Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (49 page)

“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 to stay on with us to cover the Gulf War?”

“All thanks to you and that enterprising producer of yours, Blain Lovett. What happened to him, is he still with CNS?”

“No, he went to NBC, then moved over to CBS. He's still there, doing very well, but no longer going out on foreign assignments. By choice, I guess.”

“He was great, the way he networked. What a wheeler-dealer he was.”

Bill grinned, remembering his former producer. “He had his act down pat, making his
important contacts before the war started. Long before. And the Iraqis loved his schmoozing. He charmed a lot of them well before the conflict began and so they favored him. And we were home free when holy hell finally did break loose.”

“I'll never forget the day he told you that our Iraqi minders were letting CNS bring in all that television equipment from Jordan,” Frank said. “Including that satellite phone. I, for one, was flabbergasted.”

“So was I, Frankie, and where would we have been without it? That phone was our only link to the outside world, and CNS was the only network getting coverage out for the world to hear and see.”

“It did wonders for CNS, pushed them to the top of the pile in live news coverage in particular. And actually, Billy, we were fortunate to come out of that debacle alive, all things considered, and all those direct hits the hotel took. And there was Elsa, what a terrific little trooper she was . . .”

Frank paused as he realized that he had lost Bill's attention. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Something's wrong. You're not listening
to me. And you have the strangest expression on your face.”

Bill turned to Frank. “I don't want you to look now, but it's that woman over there. At the other side of the bar. Did you see her come in?”

“How could I fail to miss her? She's the only other person here except us. So, what about her?”

“I almost knocked her over earlier today. Collided with her this afternoon as I barreled around the corner, on my way back to the hotel. I chased her hat.”

“
Chased her hat?
”

“Oh never mind, and don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“As if I'm nutty.”

“Well, you are a bit crazy, Billy, and so am I, thank God. Life's too damned hard not to be slightly crazy from time to time. How else are we going to deal with all the stress and tension? Anyway, what about this woman?”

“I was very taken with her this afternoon. I wanted to get to know her better.”

“I can't say I blame you. She's interesting-looking. Is she Italian?”

“I don't think so, even though she looks as if she might be. I'm pretty sure she's an American,
certainly she sounds it. Anyway, her hat flew off as we collided, so I ran after it. I also ran after her as she thanked me and walked off. I wanted to invite her to have a drink with me. It's funny, Frankie, but I didn't want her to go.”

“Why didn't you ask her to have a drink?”

“I tried to, but she was hurrying, almost running. I was right behind her, and so naturally I saw her with the man she was meeting. Just my luck that she's involved with someone. For all I know he might even have been her husband. I watched them embrace. Still, I must admit I've thought about her for the past few hours, off and on.”

“There's only one thing to do.”

“What's that?”

“Go over and invite her to have a drink with us,” Frank suggested. “You'll get the lay of the land pretty quickly.”

“I guess you're right.” As he spoke, Bill pushed himself to his feet and strode across the bar, walking in a direct line toward the young woman.

She looked up from a notebook she was holding and smiled when she saw him. “Hi!” she said, sounding friendly.

“Since you wouldn't let me buy you a new hat, could I at least buy you a drink?” Bill
began. “My friend and I would love you to join us for . . . drinks
and
dinner.”

“That's really nice of you both, but I can't. I'm waiting for a friend. I have a previous engagement,” she explained.

Bill looked crestfallen. “Just my luck, er, er, our luck. Well . . .” His voice trailed off and he half turned to go, and then he swung around to face her again. “You're an American, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am. From New York.”

“So am I.”

“I know.”

“My name's Bill—”

“Fitzgerald,” she supplied, eyeing him, looking suddenly amused. “I know who you are; in fact, I watch your newscasts all the time, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Call me Bill.”

“All right.”

“And you are?”

“Vanessa Stewart.” She thrust out her hand.

Leaning forward, Bill took hold of it, and shook it. He discovered he did not want to let it go. “I have a great idea,” he said and finally released her hand.

“You do?” She raised a dark brow and her large silver-gray eyes were quizzical as they focused on him intently.

Bracing his hands against the back of the chair and leaning forward, drawing closer to her, Bill said, “We must be the only three Americans in Venice at the moment, so we
must
spend tomorrow together.”

“
Tomorrow?
” Her brows drew together. “Why tomorrow?”

“It's Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, my God, I'd forgotten.”

“Well, it is. Thursday, November the twenty-third. And it would be a crime if the only three Yanks in Venice didn't celebrate this most American of all holidays together. Join me and my friend, Francis Peterson of
Time.
Come on, what do you say?”

“Very well, I'll join you, but only on one condition.”

“What's the condition? Shoot.”

“That we have a proper Thanksgiving dinner with turkey and all the traditional trimmings.”

Bill's face lit up in the most engaging way, and he grinned boyishly. “You've got a deal!” he declared.

She smiled up at him. “Then I'll be happy to come, thank you very much. Shall we meet here in the bar?”

“Good idea. Champagne first, and then on
to our turkey dinner with all the trimmings. What time?”

“Seven. Is that all right?”

“Perfect.” From the corner of his eye Bill saw the Italian, Giovanni, entering the bar. He inclined his head and politely took his leave. Moving away from her table swiftly, he retraced his steps across the room.

Frank had been watching Bill alertly, and now he said, “What happened?”

“She can't join us tonight. For obvious reasons. The Italian is on the scene again.”

“Is that him over there now? The guy she met this afternoon?”

“Yes. Giovanni. However, she has agreed to have dinner with us tomorrow night.”

Frank looked impressed. “That
is
an accomplishment, old buddy. How did you do it?”

“I reminded her that it's Thanksgiving, pointed out that we were more than likely the only three Americans in Venice, and added that it would be a crime if we didn't celebrate the holiday together.”

“And she agreed?”

“On one condition.”

“And what's that?”

“A turkey dinner. She wants a traditional
Thanksgiving meal with all the usual trimmings.”

“You didn't promise it, did you?”

“Sure I did. Why are you looking skeptical, Francis?”

“Where the hell do you think you're going to find a turkey? In Venice, of all places, for God's sake! This is pasta land, Billy.”

“I know, and don't worry. Just trust me.”

“But Bill, a
turkey
—”

“Did I ever let you down in Baghdad? Who's the one who always managed to find the most delectable stuff in that war-torn city . . . from Johnnie Walker to cans of corned beef.”