsberg walk away from her. She could still smell her perfume.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I’m great,” Natalie enthused, spying her personal reporting heroine, Dana Bash, getting out of a car. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”
“Oh sad, you thought you’d be the only reporter invited?” He looked at her, feigning pity. “I was White House correspondent for Beltway before I became your Svengali, remember?” His tone shifted to worried older brother. “Can we be serious for a moment? You know you are about to physically enter the belly of the beast. You’re walking into the actual echo chamber. You have to be chill. You can’t embarrass yourself in there.”
“Got it,” she said and, shivering, nudged Matt forward.
They reached the entrance and Matt pushed open the door. Natalie stood at the edge of the vestibule, gaping.
The wall of sound hit her first, then a smell that reminded her of something from the past, the scent of—
“Is that teriyaki?” she asked aloud as they stepped into the foyer.
The scene confronting her was not at all what she’d expected. This was no sedate gathering of aging elected officials and policy analysts trading favors over canapés and champagne with chamber music in the background. It was more like a frat party for homely drunk accountants. Meatloaf was belting out, “I’ll do anything for love,” while men in rumpled suits and women with frizzy hair were screaming to be heard over the music. And of course there was the teriyaki smell.
“Intense, right?” Matt hollered over the din, once they were inside. “The political establishment, legacy media, influence peddlers, and Professional-Know-It-Alls-R-Us!” He extended his arms wide. “Welcome.”
It was a lot to take in. Every other person was vaguely familiar: a member of Congress, a spokesperson, a pundit. Then Natalie started to pick out faces deeply familiar: Wolf Blitzer, John Dickerson, Katy Tur. DC’s most famous reporters were everywhere.
Matt led the way into a living room wallpapered in deep red, watermarked silk fabric. Tucker Carlson—and she felt slightly overwhelmed—Chris Matthews—like she was getting smacked in the face with the heat and noise of hundreds of people’s ambition on the move. Gloria Borger, Bret Baier, Andrea Mitchell, Nicolle Wallace, Dana Perino, Judy Woodruff, Kasie Hunt, Hallie Jackson, Jeff Zeleny.
This was the DC version of the champagne room—Newt Gingrich—the VVIP section inside the VIP section—eeew, Newt Gingrich?—the secret lounge inside the first-class lounge, the place where DC power players went to let their hair down. It was like being upgraded from American Airlines to Emirates, only with bad food.
Never, never think of Newt Gingrich and the champagne room at the same time again, she admonished herself.
Matt broke away, giving her the universal pantomime for I’m finding the bar, leaving her on the threshold of the next room. Clearly this party was not dry.
She began to catch snippets of the conversations around her for the first time. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about Rigo.
“The neighbors are freaking out. The music goes all night.”
“He had the chef from Nobu in to cook for the whole embassy!”
“I was there!”
“Oh shit, check this out,” a woman in a Tory Burch dress shouted, holding up her iPhone for the group around her to see. Like dancers in a ballet, they all lifted their iPhones in unison and began nodding as they read the latest alert.
Following suit, Natalie found an AP alert that read, Sonia Barbaro gives statement on arrival at Los Angeles premiere.
According to the Associated Press, Barbaro had just arrived at the LA premiere of Trafficked and given a statement expressing support for other victims of sexual violence. She said, in part, “We do not need to hide any longer.”
“My Humps” began blasting from the sound system. The group started yelling over the strains of Fergie singing about her lady humps.
“Strong statement!”
“Anyone know if they have this on camera?”
While tapping on their screens.
Natalie was awestruck. After reporting for four networks in six cities over twelve years, working the overnights, the early mornings, the all-nighters, she was, at last, covering breaking news with the nation’s elite political reporters. Fergie extolling the powers of the junk in her trunk only slightly diminished the profundity of the moment.
There was no telling how long Natalie would have stayed riveted in place if Matt hadn’t materialized and broken the spell. “You need to do something about your face.”
“What specific thing is wrong with it now?”
“The expression. It’s like you’ve dropped twenty points off your IQ since we walked in the door. You really need—”
She knew Matt was still speaking but she had no idea what he was saying because at that exact moment, James appeared. He was heading toward her but still hadn’t spotted her. She watched as the crowd parted effortlessly around him, his eyes scanning the room. She was su
pposed to meet him here at eight. Was it already eight? He clocked her and broke out into a broad smile.
“Hello, Natalie Savage.” When he stood in front of her, she felt like the school nerd meeting the varsity football star in a teen romance. How is it possible he is here for me?
“Hi,” she answered, aware that she was grinning in the way that her mother said made her cheeks look fat.
“Are you listening to me?” Matt demanded.
“No,” she said, without looking at him. “James, this is my producer, Matt.”
Matt shot Natalie a disgusted look. “You invited a date, seriously? This isn’t a sorority mixer. You can’t have dead weight here.” He gave James a once-over. “No offense.”
“None taken,” James smiled, seemingly amused.
“If you want my advice, make this a catch and release,” Matt said to James, still assessing him. “She doesn’t have time for a relationship.”
Natalie’s mouth opened but no sounds came out.
“You undersold him,” James laughed. “Hard-bitten doesn’t do him justice.”
Folding her arms, Natalie scowled at Matt. “I think you’re wanted in the other room, urgently.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah? What are you going to give me to go away?”
“What do you want? A bone, a tennis ball, a dried pig ear?”
“Keys to the minibar next time,” he said, crossing his arms.
“Done,” she agreed.
“Ha-ha, I was going anyway!” Matt snickered. To James, he said, “Nice knowing you. Good luck.”
As he disappeared into the crowd, Natalie looked up at James. “I’m sorry, he’s—”
“Protective of his talent. I get it.” James smiled, looking down at her.
Natalie felt her breath catch and got lost for a moment in his green eyes.
Before she could think of something witty to say, the scent of wood chips burnt with rose wafted over, bringing her back to the moment. She knew only one person who could afford that custom blend and she turned now to see Karima’s thin body slip easily through the crowd. Her hostess’s cheeks were even more sunken, her cheekbones even sharper than when they’d met.
Karima sashayed toward them and reached for Natalie, pantomiming a double cheek kiss. “Natalie, I’m delighted to see you looking so well!” She seemed truly happy.
Then she spotted James and her eyes lit up. “James! Darling! I’m so glad to see you here.”
“Aasaˉ’ al-khayr,” James said, leaning in for an air-kiss with Karima. “Tabdeena alyawma jmeelatan jeddan.”
Natalie did a double take. James knows Karima? And he speaks Arabic? Suddenly she was gripped by the fear that she was on a date with a spy.
Karima turned to Natalie, explaining, “James’s mother, Anne, is one of my absolute closest friends in the world.” She faced James. “How is she? I owe her a call, I’ve just been so...” Karima made a big sweeping gesture to indicate the maelstrom that was her social life.
“She’s doing well, feeling strong,” James said. To Natalie, he explained, “My mom has MS. But she’s got it under control.”
“Ah, you’re together!” Karima breathed out a feminine little giggle. “Nicely done, my boy,” she said, putting her two hands around James’s biceps. Then she leaned in toward Natalie, swallowing her in a cloud of smoky roses. “Very good work. This one is a dreamer. And from an important family. Everyone loves the Hardings.”
It was no secret to Natalie that DC was a town filled with VIPs, which meant that if you met a guy in a coffee shop mere blocks from the White House, it stood to reason he might be from an Important Family. But it hadn’t occurred to her that James was some kind of DC elite.
Realizing Karima was smiling at her, expectantly, Natalie recognized an opening and leaned in to whisper, “I followed up on your tip. The company you suggested I research, Sallee LLC? I’m afraid I hit a dead end. Is there anything else you can tell me about it?” She kept her eyes on Karima’s, measuring her reaction.
“Shh shh.” She held a single finger up to her lips. “We will discuss it another time. For now, remember this.” Leaning in just a touch closer, she murmured, “It is never too late to be wise.” As she pulled back from Natalie, she winked.
What does that mean? Natalie just barely avoided blurting the question out loud.
One of Karima’s staff appeared and put a large arm across her back. “Mrs. Sahadi, Senator Jacobs is asking for you. He’s by the bar—” And the arm pulled Karima into the crush of people.
Natalie stared at the space where Karima had been with a sinking feeling. It’s never too late to be wise. Is that the polite version of try harder? She was pretty sure Karima had just told her to step up her game.
The truth is, she hadn’t dedicated very much energy to researching Sallee LLC.
A simple search had revealed that Sallee LLC was incorporated in Belize, using a secretive structure familiar to her from her days assisting her dad on some of his more complex cases. Online she’d found a data search company that, for fifty bucks, pulled and scanned the company’s incorporation documents. That paperwork had arrived by email and showed that Sallee LLC had been formed in 2003 by someone named Jon Torres. In 2005, Torres had transferred Sallee LLC to another firm that was now out of business. There was no working contact information for anyone.
When she’d Googled Jon Torres, it’d returned more than twelve million results in half a second and, worse, it seemed as though he was the board director for more than five thousand other companies in Belize. Even if she could speak to him directly, the chances he’d remember this one company were minimal. She had no idea what Sallee LLC did or who owned it.
Now she felt guilty she hadn’t dug further. You’re definitely becoming an elevator person, she thought. It’s never too late to be wise, she repeated in her head as she stared at the space where Karima had just been.
“So, what was that all about?” James was watching her with a kind of benign interest. As she met his green eyes, she forgot all about Karima and her obscure tips.
Natalie put her hands on her hips. “More important, Mr. Harding, you speak Arabic! Are you CIA, undercover Rangers, Mensa?”
“Definitely not the last one,” James laughed. “I only know how to say about ten phrases in Arabic. Mostly ‘you look beautiful’ and ‘more red, please.’ My dad was stationed in UAE for a few years when I was in high school, so I learned some phrases.”
Ah, military. That explained his good manners, too. “What branch is your dad in?”
“Navy. Was,” James shifted and looked slightly apologetic. “But now, he’s a player in what your friends in the media would call the military profiteering complex.”
“He’s a defense contractor?” Natalie translated.
“Close, he’s a consultant,” James corrected.
“And your mom?”
“She sits on some boards. Her MS is getting advanced.” For the first time the playful look in his eyes was gone. “That’s why I live in DC. So I can help out.”
Cute, smart, loves his family and interested in you? One hundred percent chance that he is a serial killer.
“How long has your mom been sick?”
“It was diagnosed about fifteen years ago. But she can still do a lot of activities. She’s in a walking group with Karima.” A flutter of discomfort passed over James’s features and he added, “I think theirs is a pretty transactional friendship.”
“Like all DC relationships,” Natalie laughed.
“Not all,” James said, looking her in the eyes. “I hope.”
As the words penetrated, the room seemed to shrink around Natalie and her face felt hot. “I hope so, too,” she said quietly, surprised by her own bravery.
She looked up into James’s eyes and the party went quiet around her. Closing the distance between them
, he said, “Do you want—?”
But his eyes moved and he broke off when Natalie felt a tug on her arm.
Glancing in the direction of the tug, she saw a very tall, very blond young woman in a sleeveless hot pink dress, her bra straps showing on the sides. It was the morning show anchor, Jazzmyn Maine, looking like the star of a Mommy-and-Daddy-screw-the-babysitter porno.
Don’t judge, Natalie’s mind scolded as she struggled not to give the woman’s nearly naked body a visible once-over.
“Jazzmyn,” Natalie said. And remembering Karima’s words—women here stick together—she tried to sound warm. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” the girl said excitedly. “I wanted to ask your advice.” Her eyes flicked from Natalie to James and back. “Can I have a minute alone?”
“No problem, I’m parched,” James said. “I’ll go to the bar. What can I bring you?”
“Water, and thanks,” Natalie said with a look that she hoped conveyed don’t-take-too-long.
Facing Jazzmyn, Natalie couldn’t help but glance at her bra straps, which were basically screaming look at me!
You should be thrilled she’s body positive, her empowered inner voice reminded her. Ryan wears less to work.
Please, this isn’t progress, it’s pandering, her inner Noreen snapped back. Doesn’t she have a mother?
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you how much I admire you,” the high-wattage morning show host was saying. “I think you do such good work and have such a good reputation and people respect you and—”
Natalie zoned out while Jazzmyn continued with what she assumed, from experience, was the gratuitous flattery that comes before a totally inappropriate request. She could only imagine what Jazzmyn wanted from her. The secret email address for the White House chief of staff? Help booking an exclusive with the president? Elevator people had a habit of asking for the easy route and getting it.
“So I was wondering how you think I should approach this,” Jazzmyn said. “I mean, if you were in my position.”
Savage News Page 20