[ WP ] He sees you when you 're sleeping . He knows when you 're awake . And Santa , low on funds to pay his elves , has begun selling his surveillance data to the NSA .

It's freezing out. Leave it to Washington DC to be clear all December, then send up a blizzard on Christmas Eve. Leave it to the Post to say someone has to work the tip line on statutory holidays and leave it to Marty and Lisa to pawn the job off on me. 
 
 So I'm alone, on Christmas, in some rundown diner in Bethesda. It's the saddest place I've ever been. Just a waitress with sciatica and two drunk truckers listening to Silent Night over sour coffee. Who asks to meet a reporter on Christmas Eve? All I know is she said she has the scoop of the decade. There was something in her voice that made me believe her. 
 
 I try to watch out the window for anyone coming, but there's so much snow I ca n't even tell when a car turns into the lot. But then the door rattles and in she walks, the wind kicking up and yelping behind her. She walks right up to me. She smells like cinnamon, and something I forgot about when I stopped being a little boy anymore. When I learned how deep the lies go in this town. 
 
 She asks me if I'm me. I nod and she slides into the booth beside me. She apologizes for the timing. Tonight's the only night she can know for sure she is n't being watched, she says. She's wearing a big trench coat and her hair is wrapped up in a handkerchief covered in candy canes. She pulls out a thick manila envelope and hands it over. 
 
 My god. This is a payload. This is Monica Lewinsky getting fucked by Edward Snowden in the Watergate hotel. This is a goddamn Pulitzer. Then I realize who she is. Who she must be. 
 
 `` Mrs. C-'' I ask. She begs me not to say it aloud. I understand why. 
 
 That big red motherfucker. You'd think the money from all those Coca Cola commercials would be enough. But no. He's sold all of it and the proof is all right here. He's sold every last file on every last American son and daughter going back to World War Two. Naughty. Nice. Did n't matter one bit. Every candy bar you swiped from a convenience store, every lie you told your mom, every porno you downloaded, the NSA knows all of it now. Nobody is safe. Nobody has a single secret. Sometimes a man can be a traitor even when working for his own government and that's what this is: treachery. There's not enough hoverboards or tickle-me-elmo's in the world to make up for a crime like this. Thomas Jefferson is rolling over in his grave. 
 
 I tell her she did the right thing. I tell her the people deserve to know the truth, even if it's going to ruin their Christmas. I promise we're running the story in the morning edition. She starts to cry. She tells me she's sorry she ever married him if this is what he was capable of. I cradle her face and stroke the tears from her cheek and she clasps my hand and smiles for the first time. Soon we're kissing with our whole mouths and it feels like I'm running down the stairs to unwrap presents under the tree. 
 
 The window shatters and the snow and wind fly in our faces. I can barely see, but there's two of them in green parkas and face masks, running towards us with AK-47s almost as tall as they are. 
 
 `` Assassin elves!'' she whispers. She tells me we have to run.
