Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 71

It had been a long day and Rebecca Ritter needed a drink — a big one.

After her nooner with Joe Edwards, she had slipped away to another clandestine rendezvous. This one was all talk and no action. In fact, Rebecca had been grilled for well over an hour.

By the time she left, she had a splitting headache. Everyone seemed to feel she wasn’t doing enough.

Intuitively, she knew it was part of a carrot-and-stick play. No matter how well she preformed, they were always going to want more. She was pushing the ultimate drug—power—and they were hooked.

Stopping at a CVS on the way back to the office, she had purchased a bottle of Naprosyn and two cans of Red Bull. She was tempted to call in sick for the balance of the afternoon, but she couldn’t risk making Senator Wells any angrier.

He was still upset over the question she had planted for him at Meet the Press yesterday. It had taken him by surprise, which had been her intention, and he had handled it brilliantly. He had acted like a senior statesman, above the fray, and while not giving details, had assured the host and the American people that it was being looked into.

It was perfect. They had gotten the rumor into the news cycle, but without making it look like it had come directly from Wells. All of the papers this morning had run with it.

The Senator acted upset for another day or two, but in his heart, he knew Rebecca had done him a huge favor. President Porter had just been taken down another peg in the minds of American voters. A couple more leaks between now and the election, and Porter wouldn’t stand a chance.

Returning to her office, she tackled the pile of paperwork on her desk and tried to winnow down her long list of phone calls and emails that needed to be returned. At five o’clock, she grabbed her purse and headed for the Hay-Adams Hotel across from the White House.

Its famous Off the Record bar was considered one of the hottest watering holes in D.C. It was known as the place to be seen, but not overheard.

Located on the hotel’s lower level, its walls were covered with caricatures of the politically powerful — both past and present. Rebecca fully expected her own to be up there one day soon.

The bar was already filling up by the time she got there. As she entered, she turned more than a few heads. Though she’d had a tough day, none of the men in the place seemed to notice, nor would they have cared. Rebecca Ritter was a stunning woman, no matter what the situation.

Walking up to the bar, she grabbed the last stool at the end, waved the bartender over, and ordered a double Maker’s Mark on the rocks.

As the bartender poured her drink, she turned to survey the room. Even in the wake of the attack on the White House, it was still a Washington power spot. She was always on the lookout for well-connected people who could expand her sphere of influence.

Her eyes came to rest on a tall, distinguished-looking man who had just approached the bar to order his own drink.

“You’re Brian Wilson,” she said. “Mornings on the Mall on WMAL.”

“I am indeed,” the broadcaster replied with a smile, flattered to be recognized by such an attractive young woman.

“Rebecca Ritter. Chief of Staff for Senator Wells.”

As she spoke, she extended her hand.

Wilson took it politely and, sharp man that he was, noticed that she arched her back in order to subtly extend another part of her body.

“The Senator is making a lot of news lately. We’d love to have him on the show.”

“Absolutely,” Ritter replied, fishing out one of her business cards. “Do you have a pen?”

Wilson removed a pen from his blazer pocket and handed it to her.

Writing on the back of the card, she said, “This is my personal cell phone number.”

The broadcaster didn’t need to look left or right. He could feel the envious stares of all the men at the bar.

“You were fantastic at Fox and if memory serves, you also broke the story of Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor’s retirement.”

“You have good taste and a good memory,” Wilson said. “Although I think you’re a little too young to remember that.”

“I make it my business to know things,” she replied with a coy smile as she picked up her drink and took a seductive sip through its straw. “I’ve always enjoyed your work. In fact, I think you’d make a terrific White House spokesperson.”

Was she trying to pick him up or offer him a job? Whatever it was, Wilson was enjoying it. And whatever ended up happening, he was going to have one hell of a story to tell his cohost, Larry O’Connor, in the morning.

“So,” he said, turning the subject back to work, “when can we get Senator Wells on the show?”

Rebecca was about to speak, when one of the concierges from the hotel upstairs appeared. “Miss Ritter?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“You have a phone call at the front desk. It’s your office.”

“My office?” she replied, removing her phone from her purse and looking at it. The signal strength appeared fine and there were no missed calls or messages.

“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll follow me.”

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” she said to Wilson.

“Of course.”

Taking one more sip of her drink, she set it on the bar, gathered up her purse, and followed the concierge.

Upstairs, he directed her to the phone that had been placed atop the concierge desk. A husband and wife, probably hotel guests looking to make reservations for dinner or something, stood at the other end.

As she approached the phone and picked up the line the concierge had indicated, the man and woman stepped over to her.

“Rebecca Ritter,” the woman stated, displaying a set of credentials, “FBI. You’re under arrest.”