I did, however, have a set of my own body armor that weighed a ton, and cost me a fortune in excess baggage charges.
My cab driver, who was just finishing his shift, was unusually quiet: for which I was grateful. He dropped me off at the international departures terminal, and I began the first leg of my long journey.
I rolled over in bed and groaned. The six-hour time difference between New York and Switzerland meant that I was wide awake at four in the morning, and the prospect of sleep seemed slim.
I tried to force my eyes shut, but they soon drifted open of their own accord and I lay staring at the ceiling.
My hotel was one of those nondescript blocks of concrete that you could find in any city, in any country, the world over. But it had a central location, functional rooms, free Wi-Fi, and boasted a tiny swimming pool and gym. I’d stayed in far worse places and probably would again – in fact, as I was headed to Afghanistan sooner rather than later, that was a given.
Feeling gritty-eyed and grumpy, I climbed out of bed and gazed out of the window. My room was just high enough up for me to see Lake Geneva glittering darkly in the distance. I was tempted to go for a walk, to stretch my legs and try to wear myself out enough for sleep to take me again. Wandering the streets of a strange city in the early hours was asking for trouble, even somewhere as safe and well-ordered as Switzerland. I wouldn’t have lasted long in my present job taking those sorts of unnecessary risks.
Turning from the window with a sigh, I wondered if the swimming pool or fitness center would be open: it seemed unlikely. Frustrated and sleepless, I pulled out my laptop and spent a couple of hours reading news stories online.
I finally managed to get an hour’s sleep before my alarm dragged me awake at 7 am.
The face that stared back at me in the bathroom mirror made me want to shatter the glass with my hairbrush. Today, I looked every one of my forty years. I felt like draping a black cloth over the mirror to blot out the view. Instead, I turned to the shower and contemplated the creamy-white tiles, as my tired brain stuttered into action.
The shower was marvelous: so powerful, it almost pinned me to the back wall. It was like having hundreds of little fingers massaging me, and definitely provided the shot of vigor I needed to face the day ahead. I was very grateful for the deep pockets of my employer in providing for my current comfort.
I pulled on a pair of jeans, not caring that I was woefully underdressed compared to the rest of the hotel’s clientele. Hungry, I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast comprising of Zopf, a rich, white bread baked into the shape of a braid, and served with butter, different jellies, honey, Emmenthal cheese and a selection of cold meats. There was muesli, too, of course, but that didn’t interest me. Too much like the granola I usually had at home.
I was just contemplating whether or not to order a third coffee when I heard someone calling my name.
“Hey, Lee! Yo, Venzi! What the bloody blue hell are you doing here?”
I looked up and grinned.
Bearing down on me was Liz Ashton, an indomitable British bulldog of a woman in her late fifties. She was rather famous in our field, an English Marie Colvin you might say, having been to every war front since Chad in 1979, every civil unrest since Uganda in the 1980s, and every guerrilla action since El Salvador in 1981. She’d reported on every atrocity from Croatia to the Congo, and was as tough as nails: probably tougher. She didn’t take shit from anyone.
Liz was a senior reporter with The Times of London. We’d become friends over the course of the last five years when we’d run across each other in a variety of low-rent hotels, pitched together among the testosterone-rich world of the foreign correspondent.
“Hi, Liz! Good to see you!”
She swept me into a hug that almost cracked a rib.
“You, too. So, what’s cooking, Venzi?”