The last time I saw John Cantlie neither of us said hello. It was an autumn evening in southern Turkey ten years ago. Fresh back across the border from an assignment in Syria, the British photojournalist sat unmoving in his chair at a restaurant table in Antakya while I, on the eve of crossing back into Syria, stood near the doorway with no more inclination to walk over and speak to him than he had to get up and speak to me. Instead it was James Foley, ever the charming American, who left his seat beside Cantlie and walked up to fill the space between us with his easy smile and assurance.
