A young-looking British lieutenant entered the room, and looked around him rather nervously.
“New kid on the block,” said Liz, grinning. “I think we can have some fun with him.”
I groaned inwardly: Liz’s idea of ‘fun’ didn’t match mine. But there was no stopping her: not even a Sherman tank could change her mind once it was made up. Her mantra, ‘compromise is the sign of a third-rate mind’, summed up her general attitude to life.
The young lieutenant disappeared. I wondered idly if he’d noticed Liz’s gorgon gaze and gone for backup.
As the scheduled starting time came and went, an irritated muttering rippled through the assembled journalists.
“Damn all this waiting around!” snapped Liz.
I cast an amused glance at my friend: she really didn’t do waiting very well—which was ironic, because a good chunk of our work involved sitting around: waiting for the people we needed to talk to, hoping they would acknowledge our presence; waiting for flights; waiting for rides; waiting for visas; and waiting for permission to cross borders into war zones. It was rather similar to the military adage, ‘soldiering is 99% boredom and 1% sheer terror’. I didn’t mind the boredom.
The room was chilly, overly-air conditioned and similarly soulless. I hunkered down in my chair at the back of the room, and wrapped my long, cashmere scarf twice around my neck so it covered my chin and part of my nose.
Liz, as I said, was made of sterner stuff: she marched to the front of the room and fiddled with the thermostat, while the British lieutenant watched her anxiously. I could tell he was dying to tell her not to touch it, but had quailed beneath her withering gaze. She had that effect on most people—especially men. I wondered if I’d ever acquire that chilling, thousand-yard stare. Probably not.
The lieutenant kept stealing glances at his watch, and it became apparent that he was waiting for someone who was late. I imagined it was probably a journalist who was a no-show. That happened a lot: missed planes, changed schedules, visas refused, or even assignments cancelled at the last minute. As it turned out, I was wrong about that.
Very wrong.
Eventually we were joined by a much older man with the crown insignia of a British Major embroidered onto the epaulettes of his khaki uniform.
His cap badge was the tiny figure of Mercury—winged messenger of the gods—which meant he was from the Royal Signals Corps. I enjoyed the British whimsy embodied by that image.
The Major was a strong-looking man of about 50, with kind, hazel eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He wasn’t smiling now. In fact he looked more than a little irritated and as he entered the room, shutting the door behind him, I heard him mutter something that sounded uncannily like “bloody Yanks”.
I shifted uneasily in my seat while Liz winked at me.
“Well, good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “My name is Major Mike Parsons and my colleague here is Lieutenant Tom Farley.”
He indicated toward the young lieutenant, who was trying to appear relaxed and doing a very poor job of it.
“I apologize for the slight delay in starting; our American colleague has clearly been held up. However, we’ll press on and begin with the basics. I’ll be talking about prep and planning and what you need to have in your exit plan—primarily how you’ll be repatriated in the event of injury or illness. Then I’ll hand over to Lieutenant Farley, who will discuss making use of local knowledge and getting around in a dangerous place. In the afternoon sessions we’ll cover coping with gunfire, keeping safe in a crowd and emergency first aid. Tomorrow we’ll be covering landmines, IEDs, chemical dangers and what to do in the event that you are taken hostage. We’ll be joined by our colleague from the US Marines for some of the sessions and for an introduction to Dari and Pashto—the two official languages of Afghanistan.” And then he muttered under his breath, “If he bothers to turn up.”
Liz nudged me and I felt irritated that my compatriot, whoever the hell he was, was making the US look bad. I had to remind myself that such tardiness was not restricted to press training: after all, it was Washington officials who were deliberately delaying my paperwork.
The Major began his lecture, and although the advice was good, I’d heard it all before and my mind began to drift. I made a few desultory notes for the sake of appearance, but I already knew what to pack in an emergency grab bag for immediate evac (passport, solar-powered phone charger, first aid supplies, dried food, water for a day, flashlight, pocket knife—which I was always having confiscated at airports along with my matches, emergency contact list—known as the ‘call sheet’); as well as basic safety messages such as arranging a code word for whoever arrived to pick me up at my destination. Obvious, when you think about it, but a tip that had come in very handy on a number of occasions. I’d passed that one to Nicole for when she met her frequent internet dates in unfamiliar places.
The Major went on to remind us about leaving the call sheet and next of kin details with our agency or a trusted third party. That bit always left me feeling sad. My next of kin was my mother, but we hadn’t spoken in nearly ten years—not since she’d made it crystal clear what she thought of me when I told her my marriage was over and that I was getting divorced.
I was vaguely aware that she’d moved to a retirement community in Florida, but we weren’t in touch. I certainly had no plans to name her in the event of an emergency. My real family were my friends, and I left my important numbers and my Last Will and Testament with my agent in New York.
Major Parsons then reiterated the importance of not having an Israeli stamp on our passports when traveling into Afghanistan or any other Muslim country. Yep, checked that box: we all had.
Then he handed over to the lieutenant who was competent, but far less polished in his delivery. I got the impression that this was the first time he’d delivered his talk.
The Major stayed for a few minutes to make sure his man was going to be okay, and then sidled out of the room. I was a big fan of sidling, and wondered how obvious it would be if I slunk out, too. But I knew the two-day training was compulsory for the newspaper’s insurers, and there would be new things to learn after they’d gone through the basics.
I sighed softly and hunkered down a little more.
I woke up slightly when the lieutenant lost his train of thought for a moment, and became aware that someone else had entered the room. I craned my neck, wondering if the Major had come back. But it was someone else entirely.
A man, extraordinarily beautiful with a deeply tanned face, and blue-green eyes the color of the ocean.
A jolt of recognition shocked me. There was no doubt. Ten years older, but still stunning.
Sebastian Hunter.
Oh. My. God.
CHAPTER 2
My breath caught in my throat.
Sebastian: the reason my marriage had ended; the catalyst for my becoming a journalist. The man I’d loved more than any man, before or since. The man I hadn’t seen for ten long years. My beautiful boy, my lover, my friend. The man I thought I’d never see again.
Sebastian.
Yes, it was definitely him. He was slightly taller, his shoulders were a little broader and his face a touch more angular, but otherwise he was unchanged. Except his eyes. Yes, they had changed, their sweetness hardened with the years.
Our affair, if you want to call it that, had begun when he was just 17 and I was already 30. As we were living in California at the time, it had been a criminal act. I’d fallen deeply, hopelessly, ridiculously in love. For his part, he’d been infatuated with an older woman, but his zest for life, his enthusiasm, support and belief in me, had opened my eyes to the dismal state of my marriage.
Our secret was discovered and dismembered in the most painful of ways. In a scene that still haunted my nightmares, I’d been forced to leave or face the cruel wrath of his parents. Even though Sebastian had been only months from his eighteenth birthday, my crime was a felony, and his parents had threatened to have m
e arrested if I ever contacted their son again. And, with California’s statute of limitations being three years, I’d been forced to comply.
Since the day I’d walked out of my marriage ten years earlier, I hadn’t seen or heard of Sebastian.
I’d thought of him often, wondering what he’d made of his life, where he’d gone, what he’d become, wishing to believe he was fulfilled and happy. And now, here he was, standing in the same room as me again, dressed in the khaki Service Uniform of the US Marine Corps.
I slumped lower in my chair, glad that my face was partially concealed beneath my scarf. My heart was beating so fast I was afraid I might actually pass out.
Liz nudged me.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded silently. She threw me a puzzled look, but shrugged it off, leaving me to dwell on remembrances of things past.
The door opened again and Major Parsons returned. He waited for the lieutenant to finish his point, throwing an irritated glance at Sebastian, who slouched at the side of the room, a bored expression on his face.
“Thank you, Tom. We’ll take a short break now, ladies and gentleman, and meet back here at 1100 hours. Refreshments will be served in Les Nations lounge. And we’re very glad to have our colonial colleague Chief Hunter to join us. I’m sure his insight will be invaluable.”
I doubted I was the only one who heard the note of sarcasm.
The other journalists stood up to go, following our military escort out of the room, but I was incapable of standing, afraid that my legs would give way.
“Ah, the infamous Chief Hunter,” said Liz, in a stage whisper. “Well, he certainly looks the part. Quite the lady-killer, I hear.”
“Excuse me?” I said, faintly.
“The American … he has something of a reputation. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”
“Why would I?” I managed to choke out. “Heard what?”
She gave a conspiratorial chuckle and leaned toward me. If there’s one thing journalists the world over have in common, they do love to gossip.
“Oh, I came across our Chief Hunter in Paris two years ago, although he was a humble sergeant then. Well, not that humble, you understand! Yes, a rather notorious lothario: it was something of an amour célèbre. They say he was tupping the wife of his CO, although nothing was made public, and it was all hushed up.”
“Surely that’s just gossip?” I said, weakly. “I mean—if he had—it would have been a federal felony: a court martial, and then he’d have been thrown out of the Corps.”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” said Liz, with a leer. “Suffice to say he was shipped out of Paris PDQ. Whatever the reason, they say he’s got an eye for the ladies.” She nudged me, a wicked look in her eye. “I imagine you’d be quite his cup of tea, Lee.”
“Oh no, I don’t feel like joining a harem,” I laughed, a little faintly. “I’m sure Chief Hunter has a parade of young women following him.”
I remembered that feeling very well.
If Liz noticed that my tone was off, she politely ignored it.
“Well, perhaps, but I believe his tendencies run in another direction—he’s known to like his women older … more experienced.”
I winced.
“They say he’s brilliant in the field,” she continued, unaware of the impact her words were having on me. “That’s why they put up with his behavior off the field. I heard a whisper that he was headhunted by military intelligence, but you know how close-mouthed your lot are about that. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were one of those men who’s a complete nightmare when he’s not doing something dangerous. You know the kind: reckless, a bullet magnet.” She tapped me on the arm. “They say he drinks.”
Her comment cut through me like a knife. Oh no. Not like Estelle—not like his mother.
With some bitterness I remembered her drunken rant the night I’d left San Diego. She’d called me a ‘whore’ and ‘slut’ and various other unpleasant names. And she’d slapped me hard enough to make my teeth rattle. She would have hit me again if Sebastian hadn’t stopped her.
The memories, long since locked away, came flooding back.
“Do you want to get coffee, Lee?” said Marc.
“Sorry, what?”
“Coffee, Venzi!” snapped Liz. “Yay or nay?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine. You guys go ahead.”
I wrapped my arms around my knees, physically holding myself together, as the intensity of my feelings floored me.
I took deep breaths and tried to keep calm, but my body was swamped by a rush of adrenaline and the desire for fight or flight overtook me. Right now I was favoring flight—except for the inconvenient fact that if I’d tried to stand up I’d have fallen over.
I heard someone return to the room and the blood drained from my face.
“You look a little pale, Lee,” said Marc, a hint of concern in his voice. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit … cold.”
He gave me a look that showed he wasn’t convinced, but accepted my explanation.
When the others filed back into the room, I hunched over my notes and hid as best I could. I was ashamed of myself. Why on earth couldn’t I get up, walk over to him and say ‘hi, hello, how are you’ like a normal person? I would do it, of course, I told myself: I would do it during the lunch break, when we weren’t surrounded by curious eyes.
Liz was the last to return, by which time I’d managed to pull myself together somewhat: or, as my father might have said, a horseman galloping by at a hundred yards wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss.
“Ready for round two?” Liz whispered loudly.
I could tell that she’d had more than coffee during the ten minute recess. I wasn’t surprised: drinking was one of the hazards that beset our way of life.
And then my plans to reintroduce myself to Sebastian with a modicum of privacy and dignity were blasted out of the water.
“Just a quick roll call before we go on,” said Major Parsons, “now everyone is here … so we all know who’s who.” And he proceeded to call out our names. I was last.
“Lee Venzi?”
I nodded and raised my hand.
I saw Sebastian’s eyes flicker across to me, then widen with shock as recognition set in, and, for the briefest of moments, he looked like the 17 year old I had known.
“You’re Lee Venzi?” he blurted out.
Everyone turned to stare at me, alerted by the tone of his voice, so I was the only one who saw his expression turn to something darker, almost hateful—before he controlled his features and looked away.
My heart lurched uncomfortably. He looked like he really hated me. I hadn’t expected that, although I suppose I couldn’t blame him. It must have been a difficult time for him after I’d left. Even so, to have such a residue of dislike after so long … I began to feel a little sick.
I took a deep breath and tried to focus on my notes.
Marc nudged me to attract my attention.
“You know that guy? Mr. Sullen-but-beautiful?”
“Yes, we’ve met,” I said, dryly.
“Hmm, I think there’s a story there, Venzi. Care to share?”
“Some other time.”
He eyed me narrowly, but I twitched a small smile and returned my waning attention to the talk.
Unwillingly, I glanced at Sebastian, but he was staring out of the window, a faraway expression on his face. I wondered if he was remembering, as I was, how we’d met, and our brief but stormy summer of love. Or lust. Depending on your point of view.
Even as I tried to bat away the images, they filled my mind. Even now I remembered the intensity of our lovemaking; the way we could never get enough of each other—his hands, his lips, his tongue sweeping across my body.
As the lieutenant continued to lecture us on precautions against carjacking and criminal attacks, shatterproof windows and tracking devices, I was devoured by a series of increasingly erotic images that brought a warm flu
sh of color to my cheeks.
“Because most attacks occur on reaching home,” the lieutenant droned on, “always ensure that you can drive straight into your garage or compound, and secure the door or gate behind you.”
Liz looked bored, utterly clueless as to the helter-skelter of emotions that disturbed the equilibrium of my mind. She began to whisper an amusing tale to me, the gist of which was that she’d ended up ramming her car into the garage wall not once but twice, during a posting in Cairo, doing exactly what the lieutenant was suggesting. Her sotto voce comment was more voce than sotto, and caused several titters among the rest of the journalists.
The young lieutenant looked annoyed at Liz’s too-loud interruption to his lecture.
“This is serious, madam. What I tell you today may save your life.”
Uh-oh. Wrong thing to say to Miss Ticking-timebomb.
She inflated like the turkey float on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.
“Listen, sunshine, you may think you’re something special with a weapon of mass destruction dangling between your legs, but let me tell you a thing or two: I’ve been to the frontline of every war since Uganda in 1979, before you were bloody well born.” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Angola, Croatia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan, and … bloody hell, places you’ve never even heard of. And this woman,” she pointed her chin at me, “has been in more hot spots than you’ve had hot dates.”
I could have predicted Liz’s response, although I didn’t agree with her: to me the next assignment was always like the first—and experienced correspondents were just as likely to get hurt as the newbies.
The lieutenant’s ears turned red, and he looked flustered. I thought I detected a small smile on Sebastian’s lips, but it immediately disappeared, so I couldn’t be sure.
Major Parsons stepped in to retrieve the situation and the poor lieutenant was allowed to continue.
Several times, during the rest of the lecture, I felt Sebastian’s eyes on me, but every time I looked up, he’d glance away with a sneer on his beautiful face.
The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline Page 39
