and mentioned his tragic death, along with his only child, in a boating accident fourteen years ago. ‘I don’t know what sort of tangle she’s in, but I do believe that she’s scared and for whatever reason, she doesn’t feel that she has anyone to take her back.’
‘Maybe that says something about what sort of person she is,’ Granddad had pointed out. ‘A person has friends, if not family.’
‘Do they? I thought I had friends in the unit. Nearly all of them turned on me. They took their lead from the major.’ And his betrayal had hit Brodie hardest. Major Folke and he had served together in Afghanistan. ‘Sometimes you can’t trust the people you know. They have their own agendas. And when you think about the amount of money involved…’
Granddad had nodded his abrupt agreement. ‘True enough. Just don’t go sticking your neck out.’
‘I don’t know.’ Brodie had grinned ruefully. ‘It’s what I do best.’
And it had gotten him into all sorts of trouble in the past. Now here he boarding the plane to Sydney with Jessica. ‘I’ve not travelled first class before.’
‘I don’t usually.’ She ducked her head, colour flushing her face. ‘I thought, with your long legs, it would be more comfortable.’
She’d bought first-class tickets for his sake.
‘Thanks, Jessica.’
‘Would you like the window seat?’ There was something endearing in the awkward way she ignored his thanks.
‘You can have it.’
That brought a small smile. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ She sat in the window seat and glanced up at him. ‘I read once that men prefer aisle seats.’
‘More room.’ She’d think he meant legroom; really he meant room to manoeuvre. Plus, the aisle seat put him between Jessica and any threat. He allowed himself a grim smile. You could take a soldier out of a combat zone; you couldn’t always take combat-readiness out of the soldier. He’d always see the world as containing threats, and he’d act to neutralise them.
The silences between them were relaxed enough, but it was a four-hour flight to Sydney. Brodie waited till the steward had served them. He had accepted a breakfast tray. Jessica just wanted a cup of tea. ‘So, you’re an archaeologist?’
‘How did you…oh, you ran a search. Yes. I don’t dig, though.’
‘Just teach?’ He cut into bacon that had never been crisp. Fortunately, the army taught a man to take the bad with the good, and the meal included a grilled tomato.
‘Well, yes, but what I meant was that not all archaeologists go out into the field armed with trowels to dig up the past.’
‘Ah. I sense that people generally make that assumption.’
‘Do I sound defensive?’ A hint of laughter lightened her voice.
‘A bit bored with the same old questions.’
She smiled. ‘Archaeologists like the old questions best.’
‘So what is it you do exactly?’
‘I read the old languages. Egyptian hieroglyphs.’
‘You can read those? Really?’
‘You needn’t look so impressed. They’re probably simpler than military codes.’ But she smiled, pleased. ‘My real interest is the Hittites.’
‘They were from Turkey, weren’t they?’
She stared. ‘Wow. Not many people know about the Hittites, although they are mentioned in the Bible.’
He grinned. ‘No, that’s not where I read about them. I read the title of your doctoral thesis, then looked up who the Hittites were.’
‘Sneaky.’ She toasted him with her teacup.
‘Any particular reason you focussed on the Hittites?’
‘I went on a dig in Anatolia in my second year as an undergraduate. The mystery of these people who’d controlled such a large area of the eastern Mediterranean fascinated me. What motivated them? What did they believe in? How did they live?’
‘But you didn’t continue with digging, field work?’
She put the teacup on the fold-down tray and twisted it back and forth by the handle. ‘It would have been too difficult. Dad had to explain the
‘Maybe that says something about what sort of person she is,’ Granddad had pointed out. ‘A person has friends, if not family.’
‘Do they? I thought I had friends in the unit. Nearly all of them turned on me. They took their lead from the major.’ And his betrayal had hit Brodie hardest. Major Folke and he had served together in Afghanistan. ‘Sometimes you can’t trust the people you know. They have their own agendas. And when you think about the amount of money involved…’
Granddad had nodded his abrupt agreement. ‘True enough. Just don’t go sticking your neck out.’
‘I don’t know.’ Brodie had grinned ruefully. ‘It’s what I do best.’
And it had gotten him into all sorts of trouble in the past. Now here he boarding the plane to Sydney with Jessica. ‘I’ve not travelled first class before.’
‘I don’t usually.’ She ducked her head, colour flushing her face. ‘I thought, with your long legs, it would be more comfortable.’
She’d bought first-class tickets for his sake.
‘Thanks, Jessica.’
‘Would you like the window seat?’ There was something endearing in the awkward way she ignored his thanks.
‘You can have it.’
That brought a small smile. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ She sat in the window seat and glanced up at him. ‘I read once that men prefer aisle seats.’
‘More room.’ She’d think he meant legroom; really he meant room to manoeuvre. Plus, the aisle seat put him between Jessica and any threat. He allowed himself a grim smile. You could take a soldier out of a combat zone; you couldn’t always take combat-readiness out of the soldier. He’d always see the world as containing threats, and he’d act to neutralise them.
The silences between them were relaxed enough, but it was a four-hour flight to Sydney. Brodie waited till the steward had served them. He had accepted a breakfast tray. Jessica just wanted a cup of tea. ‘So, you’re an archaeologist?’
‘How did you…oh, you ran a search. Yes. I don’t dig, though.’
‘Just teach?’ He cut into bacon that had never been crisp. Fortunately, the army taught a man to take the bad with the good, and the meal included a grilled tomato.
‘Well, yes, but what I meant was that not all archaeologists go out into the field armed with trowels to dig up the past.’
‘Ah. I sense that people generally make that assumption.’
‘Do I sound defensive?’ A hint of laughter lightened her voice.
‘A bit bored with the same old questions.’
She smiled. ‘Archaeologists like the old questions best.’
‘So what is it you do exactly?’
‘I read the old languages. Egyptian hieroglyphs.’
‘You can read those? Really?’
‘You needn’t look so impressed. They’re probably simpler than military codes.’ But she smiled, pleased. ‘My real interest is the Hittites.’
‘They were from Turkey, weren’t they?’
She stared. ‘Wow. Not many people know about the Hittites, although they are mentioned in the Bible.’
He grinned. ‘No, that’s not where I read about them. I read the title of your doctoral thesis, then looked up who the Hittites were.’
‘Sneaky.’ She toasted him with her teacup.
‘Any particular reason you focussed on the Hittites?’
‘I went on a dig in Anatolia in my second year as an undergraduate. The mystery of these people who’d controlled such a large area of the eastern Mediterranean fascinated me. What motivated them? What did they believe in? How did they live?’
‘But you didn’t continue with digging, field work?’
She put the teacup on the fold-down tray and twisted it back and forth by the handle. ‘It would have been too difficult. Dad had to explain the
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