“Man, we want to know,” Ryan continued on behalf of all of them. “What’s it like up there? How you doing?”

Rigo began describing the hospitality of the wonderful embassy staff.

Natalie turned to Matt. “How did he get this interview?”

“Oh, grasshopper, you must understand, for a man who is willing to do anything, there are always many doors open,” Matt said.

“Or for a correspondent with an ace producer,” Natalie shot back.

Matt was unmoved. “Don’t look to me. Look at you,” he said, gesturing to her body. “I want to get my news from a girl who looks like she takes her style cues from the Shapeless and Rumpled Catalog, said no one ever.” Matt’s eyes got hard. “You have to look like someone worth listening to in order to get the attention of people worth talking to. No one is going to spill high-quality dirt to someone who won’t be able to get it in front of an audience.”

Dasha made a clicking noise with her tongue and frowned at Matt. “Do not listen to him.” The camerawoman’s eyes focused on the television with an expression Natalie would not have wanted turned on herself. “You will do better. I hate the fake bozos. Matthew, what do we know of Greasy?”

“Not Greasy, Mc—” Matt cut himself off. “Anyway, that’s mine. I want credit if you use it. And I prefer Matt to Matthew, Matthew is the name...” His voice trailed off under Dasha’s stare.

On screen now, McGreasy was telling a story about Rigo’s love of basketball and how successful he’d been with his brackets three years running.

Around the room, computers began emitting a high-pitched beep. Soon the whole newsroom was chirping with the sound of an urgent AP news bulletin:

URGENT

Washington, DC—First Lady photographed with Colombian strongman Carlos Lystra. A photograph appearing on gossip site TMZ shows First Lady Anita Crusoe, laughing with Colombia’s president before the summit dinner.

Natalie’s chair sighed as her mind began to race down Worst Case Scenario lane.

What about her migraine? Had there even been one? The story she’d spent all day chasing was gone—poof—just like that.

Taking with it her VOP.

And her career.

At least you didn’t spend six hundred dollars on your hair, her mind offered up as a consolation prize.

Her chair gave a sigh bordering on a moan as she leaned forward, pulling up the photograph to study it. There was BamBam standing with his arms stretched out wide, as though the photo was snapped right in the middle of a funny story, with the First Lady seated on an upholstered chair smiling up at him. She had her hair pulled up, was wearing a long-sleeved navy sheath, and her head was thrown back as if she was delighted by his wonderful joke.