Page 151 of Player
Two Months Later
“To Clarissa. For her commitment to quality journalism.”
I’m in a circle of champagne flutes, which are held high inmyhonor. The tears I shed are not caused by the bubbly or the fact that my investigation into the uranium trade is a huge success. Or even that the biggest network on television bought Christiana’s story. These tears aren’t for Finn, and the loss of what might have been.
I’m crying because I underestimated my audience.
My honest, visually-rich piece on the underground uranium trade went viral. Ratings are through the roof. Viewer response is so overwhelming, every major network wants to interview me. Turns out, people are interested in more than celebrity gossip and scandal. Real issues featuring real people matter. Hopefully, the trend will continue. That’s why I became an investigative journalist in the first place.
“To insightful stories.”
I raise my glass. “To telling the truth, no matter how ugly it may be.”
My colleague next to me takes my toast to heart. She’s been questioning me all evening, intrigued by the whole experience. “Clarissa, what was it like working that closely with a CIA agent?”
Honesty. “Exhilarating and exasperating.”
“How so?”
I bite my lip, trying to find the right words. “It felt like a chess tournament. Each move counted. Strategies changed on a dime. Patience ... well, let’s say even the most devoute parishioner praying on bended knee for hours on end would find their patience tested.”
“Sounds exciting.” My colleague winks. “I’m inspired to find my own CIA agent to play chess with.”
I laugh.Good luck with that.
The CIA caught up with me before I even left Ireland. I answered their questions based on what I believed to be true—up until it wasn’t. I directed them to the warehouse and to what remained of the uranium. As far as the men who’d tipped off the CIA—come to find out all the trucks had been stopped and eventually the buyers arrested—I told them the truth, that I have no idea who they were but that they did the world a service by stopping O’Brien.
I’ve been questioned multiple times since Ireland. Followed and watched. It’s only right. I wonder how they feel, now that the news portrays them as the heroes in this story?
“You think you’ll see him again?”
I blink. “Who?”
“Him, the agent?”
Honesty.“It’s complicated.”
“Of course, it is. What they do ... we do ... is complicated. Let’s start with a question, okay? If you could ask him one more thing, what would it be?”
Do you really, truly love me?Instead, I reply, “Are you really, truly that much of a lying asshole?”
My colleague visibly jerks. “Okay then. No more questions.”
“No more questions,” I repeat, then hold up my flute and signal the waiter. “And more champagne.”
* * *
