Private Scandals

makeup, hair, wardrobe and pre-production. Then there’d been an interview, a staff meeting, phone calls to return, mail to screen.
    Mail that had included another odd letter from what she was coming to think of as her most persistent fan.
    You look like a sexy angel with your hair short.
I love the way you look.
I love you.
    She’d tucked the note away and had answered three dozen others. All that before she’d hopped a plane with Jeff for Indianapolis and the tour of the affiliate, the meetings and handshakes with the local staff, the business lunch, the spot on the news and now this never-ending banquet.
    No, a good show wasn’t enough. She had to be diplomat, ambassador, boss, business partner and celebrity. And she had to wear each and every hat correctly—while pretending she wasn’t lonely, or worried about Finn, or missing those quiet hours when she could curl up with a book for pleasure rather than because she’d be interviewing the author.
    This was what she wanted, Deanna told herself, and beamed at the waiter as he served the peach melba.
    “You can sleep on the plane going home,” Jeff whispered in her ear.
    “It shows?”
    “Just a little.”
    She excused herself and pushed back from the table. If she couldn’t fix the fatigue, at least she could fix its signs.
    She was nearly at the doors when she heard someone tap on the podium mike. Automatically, she looked back and saw Fred Banks standing under the lights. “If I can have your attention. I’ve just received word that Baghdad is under attack by UN forces.”
    There was a buzzing in Deanna’s ears. Dimly she heard the noise level rise in the ballroom, like a sea at high tide. From somewhere nearby a waiter raised a triumphant fist.
    “I hope they kick that bastard’s sorry butt.”
    Slowly, all fatigue washing away, she walked back to the table. She had a job to finish.
     
    Finn sat on the floor of a hotel bedroom, his laptop on his knees. He hammered out copy as fast as it could pass from his mind to his fingers. It was nearly dawn now, and though his eyes were gritty, he felt no sense of fatigue. Outside, the fire-fight continued. Inside, a game of cat and mouse was under way.
    During the past three hours, they had moved twice, hauling equipment and provisions. While Iraqi soldiers swept the building, moving guests and international news crews to the basement of the hotel, Finn and his crew had slipped from room to room. The successful intrigue had his blood pumping.
    While he took his round at sentry duty, his two companions sprawled on the bed and snatched sleep.
    Satisfied with the copy he’d finished thus far, Finn turned off the computer. He rose, working out the kinks in his back, in his neck, and thinking wistfully of breakfast: blueberry pancakes and gallons of hot coffee. He made do with a handful of Curt’s trail mix, then hefted the camera.
    At the window he recorded the final images of the first day of war, the lightning flashes of cruise missiles and smart bombs, the streaks of tracers. He speculated on how much devastation they would see when dawn broke. And how much they would get on tape.
    “I’m gonna have to report you to the union, pal.”
    Finn lowered the camera and glanced back at Curt. The cameraman was standing beside the bed, rubbing his tired eyes.
    “You’re just pissed because I can handle this baby as well as you.”
    “Shit.” Challenged, Curt walked over to take the camera. “You can’t do nothing but look pretty on tape.”
    “Then get ready to prove it. I’ve got some copy to read.”
    “You’re the boss.” He rolled tape in silence as bombsexploded. “Are we going to work on a way to get out of here?”
    “I’ve got some contacts in Baghdad.” Finn watched the fires leaping from the horizon. “Maybe.”
     
    The moment the last after-dinner speech was finished, the last hand shaken, the last cheek kissed, Deanna headed for a phone. While Deanna called Fran and Richard, Jeff used the phone beside her to contact the Chicago newsroom.
    “What?” Richard answered with a snarl. “What is it?”
    “Richard? Richard, it’s Deanna. I’m on my way to the airport in Indianapolis. I heard about the air strike, and—”
    “Yeah, right. We heard. But we’ve got our own little crisis right here. Fran’s in labor. We’re just about to head out to the hospital.”
    “Now?” Because it felt like her circuits were about to overload, Deanna pressed her fingers hard against her