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reporter. Ready to open up. All that Bradford had surmised
about Central Asia---and about Tajikistan in particular---had turned out to be
true. U.S. initiatives in the region were having all sorts of secondary
effects.
    This assignment had developed as planned.
    Some aspects of the evening had been distasteful. As dinner had worn on and
the main business had been concluded Shakuri had become too familiar. Made
altogether too many references to Claire.
    "I could tell there was an exceptional woman behind you, five minutes
into our interview this morning," he had said.
    Bradford had eyed him over the top of his wine goblet.
    "And that she's the main priority in your life," he'd added.
"I'm also a devoted husband."
    Shakuri's wife was nowhere to be seen. On extended vacation in the Maldives,
he’d explained.
    "To the health and happiness of your wife," the Prime Minister had
concluded, raising his goblet.
    Bradford had managed a smile and reciprocated the toast.
    The Mercedes rounded a hard curve and Bradford grabbed the handle over the
door for stabilization. With the other he held his laptop case in place on the
seat. Woods and hillsides continued sliding by in darkness. For all Shakuri's
crude edges, the man was perceptive. He'd guessed right about priorities, and
about Claire. Still, why was that his business in the first place?
    Though now was no time to dwell on small intrusions. There were reasons to
be satisfied. Even to celebrate.
    His timing had been perfect.
    A massive new U.S. aid bill was imminent: the latest installment in the war
on terror. Other Western reporters were not yet on the trail. That left the
field wide open. And rich with provocative story elements: terror, heroin, and
high-stakes international politics. Within a week his stories would get
front-page play in the World Tribune. Picked up by the wire services and
re-published around the world. Discussed in the corridors of government in
Washington and elsewhere. True sweep and scale.
    Top journalistic prizes seemed within his grasp. Even a Pulitzer. Why not?
Wealth and status beckoned. He'd have the kind of life he'd always wanted for
himself and Claire…a proper apartment, for starters…wherewithal to
take her along on assignments... close access to her at all times…
    His reveries were interrupted when the car abruptly slowed. The driver's
eyes showed nervousness in the rear-view mirror. The other bodyguard turned
backward; his eyes first flitted over the box of spices on the seat, then to
Bradford.
    "Maybe problem…with tire," the man said in crude, heavily
accented Russian. "Need to check."
    Their Mercedes pulled over onto the narrow shoulder with a crunching of
gravel. The road remained empty. Nothing about the car seemed out of order.
Bradford became suspicious and alert, while in the front seat the two men
exchanged another nervous glance. The bodyguard in the passenger seat got out
and walked toward the back of the vehicle. Bradford watched the man's burly
torso pass by the window.
    In a flicker the door jerked open and Bradford was staring into the barrel
of an automatic pistol.
    "What the hell?"
    "Move over," the man scowled, teeth half-bared in his beard.
    As Bradford slid across the seat the man slid in after him, jabbing the gun
barrel into his ribs. The driver gunned forward again with a churning of
gravel. His cohort with the gun shouted several words in Tajik and pointed to a
turnoff a short distance ahead. The Mercedes careened off the main route onto a
narrow dirt road, just wide enough. They ascended: up a hillside into
rock-strewn woods. Bradford felt the gun barrel stick harder into his ribs.
    "Give me that case," the man said.

 
 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    Outside the soundproofed windows of the conference room, the newsroom was
revving higher. Reporters were materializing with varying degrees of dispatch,
bearing laptop computers and notepads. Inside, at the head of the ovular table,
Whitcombe sat tall, in his hereditary and