Dennis planted himself on a sofa and fumed silently while he leafed through the latest issue of World News. He had just finished mentally editing another article on the Middle East poorly written by one of the senior hacks when Daphne told him he could enter Brice’s inner sanctum.

Dennis was tall and gangly, with the pasty complexion low-paid reporters have when they only make enough to subsist on fast foods. His black hair was curly and his blue eyes were intense. He always seemed to be on edge and-though he was obviously very smart-he was slow to get jokes, because he lacked a sense of humor. Dennis was also socially inept. He had no sense of style and never felt comfortable in a restaurant that rated stars or at a function where a tuxedo was required.

Martha Brice was completely at home at Le Bernardin or a society gala. Dennis grudgingly conceded that she had a first-class mind, as evidenced by the diplomas from Yale and the Columbia University School of Journalism that hung on her wall, but she couldn’t have been more than ten years older than he was and she was already the editor in chief of a major news magazine. What really bugged Dennis was that she’d gotten her position by marrying Harvey Brice, who owned World News and was at least twenty years her senior. Dennis couldn’t really argue that she wasn’t a good executive, but he felt that he was as qualified to run a major magazine as she was, and might be sitting in Martha’s chair if he’d had the good fortune to be born to wealthy parents instead of the owner of a dry-cleaning establishment and a first-grade teacher.

Dennis also had to concede that Martha Brice was glamorous if, in his opinion, a bit overweight. Her heart-shaped face was framed by jet-black hair shaped in a bob, and she’d applied bright red lipstick to her thick, pouty lips. The lustrous hair and fire-engine mouth contrasted sharply with her pale white skin. Today, she was wearing a black Armani pants suit with a cream, man-tailored shirt. Tasteful black pearl teardrop earrings and a matching necklace told you that she was loaded but didn’t have to broadcast the fact.

“Good to see you, Dennis,” Brice said as she motioned him into a chair. “How are you getting along?”

Dennis had no idea what she was asking about. Did she want to know about his private life, or how he liked his job? He decided to play it safe.

“Fine,” he answered.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you and I’m very pleased with your work.”

Dennis blushed. He was not used to praise.

“I know you haven’t been given the most challenging assignments,” Brice continued, “but one way I gauge how dedicated and competent my reporters are is to see how they handle assignments I know won’t necessarily interest them. Now it’s time for you to take a step up. Are you interested?”

“Definitely,” Dennis answered, sitting up straight without realizing he was doing so.

“How old are you, Dennis?”

“Twenty-five.”

“You would have been thirteen, twelve years ago,” Brice said, more to herself than Dennis. “Do the names Charlie Marsh or Gabriel Sun mean anything to you?”

Dennis frowned. “Didn’t he start some kind of New Age religion and then get charged with murder?”

The editor nodded. “The press called him ‘Satan’s Guru’ and the case was plastered on the front page of every newspaper in America. Mr. Marsh first gained notoriety during a prison standoff at the state penitentiary when he saved a prison guard’s life. He was rewarded with an early release and wrote a best-selling autobiography called The Light Within You, which attributed his miraculous conversion from petty criminal to hero and alleged humanitarian to the discovery of God’s light within himself. The TV talk shows ate it up.

“Marsh started calling himself Gabriel Sun and hawking self-revelation and salvation through Inner Light seminars, which he held all over the country. Twelve years ago, United States congressman Arnold Pope Jr. was shot at one of these seminars. Marsh and the congressman’s wife were charged with the murder and Marsh fled the country.”

Brice slid a thick folder across her desk.

“This is background on the guru. It will give you enough information to conduct an interview with him.”

Dennis flipped through the file, which was crammed with newspaper clippings and computer printouts.

“Marsh is hiding out in Africa, isn’t he?” he asked, starting to remember facts about the subject of his story.

Brice nodded. “He’s in Batanga.”

Dennis frowned. “Isn’t that the country that’s ruled by a cannibal?”

“Those rumors about President Baptiste eating the ex-president’s heart have never been verified. I suspect he spread them himself to scare the dickens out of anyone who was thinking of opposing him. But you can ask Mr. Marsh. I hear he knows the president very well.”

“So, how am I doing this interview, by phone?”

Brice smiled warmly. “You know that’s not how we conduct business at World News. I’ve booked you on a flight to Lagos, Nigeria, that leaves at seven tonight from JFK.”

“This evening?”

“That’s not a problem, is it?”

“No, no. I can leave tonight.”

“Good. It’s a short hop from Lagos to Baptisteville.”

Dennis was stunned by his good fortune. He was flying to Africa to interview an international celebrity in a country ruled by a cannibal. How cool was that! And though he knew next to nothing about Charlie Marsh, he was a quick study. By the time he landed in Baptisteville, he’d be ready to rock and roll.

“Is there anything special you want me to discuss in the interview?” Dennis asked.

“Don’t worry about the interview. Mr. Marsh will be returning to the States with you and you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him.”

Dennis frowned. “Isn’t he still under indictment for murder?”

“Yes. That’s why he’s returning. He’s always claimed he was innocent of the charges and he wants to clear his name.”

“Wow! So this could be a really big story?”

“It will be a really big story, and it will be your story. Do you think you can handle it?”

“Definitely!”

“There could be a book in this, too. You’ll see what I mean when you read through the file.”

A book! A huge story and a book! Dennis was having trouble breathing.

“There is one thing, though,” Martha said. She reached behind her desk and pulled out a valise that looked like it had gone through the wars. “When you pack I want you to use this suitcase.”

“I have a nice valise at home.”

“I’m sure it’s much nicer than this but it doesn’t have seventy-five thousand dollars concealed in it, does it?”

“Seventy-five…”

“Mr. Marsh is in great danger. He could be dead by the time you land, tomorrow. Hopefully, he’ll be alive and you can give him this money, which will be used to aid his escape.”

“This sounds dangerous,” Dennis said warily.

“It is dangerous, but so is reporting in a war zone or flying into the eye of a hurricane. Top reporters court danger. I had you pegged as someone who would welcome the chance to take risks to land a story that could win a Pulitzer Prize. Was I wrong? If you think this is too big for you…”

“No, no, I can handle it, but won’t Mr. Marsh be arrested when he lands in the States? Don’t they check to see if you’re a wanted criminal on the computers at Immigration when you fly in from a foreign country?”

Brice nodded. “That’s why he’ll be using a passport with another name.”

“But that’s illegal.”

“Probably.”

“I’ll be arrested if I help him sneak into the country illegally.”

“Perhaps, but we’d hire the best lawyers for you. Besides, I suspect you’ll be protected by the First Amendment.”

“Is that true? Have you asked a lawyer about that?”

“There wasn’t any time. Mr. Marsh’s life is hanging by a thread. Do you want to chance his being arrested, tortured, and killed while we seek a legal opinion?”