Where You Belong by Barbara Taylor Bradford Page A

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.”
    â€œTerry 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?”
    â€œThere’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.”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œNothing’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