After her short conversation with JC, Kate passed the line to the boss's office. There was a click, and then Mr. McMillan came through. “Hello, John Carlos.” His voice was calm but had traces of the pressures of everyday work. He was already expecting his call."Good evening, sir. Do you already know?”“What is it that I should never know? News is you, John Carlos. If there´s something that comes out aside from us, then we are not the first. Haven´t I told you we should be the first? Tell me. That's why I sent you."“Well, I am just presuming some other newspapers got it first, sir. If there's no news, there's no news yet, wherever you are. I said that because Tommy, our man here said there's a news blackout over here.”“Okay. What happened?”“The worst of what we had expected came today, sir. The senator was assassinated.”“What?

The Time's bureau was situated in a recently constructed modern building in the heart of the city along Ayala Avenue. They took the elevator up to the third floor then strode along a narrow long hallway. JC counted three doors before they reached the office. Without knocking Tommy led the way. When they entered JC was relieved to see it was indeed spacious for a staff of five. He heard the humming of the air conditioner on the wall which was recently painted white and saw it was bare. He had the impression that the office was recently set up. All of them were busy with their reports for the day, some to be sent to the main office. There were five desks and one was newly installed for the newcomer. JC was pleased to see that there was enough legroom for a tall person like him if he was working in it for most of his time. Then Tommy introduced him to everybody. “Mr. Martin, this is Louisa and Carlo. She's my assistant and Carlo is our cameraman,” Tommy said, in

On JC's fifth day he was at the office working with the team when he heard the statement -the long-awaited denial from the Palace which was aired on the radio. On the wall, the air-conditioner was buzzing irritatingly and was giving little comfort to the large space the workers were occupying. After the statement, Louisa went to the little kitchen to prepare coffee for herself. The others went back doing their usual things and JC slipped back to his desk to finish the report he was doing. Nobody believed in what they heard. Some never cared. "Do you believe in that?" Everybody disagreed. One guffawed. The telephone rang three times while Louisa was still in the kitchen. JC picked it up and held the handset. “Hello,” a muffled voice crackled on the other side. “Hello, JC Martin,” he answered, still typing his report, the receiver tucked between his ear and shoulder. He listened. There was hesitation at the other end. Then a litt

The airport security office was small on the first floor of the main building. This was where images of lesser or greater import were seen first. More than twenty blinking close circuit screens, covering practically all corners of the airport was in front of three personnel in uniforms who were manning them. Smoke floated in the air. On their desk, the ashtrays were full of butts, for all of them were heavy smokers. Years of working, in the same way, made surveillance routinely ordinary, even important ones seemed insignificant. Colonel Follows and his men entered the building. They crossed the large area where passengers formed ten queues to the check-in counters. Ignoring the passengers, they took the escalator and landed on the first floor. He was a proud lot but today his pride had left him. Now, was his time to redeem what he had lost. He must erase all evidence that could be found at the airport. The storm was raging, his mind was in turmoil, and he was more concerned

     That night in his room JC was uneasy, tossing and turning. Although the lights were out, his eyes were wide open due to what he thought was jet lag. The sheets smelled new. They felt comfortable on his skin after having been exposed to the tropical climate. In the middle of darkness, he found himself staring at the ceiling. Red and blue lights deflecting from a neon sign came in through the glass window. It was mesmerizing but sleep was long in coming for him.      He lay awake and was thinking of the voice, weighing the consequences of her revelation. Who was she? Was she for real? If she was, then what she would be giving would be perfect evidence for the case. And our newspaper will benefit from it. Mr. Mc Millan will be happy. Perhaps, he would promote me to senior editor.       A tape of the assassination would clearly show who the perpetrators were. Would she