Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Praise
Part One - A MATTER OF INTEGRITY
Chapter 1
I
II
III
Chapter 2
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 3
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
Chapter 4
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 5
I
II
III
IV
V
Chapter 6
I
II
III
Chapter 7
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 8
I
II
III
Part Two - THE VALUE OF TRUTH
Chapter 9
I
II
III
Chapter 10
I
II
III
IV
V
Chapter 11
I
II
III
Chapter 12
I
II
III
Chapter 13
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
Chapter 14
I
II
III
Chapter 15
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 16
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
Chapter 17
I
II
III
Chapter 18
I
II
III
Chapter 19
I
II
Chapter 20
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 21
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 22
I
II
III
IV
V
Chapter 23
I
II
III
IV
V
Chapter 24
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 25
I
II
III
IV
V
Chapter 26
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
Part Three - A QUESTION OF TRUST
Chapter 27
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 28
I
II
III
IV
V
Chapter 29
I
II
III
IV
V
Chapter 30
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
Chapter 31
I
II
III
IV
Chapter 32
I
About the Author
Copyright Page
To Bob, as always, with all my love
THE CRITICS LOVE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
“Barbara Taylor Bradford can always be relied on
to tell a good story.”
—The Chattanooga Times
“Bradford is a sensitive and intelligent writer.”
—Los Angeles Herald Examiner
“Bradford has a sharp eye for detail,
her characters own some complexity, and
there’s a knowing quality to observations
on how people work.”
—Phoenix Gazette
“[Bradford is] an icon
of the contemporary novel.”
—News-Progress (Chase City, Va.)
Part One
A MATTER OF INTEGRITY
Chapter 1
I
Kosovo, August 1998 The three of us sat in a small copse situated at the far end of the village, taking shelter from the blistering heat. It was bosky and cool on this scorching summer’s day.
The jeep was parked out on the road nearby, and I peered toward it, frowning slightly, wondering what had happened to Ajet, our adviser, guide, and driver. He had gone on foot to the village, having several days before arranged to meet an old school friend there, who in turn would take us to see the leaders of the K.L.A. According to Ajet, the Kosovo Liberation Army had their main training camp in the vicinity of the village, and Ajet had assured us in Pe , and then again on the drive here, that the leaders would be in the camp, and that they would be more than willing to have their photographs taken for transmission to newspapers and magazines around the world. “Everyone should know the truth, should know about our cause, our just and rightful cause,” Ajet had said to us time and again.
When he had left the copse ages ago, he had been smiling cheerfully, happy at the idea of meeting his old friend, and I had watched him step out jauntily as he walked down the dusty road in a determined and purposeful manner. But that had been over three hours ago, and he had still not returned, and this disturbed me. I could not help wondering if something unforeseen, something bad, had happened to the friendly young Kosovar who had been so helpful to us.
I rose and walked through the trees, shading my eyes with my hand and looking down the dirt road. There was no sign of Ajet, and, in fact, there was very little activity at all. But I waited for a short while longer, hoping he would appear at any moment.
My name is Valentine Denning, and I’m a New Yorker born and bred, but now I base myself in Paris, where I work as a photojournalist for Gemstar, a well-known international news-photo agency. With the exception of my grandfather, no one in my family ever thought I would become a photojournalist. When I was a child, Grandfather had spotted my desire to record everything I saw and bought me my first camera. My parents never paid much attention to me, and what I would do when I grew up never seemed to cross their minds. My brother Donald, to whom I was much closer in those days and tended to bully since he was younger, was forever after me to become a model, a job that held no attraction for me whatsoever. Donald kept pointing out that I was tall and slim, with long legs and an athletic build, as if I didn’t know my own body. I know I’m not pretty enough, but at least I don’t look too bad in the pictures Jake and Tony have taken of me. But I’m not much into clothes; I like T-shirts, khaki pants, white cotton shirts, and bush jackets, workmanlike clothes that are perfect for the life I lead.
I’m thirty-one years old, constantly traveling, living out of a suitcase, and then there are the crazy hours, the lack of comfort, even of the most basic of amenities, when I’m on the front lines covering wars and other disasters, not to mention the danger I often find myself facing. But I prefer this life to walking down a catwalk, showing off Paris couture.
Turning away from the road at last, I went back through the trees to rejoin Jake Newberg and Tony Hampton, comrades-in-arms, as Tony calls us. I think of these two men as my family; we’ve worked together for several years
now and we’re inseparable. Jake is my best friend, and Tony has graduated from best friend to lover in the past year. The three of us go everywhere together, and we always make sure we are on the same assignments for our news-photo agencies.
I gazed at Tony surreptitiously for a moment, thinking how fit and healthy he looked as he sat on part of a felled tree trunk, loading two of his cameras with rolls of new film. Tony, who is British, is ten years older than me. Stocky and muscular, he inherited his mother’s Black Irish good looks, and he is a handsome and charismatic man. But it’s his masculinity, his potent sexuality, that women find most appealing, even overwhelming, and certainly irresistible, as I have discovered.
Considered to be one of the world’s great war photographers, of the same ilk as the late Robert Capa, he is something of a risk taker when it comes to getting his pictures. This does not unduly worry me, although I know it gives Jake Newberg cause for concern; he has discussed it with me frequently of late.
I eyed Jake, sitting on the grass with his back to a tree, looking nonchalant as he made notes in the small blue leather notebook he always carries with him. Jake is also an American, “a Jew from Georgia” is the way he likes to describe himself. At thirty-eight, he is also one of the top war photographers, a prizewinner like Tony. I’ve won many awards myself but I’ve never attempted to put myself in their league, although Tony and Jake say I belong there, that I’m just as good as they are.
Jake is tall, lean, with a physical toughness about him that makes him seem indestructible; anyway, that is the way I view him. He’s an attractive man with an expressive face, blondish curly hair, and the most vivid blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Yet despite his puckishness and the mischievous twinkle that often glints in those eyes, I long ago discovered that Jake is the most compassionate of men. And I’ve come to appreciate his understanding of the complexities of the human heart and the human frailties we are all afflicted with.
Tony glanced up as he became aware of me hovering over him. “What is it?” he asked, frowning slightly. “Is something wrong?”
“I hope Ajet’s all right, Tony, he’s been gone—”
“I’m sure he is,” Tony cut in quickly with a certain firmness, and then he gave me a reassuring smile. “It’s very quiet, peaceful out there, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “There’s hardly any sign of life.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. I think the village is probably half deserted by now. It’s more than likely that a lot of locals have already left, are moving south ahead of the Serbian army, crossing the border into Albania as fast as they can.”
“You’re probably right.” I sat down on the grass and fell silent, ruminating.
Jake glanced at me and then pinned his eyes thoughtfully on Tony. He said in a brisk tone, “Let’s abandon this shoot, get the hell out of here, Tony. I’ve suddenly got a bad feeling.”
“But we won’t get this chance again,” I felt bound to point out, sitting up straighter, staring at Jake.
Before either man could address my comment, Ajet suddenly reappeared. He came wandering in from the road looking as if he had no cares in the world. Not only did he seem unperturbed, he actually looked pleased with himself, almost smug.
“Everything’s set up,” he announced in his perfect English, learned during the eight years he had lived and worked in Brooklyn, where his uncle and cousin still lived. “I saw my guy,” he continued, “I talked to him at length. We drank coffee. He has just closed his shop, gone out to the farmhouse in the fields at the other side of the village. The farmhouse is the K.L.A.’s headquarters now. He is going to bring the top leaders here—” Ajet broke off, looked at his watch, a cheap copy of a Rolex he had bought on the streets of Manhattan. He nodded to himself and finished, “One more hour. Yes, in one hour approximately they will come to the village. We will meet them at the shop. Now we relax, we wait here.”
“Good man!” Tony exclaimed, beaming at the young Kosovar. “And since we’ve got an hour to kill, we should eat. Let’s get the bottled water and the sandwiches from the jeep.” Jumping up, Tony started to walk toward the road.
Ajet exclaimed, “No, no, Tony, please sit down! Please. Do not trouble yourself. I will go for the box of sandwiches and the water.”
I murmured, “I’m not hungry, but I would love some water.”
“No food for me either,” Jake said. “Just water, like Val.”
The young man hurried off, and I looked at Tony and then at Jake. “I might go down the road to the village, mosey around a bit. What do you think?”
Jake nodded but made no comment.
Tony walked over to me, took hold of my hand, and pulled me up from the grass. “I don’t like you being out of my sight on a shoot like this, Val, especially since we don’t really know the lay of the land around here. But I think it’s okay; certainly Ajet doesn’t appear to be worried. So go for a walk if you want.”
Slipping his arm around my waist, he brought me closer to him, held me in a loving embrace. Against my hair he murmured, “I’d like to get back to Belgrade tonight, Vee. There’s something about your room at the hotel that I find most appealing.”
“It’s because I’m in it,” I answered, laughing, and I kissed his cheek. “At least, that better be the reason.”
“You know it is.” Holding me away from him, he smiled, his black eyes dancing, and then almost immediately his expression turned serious. “When you get down there, keep your eyes peeled and stay on the perimeters of the village. That way you can get back here quickly, should it be necessary.”
I leaned into him. “Don’t worry so much, I’ll be fine. By the way, I haven’t told you today that I love you, have I? But I do.”
“I love you too, Val.”
Ajet came back to the copse carrying a cardboard box. After placing it on the rocks, he opened it with a bit of a flourish and began to hand out the bottles of water, offering us the wrapped sandwiches from the hotel in Pe. He went on fussing around us and behaving as though he were serving us at a grand banquet, and Tony and Jake exchanged amused, knowing looks and laughed.
I had been loading my camera, and I looked from one to the other and asked, “Am I missing something? What’s the joke?”
“No joke,” Tony said, and blew me a kiss.
II
I focused my Leica 35mm on the ragtag collection of children ahead of me, a short way down the road. There were five of them in all, sitting together against a ruined wall. As I peered through my lens, I took in their pallor, their haunted expressions, and the fear clouding their innocent young eyes.
A heartbreaking little band, I thought, so forlorn on this bright, sunny day. A day for playing. Not a day for war. I repressed a sigh and began taking pictures.
A flurry of unexpected activity had begun to erupt all around me . . . exploding bombs, mortar fire, the rumble of tanks in the distance. The sound of gunfire was breaking the quietness of the afternoon, and I instantly abandoned the shots of the children. Closer by, I heard screams, the sound of running feet, people scattering, seeking safety. And then more screams filled the air, along with the staccato rat-a-tat of machine guns, and guns not so far away at that.
All of my senses were alerted to danger, and my chest tightened, and I sucked in my breath sharply when I saw Tony rushing out of the copse just behind me. I had left him there only a few minutes before, sitting on the rocks with Jake, eating a sandwich.
Now he was sprinting toward the line of fire.
I raced after him in his wake. And dimly, in the distance, I heard Jake behind us, shouting, “Val! Val! Don’t follow him, for God’s sake. It’s too dangerous.”
I paid no attention.
Tony was our leader, and as always he was hell-bent on getting the best pictures, whatever war we were covering and no matter what the cost. Taking risks meant nothing to him. He seemed to thrive on danger, as well I knew. Tony was consistently in harm’s way, and so were we because of him, although, as he frequently reminded us
, we did have a choice of whether or not to follow him into the fray.
Once again Jake’s voice carried to me above the noise of exploding shells and deafening artillery. “Val! Stop! Don’t follow Tony.”
I did not stop. Nor did I look back. I was hard on Tony’s heels, my camera held tightly in my hands, my mind, my entire being, concentrated on one thing: Doing my job as professionally as possible and getting the best pictures I could.
I could hear Jake coming after me and Tony. I realized his warnings of a moment earlier had been pushed to one side, indeed probably forgotten altogether. What he always wanted was to reach me, grab hold of me, and pull me out of danger.
Kalashnikovs were spraying bullets from all sides and the shelling was rapidly growing heavier; the summer air was thick with smoke and dust, the smell of cordite mingling with that of blood. And the stench of death was suddenly all-pervasive, numbing, and I wished we had never come here.
We had arrived late that morning to take a few simple photographs of the Kosovo Liberation Army’s leaders; now, unexpectedly, we found ourselves in the midst of this violent battle between the K.L.A. and Serbian troops. I couldn’t help wondering if this was a deadly ambush, a trap we had walked into with our eyes wide open. And where was Ajet? I hoped the young Kosovar had been smart enough to stay in the copse, and that hopefully he had driven the jeep into the trees for safety.
I knew that Serbian troops had been moving south for days, keeping up the deadliest fighting along the way, brutally driving the Kosovars out of their villages and towns. Thousands of terrified civilians were already on the move, a steady stream of humanity being cruelly driven from their homes and homeland, seeking safety across the borders in Albania and Macedonia.
Unexpectedly, a small boy appeared as if from nowhere, and began to totter forward on his thin little legs, heading directly into the line of fire, oblivious of the fighting and the melee spinning around him. I saw him out of the corner of my eye and reacted instantly. Veering to my right, I sped over to the child and threw myself on top of him, all of my instincts compelling me to protect him no matter what.
Bombs continued to explode, and pieces of shrapnel were swirling like deadly snowflakes. I covered the child with my body, put my arms around him, and held him tightly. He was shaking, and this did not surprise me one bit. I detested the sound of the guns and bombs myself; they were discordant and frightening, and most especially to a small child.