Another day, another despotic hellhole, thought Quinn.
Despite his cool outward demeanor, he was nervous. The San Margol secret police had yanked him out of his hotel in the dead of night. It was obvious that certain government officials were unhappy with the last story he had filed. Now they were sweating him. Quinn didn’t think they’d stoop to torture, but who knew?
His inquisitor was delivering a lecture.
“If you want to dine on pressed duck, no problem. French press coffee, also no problem. We have freedom of the press here in San Margol... except for the printing press.”