Luckily, he was there when I arrived at the party. I checked on the tape recorder and the notebook, concealed in my borrowed Armani bag. They were still there, just as they had been the last twelve times I checked. I took a deep breath, flipped the switch on the tape recorder, closed my purse, and walked straight up to the most dangerous man in Washington.
I should explain. My name is Kit Fitzgerald, and I’m a junior politcal reporter for the Washington Post. That’s the same Washington Post that employed Woodward and Bernstein, the same Washington Post that my grandfather edited for thirty years. You might say I have a lot to live up to. I decidedly didn’t belong at this party. It wasn’t really a party, truthfully- it was a function for Rwandan orphans, the sort of thing extremely rich people do so they don’t feel so guilty that their companies are poisoning the groundwater of small Appalachian towns- but you have to fight your battles one at a time. I was going after big game tonight.

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