Where You Belong (8 page)

I

Paris, September
The persona Tony Hampton had presented to the world had been dazzling. Intrepid war photographer, one of the most brilliant photojournalists of this decade, courageous, charismatic, a handsome and divine ladies' man, raconteur par excellence, bon vivant, and most generous host.

But there had been another side to him. He had been a liar and a cheat and he had undoubtedly led a double life. This is what I now truly believed even though I had only my own intuition to go on.

Maybe Jake wouldn't entirely agree with me, but I felt quite certain there had been a much darker side to Tony. Being in the bosom of his family at the memorial service earlier today had convinced me of this. And I was now absolutely positive he had never been divorced from Fiona. From his family's behavior, and all that they had said, I placed him right in their midst until he left London in July. It was then he had come to Paris to pick us up, so that we could head out to Kosovo together. And he had been happily ensconced in their midst, from what I deducted.

I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom, and I reached out, picked up the photograph of Tony in its silver frame. I held it in both hands, staring at his face. He stood there on the deck of the sloop anchored off St. Tropez last year, squinting in the summer sunshine. So dashing, so debonair . . . so enigmatic . . .

And I couldn't help wondering about him, wondering about his complicated life and what it had been all about in the end.

He would have been a psychiatrist's dream, I thought. Put him on a couch for analysis and God knows what he would have spilled. Or would he? Psychotics didn't always do that, did they?

Psychotic.

The word hung there. Silently, I repeated it in my head, considered it carefully, asking myself why it had popped into my mind. And yet it did seem appropriate, didn't it? Tony was psychotic, wasn't he?

I put the photograph back in its given place on the desk, leaned back in my chair, and stared off into space. In the far reaches of my mind I'd had Tony Hampton under a mental microscope for a good part of the day, and I didn't like what I'd seen; nor did my conclusions about him elate me.

He was not just a liar telling small white lies—didn't we all do that at times?—but a pathological liar telling real whoppers, lies that were dangerous because they could conceivably do damage to people, cause them great heartache, and change their lives, and not always for the best.

That deep-seated lying had probably become a way of life for him. He couldn't stop because he couldn't help himself. Then again, he had needed to lie for his own protection. He had spun a web of deceit he couldn't crawl out of; he had entrapped himself with his complex machinations.

Then there was his adultery. It had been compulsive, excessive, a dominant force in his life, and it had obviously grown out of hand over the years. It became an addiction, I was sure.

I hadn't needed Jake to inform me today about the many women Tony had been involved with before me. I was well aware of his countless affairs; after all, we'd worked together, traveled together on various assignments.

Naturally Tony had tried to keep these women under wraps, and a secret, because his private life was his private life. It was none of my business, in his opinion. Nor was it Jake's business either, and so he had striven for privacy.

However, I could put two and two together and come up with six, just like everyone else. Tony had always underestimated me, and so had Jake. Just because I never discussed Tony's international sexual dalliances didn't mean that I didn't know they existed. I did know, and I didn't care. After all, I wasn't in love with him then, not involved in that way. This knowledge hadn't changed my opinion of him in those days. I thought he was a great guy, a good human being, and naturally I admired his talent as a photojournalist. It was more than that really; I considered it an honor to work alongside him.

But to think Jake believed I hadn't known about Tony's very busy love life . . . how ludicrous that was. I was much smarter than he imagined, than Tony imagined. I suddenly wanted to laugh out loud at the mere idea of it.

All those women . . . and one in particular whom I had known and disliked. I thought of her now. . . .

II

It was April 1996, and for once Tony and I were on assignment without Jake. He had gone to New York to deal with his divorce from Sue Ellen Jones, the famous model, and Tony and I had flown out to the Middle East for our respective news-photo agencies. We were in Lebanon to cover the new hostilities that had erupted between the Israelis and Hezbollah.

The long civil war was over by that time and things were beginning to mend, beginning to get back to normal, and then the skirmishing had unexpectedly started once more.

For the first time in fourteen years the Israelis had attacked Beirut directly, using laser-homing Hellfire missiles shot from four helicopter gunships off the coast.

The Israelis were not the aggressors though. They were actually responding to Hezbollah's recent bombing of their country. And that war of attrition had started up again because Hezbollah had then retaliated after the missile attack, sending forty rockets smack into the middle of Israel. And so it went. . . .

One lovely spring day—late in the afternoon, actually—Tony and I were sitting in the bar of the Marriott Hotel in the Hamra district of Beirut. I suppose I'll never forget that day, because we had had such bad news about a colleague of ours, Bill Fitzgerald of CNS, one of the American cable television networks. He had disappeared several days earlier, and none of us knew what had happened to him. We were all a bit nervous and concerned, and afraid for Bill.

Two of his crew, who had been with him out on the streets, had seen him grabbed by three young men, who had hustled him into a waiting Mercedes and then driven off at breakneck speed. The two crew members had been alert, and at once they jumped into their car and followed in furious pursuit. But the Mercedes disappeared—into thin air.

Since then there had been no news about Bill, and none of the terrorist organizations claimed his kidnapping. Who had snatched him, and for what purpose, we did not know.

But as we sat around in the bar that day, drinking with a group of international correspondents, all of us were offering theories, and speculation was rampant.

III

“Islamic Jihad,” I had said all of a sudden, glancing around the table at my companions. “They've got him.”

“But why would they have grabbed him?” Tony had asked. “And if it is them, what have they got to gain, Val? Listen, snatching a newsman just doesn't make sense.”

“It might. They've managed to make use of hostages before,” I'd shot back. “And don't forget, Islamic Jihad is the terrorist arm of Hezbollah. Its members are extremely dangerous, unpredictable, and nuts.”

Tony had given me a strange look, but he had said nothing else.

Frank Petersen, of Time magazine, had exclaimed, “I agree with you, Val, Islamic Jihad is full of real wackos. And it's got to be them, in my opinion. They're the ones who took Terry Anderson and William Buckley, and they're not known for their fast releases.”

“Terry Anderson was a hostage for seven years,” I had muttered. “Jesus, this is just awful. Does anyone know what Bill's network is doing about finding him?”

“There's not a lot they can do, Val.”

I had looked across at Joe Alonzo as he spoke. He had just arrived, and he was Bill Fitzgerald's soundman, had been on the streets with Bill when he was taken. Sitting down at the table with us, Joe went on. “Bill's photo has been circulated throughout Beirut, throughout Lebanon in fact. Pressure has been put on the Lebanese and Syrian governments, and on the White House too. But until somebody claims responsibility for the kidnapping, there's not much else CNS can do. Our network doesn't know who to deal with, Val.”

At that moment Allan Brent, the Middle East bureau chief for CNN, had hurried into the bar, glanced around, and made a beeline for our table. His face was extremely grim. “We've just had a news flash. About Bill. Hezbollah did it. Well, they're claiming they've got him.”

“Oh, shit,” Tony had said, and shaken his head in dismay. “I still don't get it . . . why would they grab a newsman . . .” His voice had trailed off weakly.

The CNS correspondent who was covering for Bill Fitzgerald had also arrived at our table. His name was Mark Lawrence, and it was apparent he was distressed. “I guess you've heard it from Allan. Islamic Jihad just announced Bill is their captive.” He looked about to burst into tears.

“That group is so unstable, so fanatical, I think Bill has to be in very grave danger,” I had murmured gloomily. And later, very sadly, I was proven to be correct in this prediction. Bill never did make it out alive.

As the others had gone on talking about Bill's predicament, speculating about his fate in concerned voices, Tony leaned closer to me and stared into my face in the most peculiar way. He was actually studying me very intently. For a few seconds I hadn't been able to fathom the meaning of this close scrutiny, until it struck me he was actually giving me the once-over. And in the most appraising manner. It was as if he were suddenly seeing me differently, objectively, and in a new light.

“What's wrong?” I finally asked him, irritated. He had begun to make me feel uncomfortable, nervous even, and I didn't appreciate those feelings. He had never acted like this before, and I was puzzled and annoyed with him.

“Nothing's wrong,” he had answered lightly, leaning back, balancing his chair precariously on its two back legs. “Where do you want to go to dinner tonight, Val? I've invited Anne Curtis to join us. We'll have a good meal, go to a club afterward, go dancing. If you like, I'll ask Frank to come along. We can make it a foursome, Val.”

I had been thunderstruck, and I had stared at him speechlessly, unable to comprehend how he could speak so nonchalantly about having a social evening when we were all so devastated, so worried about Bill's kidnapping. Who the hell cared about dinner, for God's sake, when a man's life was at stake, I had thought indignantly. But the words hadn't left my mouth; they'd remained stuck in my throat, although more from disgust with him than reticence on my part.

Tony was being insensitive and callous, and I was suddenly very, very angry with him. But before I'd had a chance to chastise him for his heartlessness, Anne Curtis herself came over to join us.

She was English, but so dark of complexion and coloring I'd always thought she must have Mediterranean or Middle Eastern ancestry. She was with the BBC World Service, and was a brilliant radio journalist. On various occasions she'd tried to be friendly, but I'd never warmed to her. There was something about her that struck me as being untrustworthy, although I had nothing specific to go on. It was just an instinctive feeling on my part.

But it was quite obvious she had warmed to Tony.

She had squeezed in between the two of us when Frank had very gallantly pulled up a chair for her, and although Tony had remained cool and detached, the look in her eyes had told me plenty.

I had guessed at once that they were embroiled in a hot affair; this suspicion was confirmed later that evening, when we did finally go out to dinner, dragging Frank Petersen along with us. Anne had left little to anyone's imagination. The manner in which she had drooled over Tony, in the most disgusting and juvenile way, had telegraphed everything to me. And to Frank, who had appeared to be somewhat embarrassed by her performance. Yet I'd had to hand it to Tony that night. He hadn't batted an eyelash; what's more, he had appeared so completely indifferent to her, it was quite amazing. He deserves an Academy Award, I thought at the time.

The following day I'd run into Anne in the lobby of the Commodore Hotel, and she had attacked me verbally, berating me in the worst way and accusing me of being a spoilsport. “You don't have to tell me you didn't enjoy the evening,” she had announced, glaring at me. “It was written all over your face. You made us all suffer, constantly going on about Bill Fitzgerald. Poor Frank didn't know how to cope. He is Bill's best friend, you know.”

“Of course Frank knew how to handle it,” I'd exclaimed, glaring back at her. “Mostly I think he was cringing at your behavior.”

“You can't have him, my dear,” she had cried heatedly, leaning into me almost threateningly. “Tony belongs to me. He's mine and I intend to keep him. Permanently. So just keep your jealous little paws off him, Valentine. Understand me, kiddo?”

I remember I had stared at her aghast, told her she'd gotten it all wrong, and then hurried off mortified. I was furious not only with her, but with Tony as well, for putting me in such an untenable position.

And I had continued to seethe about that evening for quite a while. Anne's accusations didn't particularly bother me in the long run, since they were patently ridiculous, but what did upset me was Tony's callousness, his lack of concern for Bill Fitzgerald.

I began to despise myself for going to that dinner, for being a party to it under the circumstances. I also continued to be disturbed by Tony's behavior, his thoughtlessness that night. But eventually I let it go, and soon I found myself making excuses for him . . . as war photographers we lived with constant danger, took terrible chances when we hurled ourselves into the fray on the front lines or in disaster areas. And so, in a certain way, we did become inured to tragedy, perhaps because there was so much of it around us. Tragedy was commonplace for journalists like us, human suffering the norm.