Enticed back into the business

I'd spent three years away from reporting. My experiences in both Afghanistan and at the World Cup had been more than enough for me. They'd try to get to me back to cover the Occupy movement, the Egyptian revolution, the Arab Spring. I'd refused them all. I met a man. His name was Manfred, Mani for short; in a cafe in Paris. I never told him what had happened to me...or how I was back then. He was a kind man, and gentle man. A year ago, my old bosses had stopped calling. I was living in Scotland, enjoying the quiet and simple life of the British countryside. Mani was good to me in ways that I've never experienced. When my cellphone rang, I picked it up without a thought.

"Hello?" I answered, gazing over the rolling, rocky hills I'd come to know as home.

"Don't hang up. You are the only one I could call for an assignment like this." It was my old editor.

"I'm not interested." I said, and was about to hang up on him. I don't know why I stayed on the line.

"Alright. Alright. I understand your hesitation. I know you've moved on..." he said. I felt a knot in my stomache. He was going to play the only card he had. I knew this call would come sooner than later. "...but I do have some rather damning video evidence; and I don't think your new fiance would like it released." I gritted my teeth.

"Go on." I said. He wouldn't have used this if he didn't really, really want a story. Mani was in the back yard, overlooking the cliffs that bordered our estate. He was tossing a tennis ball to the dogs; delighted as they ran to retrieve it. I knew that I should savor that image, as I would be thrust into some terrible shithole very, very soon.

"I'm sure you've seen the news. ISIL is making a push into Syria..." he said.

"No. Absolutely not. They are **** a beheading western journalists there. How could you ask me this?" I said. Manfred was rolling around with the sheepdogs now. We were to be married in two months.

"Hear me out. ISIL, or ISIS, or whatever they are called, are making a push into Syria, and Iraq. It looks like the UK is going along with the Americans, yet again, and are going to start a bombing campaign. I just want you to go to get the reactions of Muslims in London. No international travel, no enemy territory. You'll be back in Scotland by the end of the week."

I thought about it. In the U.K? That sounded harmless enough. Still, I had a rotten feeling in my stomach. Something wasn't right.

"Why me? I'm sure you've got plenty of reporters that can cover this." I said, waiting for the other hammer to fall.

"We've got an informant who is willing to talk. He says he met you "over there", and is requesting you specifically. He says he has infiltrated a cell...in London. He knows what they are planning, and when they plan to strike. And he only wants to talk to you."

And instead of my heart sinking and further, it bottomed out. How could I refuse?

"I'll be in the office tomorrow around noon." I said. A sigh of relief filled my ears. I hung up on the call before he could say anything else. What "acquaintence" was he speaking of? The Doctor? The "Boss"?, Safi or Omar, or any of the Jihadis I'd encountered in Afghanistan? I looked out the window, seeking Mani wrestle a tennis ball from a terrier's mouth, and just didn't know. I didn't know anything.