“Please don’t be concerned, Captain Grant: this is not my first time being embedded with US troops, and I don’t expect any level of comfort beyond that of the average private. I will try to impact on your command as little as possible. I would suggest we meet soon to discuss protocols for the next month. I’m not here to do a hatchet job, Captain.”
“Then you’ll let me read what you write before it’s filed?”
“That’s one of the protocols we can discuss, but no: my editor is the only person who sees my work prior to publication.”
It was important to explain up front how I worked. I didn’t particularly want to do that over the dinner table, but as he’d asked, I’d give him the courtesy of a clear and concise answer.
A reluctant smile crept across his face.
“Something to discuss, ma’am.”
“Certainly there will be many things to discuss, Captain,” I said, politely. “I have agreed to the rules of being embedded with your unit, but beyond that, my authorial independence will not be something we discuss.”
He raised his eyebrows but wisely didn’t pursue the point.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Sebastian enter the room and move towards a group of Afghan men dressed in the traditional salwar kameez, worn with the oval qaraqul hats. He exchanged some pleasantries, then went to search for his place card. He looked puzzled because it wasn’t in the general area that he’d expected. When he saw the Green Bitch, comprehension washed over him and he looked pissed.
I couldn’t help feeling a mean little frisson of self-righteousness.
Your problem, Hunter.
He seated himself politely next to the French woman, who looked like she wanted to perform a lap dance before the antipasti.
At first, he seemed to shrug off her advances, but then I saw her lay a discreet hand on his thigh and my blood boiled.
“Lee! Are you stalking me, woman?”
Liz’s dulcet tones turned heads and I couldn’t help smiling, more than a little grateful for her timely interruption of my silent fuming.
She was wearing an ankle-length dress in navy blue, so voluminous, that she looked like a ship in full sail.
“Hi, Liz. Thanks for the room-share. Let me introduce you to Captain Ryan Grant; Captain, Elizabeth Ashton – she’s a correspondent for The Times of London.”
They shook hands, each weighing up the other.
“Have you seen that miserable bastard Hunter is here?” Liz said to me, as soon as the brief pleasantries were over. “Up to his old tricks with the French floozie.”
I winced, and saw Captain Grant frown.
“Yes, there are a few familiar faces, Liz. Stroud and Van Marten are here.”
“Really? I must go and chew on their earflaps for a minute, Lee. I’ll see you later. Captain,” and she hurried off.
“A colleague of yours, ma’am?”
“Yes, and a friend.”
I could see that Captain Grant was beginning to be grateful that it was me and not Liz who was going to be embedded with him. But then his eyes flickered back to Sebastian, who was staring coldly at his dinner companion. When she laid a proprietary hand on his arm and leaned across to touch one of his medals, Captain Grant’s eyes narrowed.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he muttered.
He stood up abruptly and walked towards them. Sebastian rose to his feet and saluted sharply. It was clear the Captain was asking about the seating arrangements, and Sebastian was trying to point out he’d just followed the place card’s instructions.
I watched as Captain Grant took him to one side and seemed to be giving him a dressing down. Sebastian stood to attention, and I could see that he was gazing about three inches above the Captain’s left shoulder.
After that, Sebastian left the room, leaving the disappointed woman by herself, and Captain Grant returned to my side.
“Is there a problem, Captain?” I asked, casually.
“No, ma’am, just my interpreter; he’d been seated at the wrong table.”
“Your interpreter,” I said, feeling a cool shiver travel down my spine.
“Yes, newly assigned to my command.”
Oh crap.