I don’t do this kind of work.
“I don’t do this kind of work,” I told the CIA Domestic Station Chief. “I’m a journalist.”
“Bullshit! It’s the same thing, except this time you’re just publishing to a more exclusive audience.” He had been sitting on my couch when I got out of the shower. Strolling naked toward the bedroom to find some rags to throw on, I didn’t bother covering up when I saw him. Getting an eyeful of me was fitting punishment for breaking in.
“That audience being your agency?”
“Precisely. It’s either that, or we drop you naked and slathered in butter in the middle of Baghdad.”
What could I say to that?
So the next day there I was nude and sporting a shiny butter sheen in the middle of what used to be the Green Zone…