A Secret Affair. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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good, thanks. You know my mother, Frankie, full of piss and vinegar and energy, and as loving of heart as she ever was. She sends you her love, by the way.”
“When you speak to her, give her mine. Better still, I’ll call her myself when I get to Manhattan, to say hello. Incidentally, I’m sorry I couldn’t get home when you were there. I had a really tough deadline for my piece on Lebanon. There was just no way I could take off at that time.”
“I understood.”
Frank went on, “I gather you weren’t particularly impressed with the peace talks in Dayton.”
Bill shook his head. “I wasn’t. The Serbs are a diabolical bunch. Gangsters. They’re never going to agree to a proper and fair peace treaty with the Bosnians, you’ll see. As for all this UN talk about prosecuting some of the Serbs as war criminals, you can forget it. I assure you it will never happen. They’re never going to get those butchers to the Hague to stand trial, for one thing. Just take my word for it. The Serbs are going to get away with their crimes.”
“Tragic though it is, you’re probably right, Bill.”
“It’s just wishful thinking on the part of the UN.”
“I agree.”
A small silence fell between them.
The two men sipped their drinks quietly, lost for a moment in their own thoughts.
They were a good-looking pair, both of them clean-cut and collegiate in their appearance. Any casual observer would have known immediately that they were Americans.
Frank was as dark as Bill was fair. He prided himself on being third-generation Irish-American, and Black Irish at that. He had a shock of dark hair, black eyes, and a fresh complexion. Like Bill, he was thirty-three, and currently single. His marriage to a television foreign correspondent, Pat Rackwell, one of the rising stars of her network, had foundered on the rocks of her career four years ago.
Fortunately they had had no children, and the divorce had been amicable enough. Whenever they ran into each other on a story, they pooled their information, their resources, and tried to be helpful whenever they could. Very frequently they had dinner together when they were in the same foreign city.
Breaking the silence, Bill said, “I heard a nasty comment about us the other day.”
“Back in New York?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“That we’re war junkies, you and I. That we love danger, love being in the thick of it, and that that’s what gives us our jollies. We’re characterized as being extremely reckless. A bad example.”
Frank threw back his head and roared. “Who cares what people think! I bet it was one of your competitors at another network who made those lousy comments.”
“As a matter of fact, it wasn’t. It was one of the guys at CNS.”
“Aha! He wants your job, William!”
“Yeah, he probably does.” Bill hesitated for a second, then gave Frank a piercing look. “Do you think the odds are against us? That we will get killed one day, when we’re covering a war in some godforsaken place?”
Frank was reflective. After a second he murmured, “So many journalists have lost their lives…” He let his voice trail off; his expression remained thoughtful.
“But we won’t lose ours. I just feel it in my bones!” Bill asserted, his voice positive all of a sudden.
“You’re absolutely right, it’s just not in the cards. Anyway, you’re bulletproof.”
Bill chuckled.
“Furthermore, you’re my lucky charm.”
Bill cut in swiftly, saying, “Except that I’m not always with you these days, Frankie.”
“True enough, just wish you were. We’ve had some experiences in the past, shared some highs and lows, haven’t we? Remember the Panama Invasion?”
“How could I forget it? December of 1989. Sylvie had only been dead a few months, and I was so grief-stricken I didn’t care what happened to me, didn’t give a damn whether I lived or died.”
“But you did care about me,” Frank said in a low voice, staring at his friend with sudden intensity. “I wouldn’t be sitting here tonight if it hadn’t been for you, Bill, you saved my life.”
“You’d have done the same for me.”
“Of course I would! But don’t ever forget that I’ve always been very grateful.”
“And so has the female population of…whatever city you’re living in at the moment.”
Frank grinned at his friend, said facetiously, “Aw shucks, Billy, don’t start that again. I’m not the only newsman who likes a bit of female company occasionally. And what about you? You’re not so shy with the girls either.”
“There haven’t been many women around lately, I’m afraid, not where I’ve been.”
Frank nodded. “Sarajevo’s hardly the place for a romantic interlude.”
Bill confided, “Heard another thing in New York, Francis Xavier.”
“Oh, yeah, and what’s that? It obviously has something to do with me, from the tone of your voice.”
“Sure does. Rumor has it you’re suffering from a terminal Don Juan complex.”
Frankie chuckled and went on chuckling. He was highly amused.
Bill smiled, feeling comfortable, relaxed, and more at ease with himself than he had been for a long time. He knew that with Frank in Venice, for a few days he would be able to shake his depression, dispel the horrific images of war, and recharge his batteries completely.
Now Bill motioned to the waiter, ordered two more drinks, and said, “It’s not such a bad reputation to have, when you think about it. After all no man can be a Don Juan unless women are interested in him.”
“Only too true. As they say, it takes two to tango. By the way, I ran into Elsa in Beirut a few weeks ago.”
“Elsa?” Bill frowned, looking puzzled.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Elsa Mastrelli, our guardian angel from Baghdad.”
“That Elsa! Oh, my God, how is she?”
“The same. Still covering wars for her Italian news magazine, still playing Florence Nightingale, ministering angel, and earth mother all rolled into one. At least, so I’ve been told.”
“She was really great. Is she still as attractive?”
“Yes. Well, slight correction necessary here. Elsa has matured, looks more interesting, more experienced, even a bit war-weary, tired. But yes, she’s still a knockout, a good-looking woman with a lot of savoir faire. In other words, she’s grown up. We had a quick drink at the Commodore and reminisced about Baghdad.”
“That was one hell of a time in our lives, Frankie!” Bill exclaimed animatedly. “My God, I’ll never forget it…January of 1991. Only four years ago, but it seems so much longer, don’t you think?”
“It sure does. We took some real chances, Billy, in those days.”
“We were only twenty-nine. And very daring.”
“Also very stupid, if you ask me.” Frank threw Bill a pointed look. “No story’s worth dying for.”
“No, it isn’t. But we didn’t even think about dying, let’s face it. And our Baghdad coverage made both our careers. Weren’t we lucky that CNS was the only television network allowed to stay on in Baghdad? And that you and Elsa were the only print journalists given permission