Emily’s death was attributed to a serial killer who had murdered a number of other coeds in the area around that time, so I was in the clear. Still, Soros thought it was a good idea for me to lay low for a bit. Everyone at UNC was understanding that, in grief over my loss, I needed to get away from things for a while. So, I was able to leave town without raising suspicion.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Soros bellowed as he knocked me to the ground. “That was sloppy and stupid, kid. Very stupid! What if you never knew she’d found out? Do you know what that could do to this entire operation?”
Still fuming, but not without pity, Soros sent me to St. Kitts for a couple weeks of R & R. But the holiday didn’t last long, as soon I got a call about a high-ranking Republican lawmaker, Senator “Smith,” who was staying at a resort there with his wife.
Allegedly, their trip had been illegally funded by a high-powered DC lobbyist, whom the senator would also presumably be talking “business” with during their stay. I was to get whatever info I could on the senator’s activities, paying special attention to anything that could be used to later bribe or discredit him.
I was given very little information about the man, other than a rumor that his marriage was on the rocks, and he’d allegedly “treated” his wife to the trip as an attempt to stabilize the union – at least for the rest of his term in office.
I’d also been told Mrs. Smith was an alcoholic. That weak link in the chain, so to speak, seemed like a good entry point for me.
A snapshot of Mrs. Smith was faxed to me at the hotel. Before long I spotted the Smiths and some other people (the lobbyists, I assumed) together in the hotel. Later I passed right by the couple in the hall, and they even said hello to me.
I knew that the senator would occasionally be busy with his lobbyist contacts, and during that time his wife would be on her own. I made an educated guess on how she might keep herself occupied, and one evening found her at the hotel bar, martini in hand.
Mrs. Smith was a fairly attractive woman who looked younger than she probably was. I think she had had some "work" done.
I sat down at the bar, leaving one empty seat between us. She glanced over a few times between sips. It seems almost obligatory that strangers alone at a bar, male or female, will break the ice sooner or later and start chatting. She made the first move.
It was the usual stuff: Are you enjoying your stay? Are you here alone? Me? Yes. You? Yes. I mean no. I mean, my husband is here but he’s not here. He’s off doing some dull thing or other. I commented that it was unfortunate she was alone, adding that “such a beautiful woman” never should be.
She demurred, but thanked me.
I ordered her another martini. Then another. She seemed to get cold feet about the conversation after a while, lest her husband or someone else get the wrong idea. I said I understood, but that I enjoyed talking to her, and that her husband was a lucky man.
She thanked me again, as she almost fell off the barstool while trying to get to her feet. I insisted she at least let me walk her back to her room, offering her a steady arm. With some hesitation, she accepted.
At her door, while she fumbled for the key with her back to me, I took the opportunity to run my hand up the back of her thigh (she was wearing a short skirt or a skort). Her hand froze, the rest of her shuddered, and I could hear her exhale softly.
I was invited in, and though her husband could return at any moment, I accepted. The invitation was what I had intended; I might not have another opportunity to gain access to the senator’s room and any potentially damaging materials therein. The Democratic Party was counting on me.
“I won’t be a minute” Mrs. Smith said as she slipped into an adjoining room. I nodded, and quickly went about snooping. Drawers, luggage – I rifled through it all. Suddenly, BINGO! Some photos of Senator Smith, his wife and their lobbyist friends enjoying a boat cruise together. I hastily stuffed two of them into my sock as the light in the next room went out.
Mrs. Smith returned to the room wearing a sheer black robe and not a stitch else (think the “life drawing” scene in Titanic, just before Kate Winslet dropped her robe). She sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned me over.
The previously modest and cautious Mrs. Smith, wife of a respected GOP Congressman, had somehow disappeared.
“I want to see your cock,” she brazenly commanded. I gladly complied, taking off everything except my socks, all the while keeping an eye on the time.
"Come closer," she said, letting the robe slip from her shoulders. "I want you to touch me… here." She guided my hand.
Just then came the sound of muffled voices and other commotion at the door. Impulsively, I headed out the open window and onto the ledge. The third story ledge. I had left my gear in the room, and as I peeked back in I saw Mrs. Smith cramming it under the bed.
I stepped away from the window. I could hear Mr. Smith enter the room. Mrs. Smith said she was glad he was back, and couldn’t wait for him to return, hence her state of undress.
I looked around, desperate for a way out of this, angry at my own hasty exit. I was just a college student, not James Fucking Bond. What did I know? I spotted a tree near the corner of the building that I could probably reach and climb down, and gingerly made my way over to it.
No sooner had I reached the ground, relieved, when a hotel clerk who'd just gotten off work came round the corner and spotted me in my sans attire condition.
After an awkward pause I said, “Umm, which way to the nude beach?”
“Sir,” he replied incredulously, “it is one o’clock in the morning.”
At least I had gotten the photos. And I’d begun to earn my keep as a Democratic operative.To be continued…