Hold still just a sec, Amanda. I’m going to tape the mic inside the shirt; when he’s talking, don’t move or you’ll drown him out with fabric noise.”

Amanda stood in front of the mirror, hands on hips, while Gene, her soundman, busied himself with her shirt. Sitting on her bed, George, the segment producer, was still on the phone, arguing with Travel about their flight home the next morning.

Gene leaned back. “Yep, you can’t see it. Turn to your left?”

She turned, and the two of them looked at her ass in the mirror.

“You think it looks bulky? Maybe I shouldn’t wear a pencil skirt.”

He shook his head. “Nuh-uh! It’s flat! That’s one flat, beautiful ass you’ve got there, Amanda. Besides, I don’t believe you even own anything that isn’t a pencil skirt.”

Watching her reflection, Amanda bent, straightened, then pushed her butt out. Then she jiggled from side to side a little.

The transmitter was the size of a pack of cigarettes: even if Gene couldn’t see it, she could.

Still, her ass was looking pretty good. And her jacket would cover the bulge.

“Okay. Thanks, Gene.”

“‘Okay’? I’m a fucking miracle worker! I just used a micro shotgun mic to convert a wireless assembly into a bug! I’m a fuckin’ genius! This is FBI shit!”

“Okay, Special Agent Hoover. Let’s test it.”

Gene slipped his headphones on and plugged them into his digital MiniDisc recorder. He plugged the mic receiver into the recorder, checked the levels, nodded at Amanda, and stepped out into the hall.

There was some scraping of cloth, then Amanda’s voice saying, “Hi, Doctor Jenner, you handsome ratings star, you…”

Then George’s voice, surprisingly clear: “Amanda, I’m on the phone—keep interrupting me and you’ll be flying coach.”

Gene walked back into the room. “Perfect. Stick close to him, and keep your chest pointed in his direction; this ought to work perfectly. Turn on the recorder before you go into his room—check that the red light is lit up. There’s a couple hours of recording time at this speed. You got brand-new batteries, a new blank MiniDisc. Just stay within twenty feet of your handbag, or the signal won’t reach the recorder. Turn for me?”

Amanda turned. She yelped as he slipped two fingers down the back of her waistband and fiddled with the transmitter box.

“George! Gene is molesting me!”

The producer, still on his cell, rolled his eyes and moved into the bathroom.

Gene stepped back, nodded with satisfaction.

“Yep. I really am just that good…”

“Well, thanks, MacGyver. We’ll share credit when I get my Emmy.”

He looked at her. “Hey, has the Current Event Network ever won an Emmy?”

There was a second’s pause, then they both roared with laughter.