“What did you just say?”

“You heard. The hell with this—who in God’s name do you think you are? Do this. Do that. Call back every five seconds. No one works like that.”

There was a silence. When he next spoke, Rowland’s voice was very cool and dangerously polite.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. You seem to have some problem in understanding what I say. You’re off this story—you’ve got that? And I very much doubt, given the circumstances, that you’ll work for me again. I had my doubts about you, and the way in which you operate—”

“What?” Something in his tone made Gini tense. “What do you mean—the way I operate?”

“I thought—I was fool enough to think—I was a good judge of character. I see now…” His voice was becoming angry again. “All those apologies of yours, that sob story you gave me in the car about how you’d lost confidence—it didn’t mean a damn thing. Dear God—I should have known. I blame myself. You used me to get this story the same way you used Pascal Lamartine to get you to Bosnia. Why did you do that? It wasn’t necessary. I told you—”

“What did you just say?” Gini had gone very cold. “I used Pascal? How dare you say that? No way is that true.”

“Oh, it isn’t? Fine. My mistake. Look, I have to go. Just get that plane.”

“No. You wait. Don’t you dare hang up. You’re going to explain that, Rowland, and explain now. And don’t damn well tell me what to do and where to go.”

“Goddamn it, I’m your editor. I put you on this story—God only knows why—and I can take you off it anytime I choose.”

“Don’t pull rank on me—Lindsay was right about you. She said you were arrogant. Sitting in London, passing judgment, leaping to conclusions… You know nothing about my going to Bosnia. Why don’t you check? Ask Max…”

“Oh, I’ve already asked Max. You knew Max would never agree to send you to Bosnia, didn’t you? You tried everything, even played him off against the Times, and when that didn’t work, you sent your boyfriend in to clinch the deal.”

“I did what? That’s not true—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gini fought to control her voice; she had begun to tremble, and she could sense it, some vile revelation, very close. “You’ve been listening to lies—someone’s cheap lies—”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice rose. “I don’t damned well listen to gossip and rumor. Lamartine made a deal with Max. I know that for a fact. Max wanted Lamartine’s photographs—and when Lamartine made your presence a condition of working for us, Max gave in. He’d never have sent you out there otherwise. And judging from your present behavior, Max was right. You’re erratic, and untrustworthy, and—”

“Pascal wouldn’t do that!” She heard her own protest echo into the telephone. Her voice had risen, and was unsteady. Tears had sprung to her eyes. “How can you say that? How dare you say that? You know nothing about me. Nothing about Pascal. Pascal would never make conditions of that kind. Unlike you, he’s a professional.”