Ours was a small office—eighteen people including the chaiwallah—which probably explained why the ministry had sent us our censor, Onkar. There were larger operations to monitor, and sharper blue pencils were assigned to those outlets.

Frank’s idea was to fly under the radar for a while. We played it safe in the days following the declaration. Our stories ran straight down the middle of the road. Nothing controversial. Nothing that might alarm the censor or incur the wrath of the government. As I considered my vanilla reportage, I had to admit that nothing I’d sent to New York qualified as true journalism. Like the Indian papers, we were simply repeating what the government told us, virtually verbatim. But I knew we were biding our time, waiting for the opportunity to slip a scoop past the censor.

A ten-year-old company, UNI was trying to gain a foothold against the big boys in the wire service business. Frank Muller, a career newspaperman from Philly, was top dog in our office, which oversaw all of Southeast Asia. He’d been in India for a year and a half. Then there were three full-time reporters; the stringer, Flaherty; two photographers; accountants; the receptionist; and a couple of guards. We had contacts in Delhi, Bangalore, Madras, and Calcutta who filled in when necessary. Ultimately, though, it felt like a mom-and-pop operation, if Pop was a balding ass who hated bad news, even when it was the only news. And, of course, there was no Mom, unless you counted Janice. I admit that I couldn’t picture a long future working for a guy who’d rather shoot the messenger than reward him.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 2, 1975, 7:52 P.M.

I wanted to have a bath before picking up Sushmita for Ash’s dinner party. And while she was my friend Willy’s girl—one who’d never take a romantic interest in me—I still permitted myself a stray fantasy or two where she was concerned. Maybe Willy wasn’t serious about her. Maybe they had an open relationship.

What the hell was I thinking? Willy had taken care of me, invited me to his home, offered his help. Was I really considering seducing his girlfriend? And what chance would I stand if I actually made a pass at her? Sushmita would shoot me down like a clay pigeon. What was it Eric the Red had written about her? “No dice. Bitch.”

No, she wasn’t a bitch. Eric was an asshole.

I intended to be the perfect gentleman that night. I’d escort her to Ash Pethe’s party, keep my eyes peeled for pretty girls suitable for possible future dates, and take her safely back home at the end of the evening. Friends.