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  Jack and I have a vow: we will always come home to them.

  But when we’re away, a piece of my heart goes missing until we do.

  4

  Blind Interview

  When a journalist has an off-the-record conversation with a source, it’s known as a “blind interview." In all cases, the source goes unnamed—that is, unattributed.

  There are times when you also take blind interviews. For example, when a friend stops by with some juicy gossip. Or, whenever one of your kids tattles on another. Or when your husband’s assistant spills the beans on where he really went for lunch, and with whom.

  Neighborhood gossip can be taken with a grain of salt.

  On the other hand, a confession by the naughty child absolves the tattler, and the punishment doled out is fair warning to both to do the right thing.

  If you don’t, Mommy will find out.

  As for a husband’s indiscretion? That’s what a good divorce lawyer is for!

  (Tip: Newspapers don’t pay sources, but you can, so keep his assistant on your payroll too.)

  The black glass skyscraper that houses Hart Media pierces the sharp sapphire sky high above its neighboring buildings in Times Square.

  Jack, Abu, and I will arrive within twenty minutes of each other and from different directions so street cameras can't detect a correlation. As far as anyone knows, until today Grant Larkin and Gwendolyn Durant will never have met. The same goes for Abu, who is using the alias “Arvin Rahbar.”

  Abu is called into his interview immediately, leaving Jack and me to cool our heels in the reception area.

  I whisper, “Break a leg,” as he walks by.

  Apparently, we’re not the only ones applying for jobs as field correspondents. As we scan the other applicants, Emma runs facial recognition on them then reels off the highlights of their dossiers.

  “See the slight, long-haired brunette in the back, with those gorgeous cheekbones? Her name is Jeanette Conkling. She now works for Haaretz, an Israeli news service. She has both print and broadcast experience. And the guy beside her—Mister Tall, Blond, and Dimpled—is Luuk Jansen. He’s a Dutch newspaper journalist with a long list of bylines, including Reuters and The Financial Times. He’s certainly ready for his close-up!” She sighs appreciatively. “And the older, distinguished-looking gentleman is a former BBC talking head named Wendell Edwards. It looks as if his field experience is spotty. A posting in Munich, ten or so years ago for almost a year.” She pauses then adds, “The woman to his right is Kimiko Satō. She works for the Japanese News Network. Besides Japanese, she lists her spoken and written languages as English, Korean, and German. She most recently worked in JNN’s Seoul bureau. She’s done solely broadcast, no print.”

  Jack and I absorb this news. Jack’s smile is placid, but his poker tell is showing: he taps his right pinky against his thumb. Like me, he realizes that making the cut may be more difficult than we thought.

  A half-hour later, a door opens. Abu steps out. He is shaking the hand of a woman holding a clipboard. When he passes us, he nods slightly.

  Well, at least one of us has been hired.

  “You!” Clipboard Lady points to Jack. “And you!” She points to the Japanese correspondent. “Head up to the thirtieth floor. Our Newspaper Division Director, Vince Lawrence, is waiting to interview you.”

  Jack rises. Always the gentleman, he allows Kimiko to walk ahead of him.

  “You and you.” Clipboard Lady turns to Luuk and Jeanette. “Go to the fortieth floor. Ask for our Director of Television News, Rolf Mancuso.”

  They leap up.

  Jeanette’s four-inch heels clack as they head for the elevator banks.

  She now points to Wendell and me. “I’ll escort you to Valerie Blunt, Hart’s Director of News Radio.”

  Wendell and I nod as we get to our feet.

  When we follow her down the hall, Wendell keeps pace with me.

  “I’m honored to meet you finally, Mr. Edwards,” I say. “You’re one of my idols.”

  He notes my accent. “Ah! You’re a Brit too, eh?”

  I nod. “From Manchester. But it’s been awhile since I’ve been home. For the past year, I've been posted in Fallujah.”

  “Give over!” He looks me up and down as if seeing me for the first time.

  I’m taken aback by his exclamation until I see his approving grin. “I say, I wonder if this look-see will take us through dinner?”

  “I hope not,” I exclaim. “But possibly through lunch.”

  He frowns at my response. He then starts to say something, but the Clipboard Lady interrupts us. “Ms. Durant, Ms. Blunt will see you first.”

  I shake Wendell’s hand. “Again, a pleasure.”

  After taking a deep breath, I knock on the door.

  Someone shouts, “Enter!” My first trial begins.

  Despite Jack’s vow to ravage me at thirty-six thousand feet in the air, we made the prudent decision to quiz each other on our bona fides until they were airtight.

  Now that Valerie Blunt is scrutinizing my resume, I’m grateful that cooler heads (and one limp one) prevailed.

  Her attempts to poke holes in my background is nothing but thorough. After noting that my birth certificate claims I’m from Manchester, she asks specific questions about my family there. (None, since my parents are deceased, and my only brother now lives in Australia.) Next, she questions me on my education (Barlow Hall Primary, in Chorlton-cum-Hardy). She then peruses my university transcripts from Corpus Christi College in Cambridge, in which I validate my Joint Honours degree in History and Politics by explaining my thesis topic: How Article 54 of the Rwandan Constitution restricts public speech to such an extent that it has effectively done away with any multi-party system.

  Within five minutes Valerie has heard enough. She compliments me on my radio reports, going so far as to call one outstanding: a recent piece on Syrian genocide.

  She was also taken with a piece on Hurricane Maria’s damage to Puerto Rico. “What kind of field equipment do you use?”

  “Either a Tascam HS-P83 8 Channel or a Zoom F8 Multi-Track. Worst case scenario, I’ve called in reports via my iPhone.”

  Valerie chuckles. “I hadn’t previously heard of your employer, International Press Corporation.”

  “I’ve been with IPC for ten years now. It’s based in Australia, but it feeds to larger organizations, and to news shows in countries that don't subscribe to behemoths like Hart Media.”

  “Should you get the job here, the move may be fortuitous,” Valerie declares. “Hart Media is growing so quickly that IPC may soon be out of business.” She lifts her glasses to look at IPC’s mailing address. “Just curious: Do you think it may be open to a buy-out?”

  I shrug. “I couldn’t say.”

  Valerie glances skyward. “Well, Mr. Hart is on a buying spree. He wants to own the world. Or, at least the way it gets its news.”

  Ryan whispers in my earbud: “Too bad we didn’t have the time to wait and see what he would have offered. It may have been the easiest way to infiltrate Hart Media.”

  Too late now.

  After walking me out of her office, Valerie beckons Wendell to join her. Jack is now also sitting outside her door. He gives me a friendly nod. I guess we’ll keep crossing paths as we’re shuffled, along with the other correspondent candidates, from one interview to another.

  When Clipboard Lady sees me, she barks, “Thirtieth Floor, newspaper division. Vince Lawrence is expecting you.”

  I tamp down the urge to blow Jack a good luck kiss as I walk away.

  Vince’s test is simple: After reading a few facts, I’m directed to write a four-hundred-word article on a bomb blast that just rocked Fallujah. He points at the laptop on a small desk by the window.

  He doesn’t know that Lamar Crenshaw, the former DOD correspondent, is dictating my piece through my earbud. I assume Lamar did the same for Jack, who was just in here.

  His efforts are impressive enough to get an admi
ring nod from Vince. “Not bad! And having read your resume, I assume you’ve actually visited al-Shohadaa.”

  I shrug. “A quick trip, but not fast enough. Sadly, I lost my translator.”

  Vince nods sympathetically. “For your protection, we have war-tested bodyguards on staff. Former Special Ops guys, now with a private military contractor.”

  Should either Jack or I make the cut, it’s interesting to know we're to be shadowed.

  “For my protection? Does that mean I’m a shoo-in?” I smile brightly.

  Vince shrugs. “That’s up to the Big Guy.”

  The Big Guy? Does that mean Randall Hart? I guess I’ll soon find out.

  Or not.

  “You’ve got quite a resume.” Rolf Mancuso, Hart Media’s Vice President of News, looks me up and down as if I’m a thoroughbred horse. “Six postings. Three in the Middle East, one in Africa, two in Eastern European countries, and all during political uprisings.”

  I can just imagine what he’s thinking: Is Gwendolyn Durant too good to be true?

  Rolf is thoughtful enough to ignore the blinking call buttons on his desk phone as well as the constant buzzing of his cell. Whenever harried reporters stick their heads in his door, he waves them away.

  I’m not the only one who’s getting such considerate treatment. Outside Rolf's door are three other candidates vying for a chance to be one of Hart’s far-flung field reporters: Kimiko, Luuk, and Jack.

  “Ms. Durant, it is certainly impressive how you conduct yourself, even when reporting from the middle of a siege.”

  He points to a video clip playing on the large monitor on a far wall. “Gwendolyn” is reporting as bombs fly overhead. They land on targets close enough to make me duck, but not so far away that viewers can’t see the exploding targets light up behind me.

  This is the first time I’ve seen the finished piece, and even I’m impressed with its production values. Although the volume is on mute, the tension in my face is palpable. Emma certainly gave me great direction. She should apply to the Directors Guild of America.

  “Since you’ve already received a thumbs-up from Mr. Lawrence and Ms. Blunt, I’d like to offer you a position with Hart Media.” He walks out from behind the desk to lean on it. “We have several openings right now, including some in our Moscow bureau. It’s a small office that supports one cameraperson, whom we hired this morning. He’s fluent in Russian. You’re one of the two reporters who will join him despite your lack of Russian. The other journalist speaks the lingo, so we feel we’ve got it covered.”

  Yes! Jack made the cut!

  Through my earbud, Ryan whispers, “Congratulations!”

  Rolf continues, “If you agree to sign on, we’ll triple your salary. But you’d have to start immediately.”

  I nod. “As you know, I’m currently a stringer, so yes, I’m available.”

  He stands up, smiling. “Great. I’ll have the paperwork sent in, along with your co-reporter.”

  He reaches for his phone. As he makes the request to his assistant, I stand and walk over to the monitor. ‘Gwendolyn’ stares back at me. The stylists made enough changes to my face—contacts, brows, and hairline—that I don’t see me in her.

  Maybe that’s for the best.

  A moment later the door opens behind us. Rolf’s assistant comes in with my contract.

  And Luuk.

  Not Jack? Oh…no.

  “Gwendolyn Durant, meet Luuk Jansen.”

  To hide my disappointment, I force a smile and hold out my hand. “A pleasure.”

  “No, it is all mine,” he says as he takes my hand. He holds it much too long. Noting my discomfort, he chuckles before letting go.

  Rolf looks up at me, but he’s grimacing. “Ms. Durant, your field experience is second to none. But, since Moscow isn’t exactly a war zone and Luuk is fluent in Russian, I’m assigning him the position of bureau chief.”

  Luuk’s way of consoling me is to add, “I’m sure Moscow will seem tame after Fallujah.”

  I shrug nonchalantly. “It’s just a different sort of war zone.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other once you’re in the air.” Rolf glances down at his watch. “Your plane leaves in less than three hours. It’s an eight-hour flight to Frankfurt. After a three-hour layover, you’ll catch the three-hour flight to Moscow. Unfortunately, you’ll have just one day to acclimate to the time change, and for that matter, the weather, before your first assignment. Russia is throwing a military parade. Its latest weapons technology will be on display.”

  “Having been shot at by some of Russia’s Syrian-based artillery, it’ll be interesting seeing it up close,” I say.

  Rolf shakes his head. “Sorry, but the Kremlin is only allowing one reporter and one cameraperson. And since questions will be allowed from the press, Luuk is the logical choice, since he speaks Russian fluently.” He hands us two business-class tickets and pens to sign our contracts.

  “Isn’t the International Nuclear Disarmament Summit happening on the same day?” I ask.

  Rolf grimaces. “It is indeed. Apparently, Mr. Putin doesn’t feel the need to attend.”

  He isn’t saying what everyone is thinking: Putin is thumbing his nose at the rest of the world.

  Luuk glances down at his ticket. “Ah, Lufthansa! I’m a member of its Mile-High Club!”

  “I think you mean its Miles and More Club,” I say stiffly.

  “Ja, of course, that is what I meant.” Luuk winks at Rolf.

  Oh, just great.

  If Rolf thinks his weak snicker will soften my frown, he’s sadly mistaken.

  I pretend to glance over my contract. As I reach the last page, I pause before signing on the dotted line.

  It’s for the mission. Just do it.

  I’m distracted enough by this turn of events that I start out by writing the letter D. But by adding a tail to it, I change it into an awkward G.

  As we are walked out of Rolf’s office, Jack looks up. I see a wariness in his eyes that questions why Luuk was asked to join us. When Luuk has his hand on the small of my back, Jack’s eyes shift to mine.

  I shake my head slightly then sweep my bangs from my eyes, as if the movement is one and the same. Jack knows me well enough to understand my signal: Not what we’d hoped.

  But then I hear Rolf declare, “Kimiko and Grant, do you mind coming back in?”

  Hmmm…

  Luuk smiles down at me. “Would you care to join me for lunch?”

  I smile. “Thank you, but no. Our flight is out of JFK. Truly, a gauntlet! All the more reason we should go back to our hotels and pack. I’ll meet you at the gate.”

  I take off before he can say another word.

  When I get to the hotel, Abu is already there. I knock on the door that connects his suite to Jack’s and mine.

  His look of commiseration tells me he already knows our dilemma.

  “Jack went in after me. What’s happening with him?” I ask.

  “He’s out now, and on his way here,” Abu assures me. He hesitates before adding, “He got an assignment too.”

  Figures. “Where?”

  Abu grimaces. “He wanted to tell you himself.”

  Interesting. Something tells me it won’t be close enough for booty calls.

  And with all the listening devices planted in the Moscow correspondents’ private quarters there won’t be much privacy there anyway.

  I hope Jack comes out soon. As it is, we won’t even have time for a quick kiss, let alone a quickie.

  “So, um…I’ll be based in London.”

  Jack springs this on me after his I-never-want-to-let-you-go goodbye kiss.

  Okay, to be honest, a kiss wasn’t the only thing involved. Let’s just say that by the time his lips were done (except for some naughty talk) and his hands took over, I would have bought into anything he said.

  But now it ain’t happening.

  I shove him off and sit up. “Let me get this straight. While I’m stat
ioned across enemy lines trying to get a handle on how and why the Kremlin is pulling Hart’s strings, you’ll be having a jolly old time in London?”

  “It’s the assignment they offered,” he reminds me.

  “You…And Kimiko?”

  He nods. “She’s covered the Royals before, for JNN. Charles is quite taken with her, so it was a natural posting.”

  “I see. And what makes you a ‘natural’ posting? You’re the one who speaks Russian, not me!” I get out of bed. “Well, you and Luuk, who, by the way, couldn’t wait to tell me that he’s a proud member of the Mile-High Club.”

  Jack guffaws. “Why am I not surprised?” He reaches for me, but I jump out of reach. “Well, you’ll be happy to know Kimiko is the perfect lady.”

  “Trust me, I’m not jealous of her. However, I am jealous of her posting! She’ll be curtseying in a designer gown while I’ll be freezing my ass off in Moscow—if I’m allowed to get out at all, what with a bunch of GRU ops trailing my every step.” The Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye—Russia’s intelligence agency—is notorious for its surveillance technique.

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve proven quite capable of sneaking out of the stickiest situations.”

  “Thanks for that rousing display of confidence.” I pout. “I’m surprised Ryan hasn’t told you to abort your mission. What can you possibly do from London?”

  “The posting may actually pay off,” Jack insists.

  “How, pray tell?”

  “I’ll be getting there in time for the International Nuclear Disarmament Summit.” He smiles supremely. “And you’ll be happy to hear that Hart News Corporation is televising it.”

  “Congratulations on such a plum assignment.” I’m doing my best to sound as if I mean it, but from the look on his face I’m failing miserably. I just can’t hide the listlessness in my voice. “I hope Hart Media feels it’s worth the effort.”