“He seems to be coming along fine,” Phule said. “At least, it’s getting more and more difficult to keep him horizontal while he’s mending. Fortunately I think he’s met his match in Beeker. Incidentally I want to thank you again for taping him up.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice with that, though I’m better on bone bruises,” the reporter said. “In case the subject ever comes up, don’t ever let anyone con you into thinking that field hockey is a ladylike game. It can be as rough or rougher than lacrosse-at least the way we used to play it.” She paused and cocked an eyebrow at the Legionnaire commander. “Maybe I shouldn’t mention it, but you are aware, aren’t you, that that’s the fifth or sixth time you’ve thanked me for patching up the sergeant?”
“Is it?” Phule frowned, rubbing his forehead with one finger. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be redundant. I seem to be a bit forgetful lately. I guess I’m a little tired.”
The reporter and the cameraman exchanged glances. It had been impossible not to notice the lines of fatigue etched into Phule’s face, though they had both been careful not to comment on it.
“Oh well.” The Legionnaire commander shrugged and forced a smile. “The one thing I can’t thank you enough for is your willingness to sit on this story-for a while, anyway. I know how much it must mean to you.”
“No, you don’t,” Sydney muttered, glancing away as he took another sip of his wine.
Jennie shot him a dark glare, then turned back to the conversation.
“It’s nice of you to thank us,” she said easily, “but really, Willard, reporters aren’t totally insensitive, no matter what you’ve heard-the good ones, anyway. It’s easy to see that publicizing what you’re doing would endanger your undercover operatives, so it’s no big thing for us to hold off for a while.”