should make the front page, she thought. Right beside the lead article with her byline plastered on it.
“Marvelous,” she murmured, still taking pictures.
“I beg your pardon?” the tall, square-jawed man standing at her shoulder said coldly. He was the chief of mission for the U.S. embassy here.
“All those people,” Rousset explained, nodding at the Georgians packed below them. Beneath a sea of rose-colored flags and placards, the silent crowd was slowly flowing east toward the Parliament building. “There must be tens of thousands of people down there in the freezing cold. Maybe more. And all of them united in sorrow and grief. Just for one sick man.” She shook her head.
“It’s going to make a marvelous story.”
“More like a terrible tragedy,” her companion said tightly. “For Georgia certainly, and perhaps for the whole Caucasus region.”
She lowered the camera and glanced sidelong at him from under her long lashes. “Really? Would you like to explain why … in a way my readers can understand, I mean?”
“Not for attribution?” he asked quietly.
Rousset nodded. “No problem.” She smiled delicately. “Let’s say that you’ll appear in print as ‘an expert Western observer of Georgian politics.’”
“Fair enough,” the diplomat agreed. He sighed. “Look, Ms. Rousset, you need to understand that President Yashvili is more than just an ordinary politician to those people. He’s become a symbol of their democratic Rose Revolution, a symbol of Georgia’s peace, prosperity, and maybe even its continued existence.”
He waved a hand at the distant hills and mountains. “For centuries, this region was torn back and forth between rival empires, Persia, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Turks, the Mongols, and finally the Russians. Even after the Soviet Union imploded, Georgia was still a wreck, ravaged by ethnic infighting, corruption, and political chaos. When the Rose Revolution swept him into office, Mikhail Yashvili began changing all that. He’s given these people their first real taste of competent, democratic government in eight hundred years.”
“And now he’s dying,” Rousset prompted. “Of cancer?”
“Maybe.” The tall American diplomat shrugged gloomily. “But no one really knows. My sources inside the government say that his doctors haven’t been able to identify the illness killing him. All they know is that his vital organs are failing rapidly, shutting down one by one.”
“So what happens next?” the female New York Times reporter wondered aloud. “After Yashvili dies.”
“Nothing good.”
Rousset pressed harder. “Gould other regions break awayjust like South Ossetia and Abkhazia?” Fighting in those two self-declared “autonomous republics” had killed thousands and lasted for years.
“Or maybe even escalate into another all-out civil war?” she went on. Filing reports from a war zone was a risky business, but it was also the path to journalistic stardom. And Sarah Rousset had always been ambitious.
“Possibly,” the tall man admitted. “Yashvili doesn’t really have a clearly defined successor, at least not anyone trusted by all the different political factions, nationalities, and ethnic groups in Georgia.”
“What about the Russians?” she asked. “There are still lots of native Russians living here in Tbilisi, right? If serious fighting broke out in and around the city, would the Kremlin send in troops to stop it?”
The diplomat shrugged again. “As to that, Ms. Rousset, your guess is as good as mine.”
Chapter
Five
The White House, Washington, D.C.
President Samuel Adams Castilla led his guest into the darkened Oval Office and flipped on the lights. With one hand, he loosened his carefully knotted bow tic and then unbuttoned his formal dinner jacket. “Take a pew, Bill,” he said quietly, motioning toward one of the two armchairs set in front of the room’s marble fireplace. “Can I get you a drink?”
His
“Marvelous,” she murmured, still taking pictures.
“I beg your pardon?” the tall, square-jawed man standing at her shoulder said coldly. He was the chief of mission for the U.S. embassy here.
“All those people,” Rousset explained, nodding at the Georgians packed below them. Beneath a sea of rose-colored flags and placards, the silent crowd was slowly flowing east toward the Parliament building. “There must be tens of thousands of people down there in the freezing cold. Maybe more. And all of them united in sorrow and grief. Just for one sick man.” She shook her head.
“It’s going to make a marvelous story.”
“More like a terrible tragedy,” her companion said tightly. “For Georgia certainly, and perhaps for the whole Caucasus region.”
She lowered the camera and glanced sidelong at him from under her long lashes. “Really? Would you like to explain why … in a way my readers can understand, I mean?”
“Not for attribution?” he asked quietly.
Rousset nodded. “No problem.” She smiled delicately. “Let’s say that you’ll appear in print as ‘an expert Western observer of Georgian politics.’”
“Fair enough,” the diplomat agreed. He sighed. “Look, Ms. Rousset, you need to understand that President Yashvili is more than just an ordinary politician to those people. He’s become a symbol of their democratic Rose Revolution, a symbol of Georgia’s peace, prosperity, and maybe even its continued existence.”
He waved a hand at the distant hills and mountains. “For centuries, this region was torn back and forth between rival empires, Persia, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Turks, the Mongols, and finally the Russians. Even after the Soviet Union imploded, Georgia was still a wreck, ravaged by ethnic infighting, corruption, and political chaos. When the Rose Revolution swept him into office, Mikhail Yashvili began changing all that. He’s given these people their first real taste of competent, democratic government in eight hundred years.”
“And now he’s dying,” Rousset prompted. “Of cancer?”
“Maybe.” The tall American diplomat shrugged gloomily. “But no one really knows. My sources inside the government say that his doctors haven’t been able to identify the illness killing him. All they know is that his vital organs are failing rapidly, shutting down one by one.”
“So what happens next?” the female New York Times reporter wondered aloud. “After Yashvili dies.”
“Nothing good.”
Rousset pressed harder. “Gould other regions break awayjust like South Ossetia and Abkhazia?” Fighting in those two self-declared “autonomous republics” had killed thousands and lasted for years.
“Or maybe even escalate into another all-out civil war?” she went on. Filing reports from a war zone was a risky business, but it was also the path to journalistic stardom. And Sarah Rousset had always been ambitious.
“Possibly,” the tall man admitted. “Yashvili doesn’t really have a clearly defined successor, at least not anyone trusted by all the different political factions, nationalities, and ethnic groups in Georgia.”
“What about the Russians?” she asked. “There are still lots of native Russians living here in Tbilisi, right? If serious fighting broke out in and around the city, would the Kremlin send in troops to stop it?”
The diplomat shrugged again. “As to that, Ms. Rousset, your guess is as good as mine.”
Chapter
Five
The White House, Washington, D.C.
President Samuel Adams Castilla led his guest into the darkened Oval Office and flipped on the lights. With one hand, he loosened his carefully knotted bow tic and then unbuttoned his formal dinner jacket. “Take a pew, Bill,” he said quietly, motioning toward one of the two armchairs set in front of the room’s marble fireplace. “Can I get you a drink?”
His
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