Free Undercover Genius by Patricia Rice

old boys
had in common with the R&P were that they were white and male.
    I found the Intrepid News phone number and called but only
got voice mail. I left a message letting them know of Bill Bloom’s death, in
case anyone was interested, then asked for a return call at a number I could pick
up on my computer. Fiber optic was my friend.
    Then, overcoming my scruples about snooping through my
sister’s room, I ran upstairs to locate the files Patra had lifted from Bill’s
apartment.

Eight
    Patra’s perspective
    Patra cruised past Broderick Media’s lobby security with
the free pass of an appointment with executive vice-president David Smedbetter.
She recognized the name from her father’s papers. Broderick liked to hire
ex-military men, and Smedbetter had once been in the army.
    His office confirmed her interview, and she was directed to
the third floor.
    The reception area she entered from the elevator featured a
world map with out-sized pins indicating headquarters in every English-speaking
country and smaller pins for bureaus with foreign correspondents. An enormous
vase of artificial flowers occupied the coffee table by the area’s one sofa.
The dust on the flowers suggested that they had been there since the office’s
initial opening.
    Patra smiled confidently and refused to take a seat as
directed. She was impatient to have this interview over, and an annoyed
receptionist would get rid of her sooner than later. Pacing the lobby, Patra
admired each and every ancient photo, the trophy display, and the dusty flowers
again. A bespectacled male wandered in and nearly tripped while ogling her
legs. Word spread quickly, and the lobby turned into a busy intersection, until
the receptionist nagged someone into removing her. Patra bit back her grin of
triumph.
    She ought to be ashamed of her sexist tactics, but she was
entering a world that only saw a woman’s body and feared her intelligence, so
she merely gave them what they wanted. Ana might think she was a spoiled little
college girl, but Ana hadn’t been around when Patra had started touring the
media outlets in every country Magda dragged her through. She knew damned well
what was what.
    Following a beauty queen secretary through institutional
corridors, Patra smiled at heads lifting from cubicles and offices along the
way. She counted two women in the cubicle farm, none in the offices.
    The secretary left her with a Human Resources drone, who had
her fill out enough forms to complete Wikipedia. Half way through, an executive
assistant arrived to tow her to Smedbetter’s office. Patra sat in another
reception area occupied by still another secretary while she finished filling
out her forms. Just as she was wondering if she ought to invent a few more
addresses for her nomadic teen years, the secretary signaled that the Great Man
would see her.
    Smedbetter hadn’t given up his Army background. With military-buzzed
iron gray hair and bull-like shoulders, he looked like he had a steel pipe up
his spine. He studied her with a vague air of suspicion when she entered, but
her skirt must have done its trick. He picked up her application and took his
time examining it.
    She tried not to yawn while he inquired, in a boring
monotone, about her education and experience. She began swinging her leg
impatiently by the time he reached her BBC credentials. He glanced over his
reading glasses occasionally, so he wasn’t oblivious to her looks. Finally, she
decided it was time to take the bull by the horns.
    “The BBC is a great place,” she acknowledged with a
dismissive wave, “but it’s so my daddy’s kind of place, you know? They’re still
analyzing wars and bombs when everyone knows the real battlefield is
socio-economic. Corner the oil market, and you win. I really want to work with
an organization that understands this.”
    Smedbetter scowled and raised his graying eyebrows. “You
have extensive experience in foreign countries.”
    “Naturally. My father was a