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“Excuse me, ma
’am, I think you might be in the wrong seat.”

I looked up to see a man in the Dress Blues of a US Marine Corps
captain gazing down at me. He was perhaps a few years younger than me with a strong face, and clear, gray eyes.

“Captain
Grant?”

“That
’s right, ma’am,” he said, looking puzzled. “And you are?”

“Lee Venzi. I
’ll be embedded with you for the next month. It’s good to meet you.”

He looked
bemused. “
You’re
Lee Venzi?”

“Let me guess,” I said, with a polite smile, “you were expecting a ma
n. I get that a lot.”

He gaped, looked thoroughly pissed off, then settled for a cool
disinterest.

“It
’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

We shook hands as he eyed me
cautiously.

Don
’t worry: I won’t bite – you’re not my type.

“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 advance
s, 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.

“
I gather you know him, ma’am?” he said, looking at me astutely.

“
We’ve met,” I said, maintaining a casual smile. “Chief Hunter was the languages expert when I had my hostile environment briefing in Geneva. He lectured on useful phrases in Pashto, Dari and Arabic if I remember correctly.”

Captain Grant nodded, accepting my words at face value
, and we talked about the forthcoming deployment to Leatherneck and beyond.

I didn
’t see Sebastian again during the meal, and the Green Bitch had an empty space next to her for the entire time. I also noted that someone must have spoken to her, because she wore a black pashmina that covered up her cleavage and shoulders for the rest of the evening.

It was fascinating to see who had been invited
to the dinner and who had not. There were a number of UN officials that I recognized, as well as British, German, and American officers. Among the Afghan men – and there were no women – I sensed there was something more going on than a simple meet and greet. I kept track of the comings and goings, who was talking to whom. There was definitely a cool excitement in the air.

Th
e evening ended without any more tangible developments occurring. Captain Grant nodded politely and said he’d send a driver to my hotel at 5
am
the following morning. We’d be loading up and heading out to Camp Leatherneck, 350 miles away along the notorious Kabul–Kandahar Highway.

Two decades of war and neglect had left the road connecting Afghanistan
’s two main cities in disrepair. The US had funded the rebuilding of three-quarters of the road, with Japan chipping in another chunk of cash. It was currently in slightly better repair, but it had become a favorite target of the Taliban – and not a journey to be undertaken lightly, even by the mighty US armed forces. Certainly not by a woman-journalist from Long Beach.

I waited in the lobby for
Liz, and when she finally emerged, she was fizzing with excitement. She eyed our driver, the same bulky Sergeant Benson who’d dropped me off at the start of the evening, before allowing him to escort us to our car. She grabbed my elbow and began whispering at top speed.

“I picked up some very interesting snippets, Lee. Something is definitely in the air.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. Azimi was talking to Chalabi, and you don’t often see Sunnis and Shiites being that friendly.”

Liz
raised her eyebrows. “Interesting! Well, I’d say, looking at the bigwigs there tonight, it’s a US op. Could be going down from Leatherneck, Lee. Keep your ear to the ground for me, will you?”

“You think I
’d hand you a scoop?” I said, teasing her.

“No, of course not, but I
’m sure you won’t leave your old mucker out in the cold, either.”

“I
’ll take it under advisement.”

“Huh, bloody colonials,” she snorted.

I laughed: to Liz, half the population of the world were ‘colonials’.

We
drove quickly through the busy streets, people hurrying home before the self-imposed night-time curfew.

Back at the hotel,
Liz tried to persuade me to have a drink with her in the bar. She’d heard that someone had gotten hold of alcohol from the local market. Apparently the blanket ban wasn’t taken too seriously by some of the locals, despite the Sharia law punishment for those who bought, sold or consumed the evil brew being a fine, imprisonment, or even 60 lashes with a whip.

“Come
down with me, Lee, it should be a laugh. After I get out of this god-awful frock,” she said, tugging on the hem of her blue tent.

“No, thanks,
Liz. I’m going to take a hot bath. Since it’ll be my last for a month, I want to enjoy soaking in an actual tub.”

Liz
had just changed out of her dress and into her usual Berghaus hiking pants and long-sleeved shirt, when there was a soft tap at the door.

We were immediately on the alert: it was a golden rule never to let anyone know
which room you were staying in. If you needed to meet a contact, you met them in the lobby. Journalists were deemed to be easy targets – and our bodyguard was long gone.

“Who knows you
’re here?” Liz hissed at me.

“My embed liaison and
my editor. You?”

“Same. Stay away from the door and get ready to phone for help.”

I picked up my cell, checking that I had Sergeant Benson on speed dial. I nodded at her, my finger poised over the button, and she called out aggressively,

“Yes?”

“Ma’am, I’m looking for Lee Venzi?”

I
recognized Sebastian’s voice at once, relief, lust and irritation each took their turn as I moved towards the door.