Hunching deeper into his trench coat, Bill Fitzgerald retraced his steps across the empty square. He began to hurry now as dusk descended, making for the Gritti Palace, where he always stayed. He loved its old-fashioned charm, comfort, and elegance.
The rain started as a drizzle but quickly turned into a steady downpour. Bill, increasing his pace, was almost running as he approached the side street where the front entrance to the Hotel Gritti Palace was located.
He sprinted around the corner of the street at a breakneck pace and collided with another person also moving swiftly. It was a woman. As her large-brimmed cream felt hat and her umbrella went sailing into the air, he reached out and grabbed hold of her shoulders to prevent her from falling.
Steadying himself, and her, he exclaimed, “Excuse me! I’m so sorry,” and found himself staring into a pair of startled silvery-gray eyes. In Italian, he added, “Scusa! Scusa!”
She responded in English. “It’s all right, honestly,” and disentangling herself from his tight grip she ran after her hat, which was blowing down the street.
He followed her, outran her, caught the hat, picked up the umbrella wedged against the gutter, and brought them both back to her. “I apologize again,” he said.
Nodding, she took the hat and the umbrella from him. “I’m fine, really.” She glanced at the hat. “And this isn’t any the worse for wear either.” She shook it and grimaced. “Just a bit splattered with mud. Oh well, never mind. Who cares? It was never my favorite hat anyway.”
“I’m a clumsy fool, barreling around the corner like that. It wasn’t very smart of me. Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked in concern, unexpectedly loathe to let her go.
She proffered him a faint smile, slapped the hat on top of her dark curls, and sidled away from him, saying, “Thanks again.”
He stood rooted to the spot as if paralyzed, watching her walk off when he wanted desperately to detain her, to talk to her, even invite her for a drink. He opened his mouth. No words came out. Seemingly, he had lost his voice, not to mention his nerve.
Suddenly he galvanized himself. Almost running up the street after her, he shouted, “Can I buy you a new hat?”
Without pausing, she called over her shoulder, “It’s not necessary, thanks for offering, though.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he cried. “I’ve ruined that one.”
She stopped for a moment and shook her head. “No, really, the hat doesn’t matter. ’Bye.”
“Please slow down. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m late.” She glided on, swung around the corner.
Bill hurried after her.
It was then that he saw the man coming toward her, waving and smiling broadly.
The woman increased her pace, waving back and exclaiming in Italian, “Giovanni, come sta?”
A moment later she was holding her umbrella high over her head so that the man she had called Giovanni could properly embrace her.
Disappointment surged through him. Immediately, Bill turned away, rounded the corner, and went down the street toward the Gritti Palace. He could not help wondering who she was. Certainly she was the most stunning woman he’d seen in a long time. Those luminous silver eyes set in a pale, piquant face, the head of tumbling dark curls, the elegant way she carried herself. She was beautiful, really, in a gamine sort of way. It was just his luck that she was apparently already spoken for. He would have liked to get to know her better.
CHAPTER
THREE
They met in the bar of the legendary Gritti Palace, which faced the Grand Canal.
“It’s great to see you, Francis Xavier!” Bill exclaimed, “Just great that you could make it.” He enveloped his best friend in a bear hug.
As they drew apart after their rough, masculine embrace, Frank said, “And likewise, William Patrick. It’s been too long this time around. I’ve missed you.”
“So have I—missed you.”
Still grinning at each other, they both ordered single malt scotch from the hovering waiter and sat down at a small table near the window.
“A lot of wars have been getting in the way,” Frank went on, “and we seem to have been covering different ones of late.”
“More’s the pity we haven’t seen the same action.”
They exchanged knowing looks for a long moment, remembering the tough situations they had encountered together and had shared. Genuinely close since journalism school, the two men, who were not only friends but colleagues, understood each other on a very fundamental level. And each worried about the others well-being. They had a great deal in common, always had had—a love of truth and the need to find it, traits which made them superlative newsmen; diligence, honesty, and a zest for adventure. Yet, despite the latter, both were cautious, fully aware of the dangers involved in their work. Whether together or alone on assignments, they always endeavored to minimize the risks they took in order to get the story.
Their drinks arrived, and after they’d clinked glasses, Frank said, “There’s no way I’ll go back to Bosnia, Bill.”
“I know. And I don’t blame you. I’ve sort of had it myself. How is it in Beirut?”
“Fairly quiet. At the moment, anyway. Things are improving, getting more normal, relatively speaking, of course. I don’t think it will ever be the Paris of the Middle East again, but the city’s perking up. Good shops are opening, and the big hotels are functioning on a more efficient basis.”
“Hezbollah’s still lurking, though.”
“You bet! We have to live with the threat of terrorism around the clock. But you know that.” Frank lifted his broad shoulders in a light shrug, his dark eyes narrowing. “Terrorism is more prevalent than ever. Everywhere in the world. The bastards are all over the place.”
Bill nodded, took a sip of his drink, and leaned back in the chair, enjoying being with Francis Peterson.
Frank said, with a wide smile, “Let’s change the subject, get to something more worthwhile. How’s my little Helena?”
“Not so little, she’s grown a tad. Which reminds me . . .” As he spoke Bill pulled out his wallet, removed a photograph, and handed it to Frank. “Your goddaughter wanted you to have this. She sends you hugs and kisses.”
Frank stared at the picture Bill had just handed him. He smiled. “She’s the most adorable kid, Billy, you’re so lucky. I see she’s still got that Botticelli look about her . . . positively angelic.”
“To look at, yes, but she’s mischievous, a bit of a scamp, my mother says.” Bill grinned. “But then who wants a perfect kid?”
“A perfect kid, if there is such a thing, would be insufferable. How’s Dru?” he asked, putting the photograph in his own wallet.
“Pretty good, thanks. You know my mother, Frankie, full of piss and vinegar and energy, and as loving of heart as she ever was. She sends you her love, by the way.”
“When you speak to her, give her mine. Better still, I’ll call her myself when I get to Manhattan, to say hello. Incidentally, I’m sorry I couldn’t get home when you were there. I had a really tough deadline for my piece on Lebanon. There was just no way I could take off at that time.”
“I understood.”
Frank went on, “I gather you weren’t particularly impressed with the peace talks in Dayton.”
Bill shook his head. “I wasn’t. The Serbs are a diabolical bunch. Gangsters. They’re never going to agree to a proper and fair peace treaty with the Bosnians, you’ll see. As for all this UN talk about prosecuting some of the Serbs as war criminals, you can forget it. I assure you it will never happen. They’re never going to get those butchers to the Hague to stand trial, for one thing. Just take my word for it. The Serbs are going to get away with their crimes.”
“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.
T
he 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.