53
Clarissa Reese’s phone rang sharply in the hotel room. If she ever unleashed a magic genie from its lamp, her first wish would be to turn the damn thing off. But, as the Director of the CIA, it wasn’t an option for her to ever be fully out of touch.
Her assistant knew to block all calls for a few hours. Either the world was coming apart or it was from one of the few who had her direct number.
She dug for her phone; it had better not be Clark. He never understood that just because he was Vice President and she’d married him, it didn’t mean he could interrupt her whenever he was feeling bored.
This was the last Friday of the month, time for her very low profile monthly dinner meeting in the Presidential Suite at the Kimpton George by the Capitol Building. Originally the night that Sen
