Man on a mission
ROSS KEMP arches an eyebrow as though I’ve made a startling revelation. “You’re a smoker?” he asks. I have just apologised for popping some gum in my mouth to disguise my Marlboro breath.
“I haven’t smoked in two years,” he says. “The last time was in Pakistan after a round went past my head.” He slices the air with the blade of his palm, marking the trajectory of an imaginary bullet.
