It's that afternoon that the hotel asks for his passport.

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It's that afternoon that the hotel asks for his passport.


His fingers are trembling as he lights the cigarette.He’d thought, because he’d met Tatiana Moskalev in the past and she’d been kind to him, that he understood what was happening here.He’d been looking forward to seeing her again.Now he’s glad he didn’t have a chance to reintroduce himself.He pulls the paper that Peter had given him out of his pocket and looks at it.A couple of gunrunners.A bioweapons specialist.It’s the Horsemen of the Apocalypse ball.There’s Roxanne Monke getting into her car, queen of a London crime family.The photographs of the man licking the brandy up from the floor.The glass splinters on the napkin.The tears on Peter’s cheek.Sorry, Tunde, we’re going to pass on this.Great reporting, pix excellent, not a story we can sell in right now.Fine.Three more rejections.He’s never needed a market, though.He’ll just post the whole thing to his YouTube.Tries his cellphone data.All the photos, all the footage, his own piece.He puts it in a padded courier envelope and pauses for a moment over the address.In the end, he writes Nina’s name and details on the label.Safer with her than traveling with him or in an empty apartment somewhere.He’ll get the American ambassador to put it in the diplomatic bag.If Tatiana Moskalev is trying to do what it looks like she might be trying to do, he doesn’t want her to know yet that he’s going to document it.He’ll only get one chance at this story.Journalists have been expelled from countries for less than this, and he doesn’t kid himself that it’ll make any difference that he flirted


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