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from there herself but she’d have well and truly missed her deadline. Her name would be mud.
    ‘Are you all right, Miss?’ the corporal said. He poured her a glass of water.
    Alex mopped her brow. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered. She slumped forward, elbows on the desk, head in her hands. Her first step back into action and it was all going wrong. She’d feared as much.
    ‘Hey, we’re back on,’ the corporal shouted, excited, rushing to his screen. ‘Try it.’
    Alex pressed the send key. This time it worked, sending her pictures 6,000 miles in seconds. Her eyes filled with tears of relief.
    A minute later, her mobile rang. ‘We got them, Alex. Well done,’ Phil said. ‘Captions?’
    ‘Sorry, not much time. The Brit sitting on the left is Brigadier… wait a sec.’ She checked her notebook. ‘Graham Binns, commander of the Seventh Brigade, the guy in civvies I think you’ll know. The meeting was at Basra Airport – all British top brass. Gotta dash, man. Ciao.’
    She hurriedly packed her gear, gave the corporal a hug, and dashed out of the corridor.
    When she reached the airport apron, Kowolski was waiting for her at the bottom of the aircraft steps. He escorted her to her seat.
    ‘That was a close one,’ Kowolski said, fumbling with his seatbelt.
    ‘Thanks for waiting. Don’t know how you managed it.’
    ‘I told them I’d been charged with looking after you and I wasn’t shifting.’
    She nodded her appreciation. Maybe she’d got this guy figured wrongly. It wasn’t every day she’d be able to keep someone like Rumsfeld waiting. Perhaps Kowolski did have a streak of humanity in him.
    Alex took the beret out of her pocket, ran a hand through her hair, and put it on.
    Kowolski watched. ‘I like the way you moved back there,’ he murmured. ‘You do know you were my choice to come on this assignment?’
    ‘To take pictures – nothing else.’
    ‘Whatever gave you the idea that… ?’
    ‘Just call it a girl’s intuition.’ She looked him straight in the eye, half expecting a blast.
    Instead, he chuckled. ‘Okay, I surrender. I guess I’m not as smart as I think I am.’
    ‘No, I guess you’re pretty smart.’ Then she made an extravagant show of patting her camera case. ‘Just remember, though, I’m also pretty smart at capturing someone’s bad side as well astheir good. You wouldn’t like a nice negative piece in Newsweek by any chance?’
    His face reddened. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he spluttered.
    ‘We could headline it on the high-flyer who’s scared of aeroplanes – that’s a great angle,’ she said, smiling mischievously.
    ‘I’d hoped it wouldn’t be that obvious,’ he said, defeated. ‘Between you and me, okay?’
    She nodded, watching him grip the arms of his seat once more. Realising her guard had been lowered, she resolved to watch her step. She was sure he hadn’t got where he was by being a regular Joe.
    Until recently, she’d thought Richard Northwood a nice guy.
    *  *  *
    A little over six weeks earlier, traffic on the road from the airport north of Baghdad city looked like any major route of four lanes – cars, lorries, vans, petrol tankers. The only ostensible hazard was the large number of vehicles loaded to bursting, crammed with as many people as possible.
    But all moved reasonably smoothly – unless Saddam was on his way. Then, chaos reigned. Policemen suddenly turned into monsters, commanding major junctions with frightening ferocity, halting and haranguing, fearful of being singled out for incompetence. Saddam and his Republican Guards demanded smooth passage and stopped for no one.
    Now, it was one of the most dangerous roads in the country. Pockets of resistance were appearing with alarming frequency, each time bolder in their resurgence. Roadside bombs, snipers, the occasional rocket-propelled grenade, all serving to remind whoever dared travel the highway that this was no Route 66.
    Kowolski descended the steps of the plane at Baghdad