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Her mind was solely focussed on the best composition to reflect the mood of the meeting.
    Had she dared tune in to the talk of the dead and the injured, the battles and the strategies, she would have been repulsed. So she worked with the cool detachment of a nurse cutting away the bloodied clothes of yet another hopeless casualty.
    She glided to the far side of several large coffee tables, chose one of the two cameras around her neck to capture a wide-angled shot. Oh good , she said inwardly as Rumsfeld crossed his legs, leant back in the seat, then pressed his fingers together, raising his hands to his lips in contemplative fashion.
    By capturing the two plates of uneaten biscuits in the foreground, she hoped it would convey the seriousness of the talks. Relaxed as the meeting was, closer inspection of her pictures would reveal there had been no time for cookies.
    Kowolski watched her intently. A British officer began anassessment of the current situation in Basra, a baton pointing to a large map of the city on an easel at the front of the room. She was good, Kowolski thought, just like they’d told him. Fast, efficient, nimble. No fuss.
    Alex checked her watch. The meeting had twenty minutes to run, giving her time to send the first batch of photographs over to New York. But, to her horror, she realised they were winding up now.
    She swore under her breath. Quickly leaving the room, she hurried along the corridor to a small office, almost slipping on the polished marble floor.
    The world was waiting for her pictures. Missing her deadline would be a disaster. And what if they wouldn’t wait for her when they left for Baghdad? If Rumsfeld said jump – everybody jumped. Kowolski would be powerless to delay the plane, she was sure.
    ‘Ah, there you are, Miss,’ a British army corporal said. ‘But I’m afraid the lines are down at the minute.’
    ‘Oh, no!’ she gasped, putting her gear down on a desk with a clatter.
    Kowolski put his head round the door. ‘We gotta go – now!’
    ‘No chance,’ Alex said. ‘I need more time.’
    ‘Fuck,’ he shouted storming off.
    Retrieving a USB connector from her camera case, she plugged one end into a camera, the other into her laptop. Her pictures downloaded in seconds, flashing up on screen as thumbnails. Then, satisfied, she repeated the exercise with the other camera.
    She typed in an email address, pressed the send button. Nothing.
    The corporal watched the screen over her shoulder. ‘It can be down for minutes – or hours. Pot luck mostly.’
    Flipping open her mobile phone, she checked for a signal, pressed a fast-dial key and waited. ‘Phil, hi… it’s Alex in Iraq. The first batch of stuff from Basra will be on its way shortly.’
    ‘Shortly?’ the agency’s picture editor demanded.
    ‘Lines are down.’
    ‘Shit.’
    She could hear Phil’s agitated voice booming out across his office, imagined the wheels of consternation starting to spin. The agency prided itself on a slick service to the nation’s media. Everyone would be awaiting Alex’s pictures – they’d have been scheduled in editorial conferences up and down the country.
    Voices in the corridor outside grew louder, someone arguing. Damn , they were on the move. Her eyes returned to the screen. The waiting was agony. She could feel the perspiration running down the sides of her body, her face on fire. It shot through her mind that she needed a drink.
    Phil came back to her. ‘This ain’t gonna look good, Alex.’
    ‘Tell me about it,’ she said, a note of defeat in her voice.
    Her mind in turmoil, she tried to think of the best plan of action. It was possible to transfer her picture file to the corporal’s computer and ask him if he would send it. Then she could still catch the flight to Baghdad. But it would be torture being airborne not knowing if the agency had received them or not. And if she reached Baghdad to find the pictures had still not got through, what then? She could file them