The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline(254)

I was ready to pack up and try to sleep, when I received an email from my editor. He was doing his best, but warned me it could be three or four days before he managed to get a flight. And he wanted to speak to me.

Just as I was about to call him, the signal on my cell disappeared again. I trailed down to reception to call him from the hotel’s landline, which was only slightly more reliable.

When I finally got through, I gave him more information about Liz’s death—the things I hadn’t been able to put in her obituary. Sounding shocked, he promised he’d get me out as soon as possible.

After that, I didn’t feel like sleeping, so, instead, I spent the day wandering the echoing halls of the Afghanistan National Museum. Seventy percent of the artifacts had disappeared during looting over the past three decades, but the museum was slowly coming back to life. I took the opportunity to interview several of the enthusiastic, but poorly-paid, curators. They were hopeful that the long, cultural history had a future in their country.

I hoped they were right, and I was glad that someone felt optimistic about Afghanistan’s future.

Wearily, I returned to my hotel room and wrote another letter to Sebastian. This time I told him about the surf spots at Long Beach, up to the Hamptons and as far as Montauk.

I tried hard to make my letter upbeat and cheerful, but it was difficult when I knew I wouldn’t see him for at least another five months.

When I’d finished, I kicked off my boots and lay down.

I hadn’t eaten and I wasn’t hungry. At least I was tired: I curled up under the sheets, in the unbelievable comfort of the narrow bed, and wished that Sebastian’s warm body was next to me, with his breath on my neck, and his arms around my waist.



A loud knock on the door woke me from a light sleep. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. I squinted at my wristwatch: 2.45 am.

“Who is it?” I said, loudly and clearly.

“Phone call.”

It was a voice I didn’t recognize.

“Who’s calling me?”

“Phone call.”

I couldn’t tell if it was simply that the person outside my door didn’t speak English, or whether I was in danger. I didn’t like it at all, and my anxiety levels shot up to Defcon 1.

Without speaking again, I slipped on my boots, and picked up my evac-grab bag, with my finger one button away from dialing the emergency contact number on my cell.

I looked through the peephole in my door but couldn’t see anyone; I listened carefully but couldn’t hear anything. I was well aware that someone could easily be waiting for me out of my sightline.

I took a deep breath and yanked the door open: the corridor was empty. Which meant the phone call could very well be genuine and not a ruse. I hurried down the stairs, avoiding the elevator, and made my way to the reception area.

A young man in a heavily embroidered vest over a loose, white shirt was sitting at the desk, half asleep. As I approached, he jerked awake.

“Venzi?”

“Ao,” I replied. Yes.

“Phone call,” he said, pointing at the telephone on his desk.

I picked it up tentatively.

“As-salaamu’ alaykum. This is Lee Venzi.”

“Caroline. At last! It’s David.”

“David?” What the hell was my ex-husband doing calling me in the middle of the night? Was he drunk?

“What’s the matter? How did you find me, David? Are you all right?”

“Caroline, listen, I don’t have much time. I’m at the field hospital at Camp Bastion. It’s Hunter.”

“Sebastian?”

Oh no, please God, no.

“I’m sorry, Caroline: he was brought in five hours ago. I’ve been trying to find you.”

I felt sick and cold, and my knees gave way. I slumped into a chair, clattering the legs against the front desk and making the young man jump.

“What’s happened? David, please tell me!”

His voice crackled at the end of the line.

“They’re still trying to establish the facts, but off the record, it was another green-on-blue attack: sniper and a suicide bomber, they think. Caroline, you can’t report any of this.”

“I don’t care about that, damn it! How’s Sebastian? Is he … is he hurt? Badly? How badly?”

He hesitated long enough for my world to end.

“Yes, it’s pretty bad.” He paused briefly, then snapped into doctor mode. “He has a gunshot injury that has induced a pneumothorax—a collapsed lung. We’re not too worried about that as the exit wound is clear and the bullet passed through cleanly, although there may be some nerve damage to his left arm resulting in limited fine motor skills…”

All the breath left my body.