He indicated towards 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