Remember (27 page)

“Later I’ll have to interview politicians in every country, but right now I want to poke around, get a feel for things in Rome, since I’ve done that in London,” she had said, resorting to a few harmless white lies.

He had understood, they had gone on to chat about his impending trip to Leipzig, and arranged to stay in touch by phone or through the Image office in Paris if necessary. And they had agreed they would still meet in Paris in a week’s time, as they had originally planned to do.

“Ciao, Nick,” Clee had said. “I can’t wait to see you on the twenty-eighth.” And she had answered, “Neither can I, darling,” before breaking the connection.

Nicky closed her eyes, feeling unexpectedly drowsy and blaming the wine. She missed Clee very much, more than she had ever missed anybody. It suddenly struck her that he might be rather annoyed with her if he knew the reason why she was really going to Rome, and she sat up with a start. Then she asked herself whether she would tell him when she saw him. She wasn’t sure. But by next Monday she was bound to have all the answers about Charles Devereaux. Or none at all, perhaps. The decision about confiding in Clee would be made then, and not before. She would only tell him in person, not on the telephone.

And in any case, if she had told him earlier he would have dropped everything and

flown to Rome. She did not need him to hold her hand as she looked for Charles, nor did she want her past colliding with the present.

wo and a half hours after the flight had left Heathrow it was landing at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport exactly on time. When Nicky had cleared customs, she went through into the terminal, and within the space of a few minutes she spotted the limousine driver holding up a card with her name printed on it.

Forty-five minutes later the car was pulling up outside the Hassler Hotel, near the church of Trinita dei Monti at the top of the famous and very beautiful Spanish Steps. Her parents had first brought her here as a child, and whenever she came to Rome she invariably stayed at the Hassler. The night manager recognized both her name and her face, and after she had registered, he escorted her to her suite, chatting amiably.

Once she was alone, Nicky went to the windows, parted the curtains and looked out. The view of Rome was spectacular, and it was a sea of flickering lights under a star-strewn inky sky. Was Charles Devereaux living somewhere out there in the Eternal City?

And if so, what were her chances of finding him? With a little stab of dismay, she had to admit that the odds seemed against her.

The following morning, as soon as she had had her simple breakfast of tea and toast, Nicky telephoned the ATN bureau.

After asking for Tony, she sat back, waiting. The woman who had answered had not bothered to ask her name, and she had not given it, when the bureau chief came on he said, “Tony Johnson here.

Who is this?”

“It’s Nick, Tony. How’re you doing?”

There was a startled silence, and then he exclaimed, “Nicky Wells? Is this that Nick?”

“Of course it is! What other woman do you know called Nick?”

Tony chuckled, obviously delighted to hear her voice. “Hey, Nicky, how are you? And more important, where are you?”

“Around the corner.”

“You mean here ? In Rome?”

“I most certainly do.”

“Good God! The entire network seems to be descending on me today.”

“What do you mean?”

“A friend of yours just arrived, Nicky. Now he’s trying to grab the phone from me, itching to talk to you, it seems. But before I pass it over, let’s make a date. For lunch. Today. Is that okay?”

“More than okay, it’s wonderful, Tony. But who wants to speak to me?”

Again Tony’s deep chuckle echoed down the wire. He said, “Ciao, Nick.”

“Hi, Nicky, what are you doing in Rome?” Arch Leverson asked, his tone jocular but curious.

“I could ask the same of you, Arch,” she said, completely taken aback, but keeping a cool head as usual.

“You’re slipping, honey. Or rather, your memory is. I told you last week that I was going on vacation to Capri. I just stopped off here for a couple of days, to break the journey and see my old buddy Tony.”

It was true, Arch had told her, but somehow she had not associated Capri with Rome. And anyway, she had been so preoccupied last week.

Now she said swiftly, “Yes, you’re right, I did forget.”

“Last I heard from you, Nicky, you were off to London to

investigate the possibilities of doing a special on Margaret Thatcher. So why are you in Rome?”

“To buy shoes,” she said, improvising, not knowing how to answer him at this moment.

Arch guffawed. “Hey, come on, it’s me you’re talking to! You’re about as much into shopping as I’m into fly fishing. Come on, Nicky, what gives?”

“I can’t go into it now,” she answered, wanting to buy time.

Her answer seemed to satisfy Arch, who now said, “Fine, fine. Is Clee with you?”

“No, he’s in Berlin today, Leipzig tomorrow, Paris on Sunday night.

I’m meeting him there on Monday, and we’re going down to Provence sometime next week.”

“That’s great, Nick. I guess I’ll be seeing you for lunch with Tony.

Right?”

“It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Where shall we meet? At the bureau?”

“Good idea. Where are you staying, by the way?”

“At the Hassler, as usual. And you?”

“The Eden. Listen, Nicky, I’ve got another offer for you. Dinner tonight. I’m leaving for Capri very early tomorrow morning, to join Patricia and the Grants at the villa they’ve rented for the season.

Hey, wait a minute, here’s a thought. Come with me. You don’t really have anything better to do, do you? And they’d love to have you for a couple of days.”

“Thanks, but I can’t, honestly. However, I will have dinner with you tonight.”

“It’s a date. Now, why don’t you plan on picking us up at the bureau around one-thirty?”

“You’ve got a deal.”

After she had hung up, Nicky sat staring at the telephone for a few minutes, a frown lingering on her face.

Arch Leverson was the last person she had expected to find at the Rome bureau, and she had been taken aback to say the least, although she had quickly recovered herself. She nonetheless had no idea what she would say to him when she saw him later. She would have to think of something, since she did not want to tell him the truth. He worried and fussed about her far too much already, and instinctively she knew he would try to dissuade her from her purpose. When she left for London, she had been able to put him off with a few words about the Margaret Thatcher special, she doubted he would buy a story about her being in Rome to do research for a possible Common Market piece.

She sighed. Unfortunately, because Arch was at the ATN bureau with Tony, she could not go over there this morning and start asking leading questions about the news footage transmitted last Wednesday. The questions would have to wait until Arch left for Capri, there was no alternative but to talk to Tony tomorrow.

In the meantime she now had nothing to do until she met Arch and Tony for lunch, and she felt a sudden surge of frustration— she loathed the thought of having to kill time until then.

Rome was a familiar place to her, she had visited it many times in the past, and, in any case, she was hardly in the mood to go sightseeing.

Besides which, she had done that years ago, and had had the best guide there was—her father, Andrew Wells.

Her father loved Rome in much the same way she loved Paris— he felt a spiritual affinity for it—and so as a child she had seen the Eternal City through his eyes. “Rome is the cradle of civilization,” he had told her when she was twelve, and old enough to understand one of his history lessons as they had tramped around the city. He had taken her down the Spanish Steps below their hotel, to the Trevi Fountain, the catacombs, the Borghese Gardens, Saint Peter’s Church, Vatican City and the Sistine Chapel. There was not much she had been allowed to miss as a child, her father had seen to that on their different visits over the years.

Sometimes, when she returned to places she knew well, she enjoyed visiting old haunts that held a special meaning for her, but not today, not on this trip. The mystery surrounding Charles Devereaux filled her mind, as it had for the past five days, and she recognized this was the way it would be until she arrived at the truth.

Once again letting out a sigh of frustration, Nicky went through into the bathroom to take a shower, deciding as she did that she would buy some shoes. Her mother had a favorite boutique on the Via Veneto, and she would stop by there before heading over to the ATN bureau.

As it turned out, Arch did not ask any questions when she arrived at the bureau at one-thirty, carrying a shopping bag of shoes. He merely glanced at it and winked at her knowingly.

Tony was as tanned and handsome as ever, and his usual exuberant and affectionate self. After hugging and kissing her, he introduced her to his new secretary, Jennifer Allen, and other members of the staff she had not met before. Then she, Arch and Tony retreated to the latter’s private office to chat and catch up.

Nicky and Tony were old friends from the early days, when she had started at the network and he had been based in New York. The men dated back even further than that, to the time they had both been in their first jobs at another network.

“It’s like old home week,” Tony said as the three of them trooped out of the office and went around the corner to lunch at Tony’s favorite trattoria. “The best in Rome,” he explained as he ushered them inside.

Over drinks they continued to catch up with one another’s news, and lunch was a wonderful, breezy affair, full of warmth and camaraderie, plenty of laughter, joking around, shop talk and industry gossip.

Much to her relief, Nicky found herself relaxing completely with Tony and Arch. She felt at home with the two men, they were colleagues and were all on the same wavelength, and she enjoyed every minute of being with them. So much so, she actually forgot about the Devereaux problem for a short while. For the first time in several days she felt like her old self.

But thoughts of Charles came rushing back to trouble her soon enough.

The minute she was alone in her suite at the Hassler, in fact. And that evening, as she was getting ready for dinner, she made a decision.

She was going to confide in Arch after all. She needed a sounding board, someone to whom she could unburden

herself, and someone who would bring both an open and an analytical mind to the problem.

“Well, aren’t you the beauty,” Arch said as he strolled into her suite in the Hassler at a few minutes past eight.

“Thank you,” she said and gave him a smile.

After kissing her on the cheek, Arch stepped back and nodded approvingly as he regarded the cream silk suit she was wearing.

“Now that little number is the epitome of elegance,” he said, and nodded again.

“Pauline Trigere made it for me.”

Arch glanced down at her feet, appeared to be studying her high-heeled cream silk pumps, before saying in an amused tone, “And tell me, Nicky, did Miss Trigere also make your shoes?”

Nicky had to laugh. “No, she didn’t. I bought them this morning.

On the Via Veneto.”

“Pretty expensive shoes, I guess, when you take into consideration the price of the air ticket from London to Rome.”

“You know very well I didn’t come to buy shoes,” she shot back.

“Although shoes I did indeed buy. I’ll tell you why I came here in a minute. Now, would you like a glass of white wine? I ordered a bottle, just in case. But if you don’t, I can easily order something else from room service.”

“Thanks, the wine’ll be great.”

“Why don’t you sit down over there, and I’ll bring you a glass,” Nicky said, walking over to the console near the window. She poured wine into two crystal goblets and carried them back to the seating arrangement.

Arch, who had remained standing, touched his glass to hers silently, took a sip and seated himself on the sofa.

Nicky took the chair opposite him, and after a quick swallow of wine, she put the goblet on the table and leaned against the cream brocade of the chair back.

Arch said, “So, why are you in Rome, Nick?”

Nicky did not at first respond. After taking a deep breath, she said, “I think Charles Devereaux is alive, and in Rome. I must know if I’m right.”

Arch sat up on the sofa with a jerk, almost spilling his wine as he did. He was so thunderstruck his jaw dropped—he was speechless. Then finally he said, “I know you wouldn’t say that unless you had some real evidence. What is it? What’ve you got?

Shoot.”

“Last Wednesday night I saw someone who looked exactly like Charles Devereaux on television,” Nicky began, and then slowly, precisely, leaving nothing out, she told Arch everything that had happened since then.

When she had finished, Arch muttered, “I tend to agree with Philip Rawlings. It’s just not enough for me, Nick, I’d—” “I’ll show you the pictures,” she interrupted, getting to her feet and hurrying into the bedroom. She returned at once with the photographs and, seating herself next to Arch, spread them out on the coffee table.

Pointing to one of them, she said, “This is my Polaroid of the man in the news footage.” Moving on to the next, she continued, “And this is the larger photograph that Dave took. The third is the one of Charles, which I doctored up—I darkened the hair and added the mustache.”

Arch studied all three photographs very carefully. “There’s a strong likeness, a very strong likeness, in fact. Yes, I think you’re right about that, Nicky. These three pictures could be of one and the same man.” He turned to her and finished, “The guy on our news footage could very easily be Charles Devereaux, no doubt about it.”

Relieved to hear him say this, Nicky exclaimed, “Thank God you agree with me, that you don’t think I’m imagining things!”

Arch said, “Never, honey, you’re one of the sanest people I know.

” “Thanks, Arch.” She touched his arm lightly, affectionately. “I appreciate your saying that. I began to feel a bit peculiar at Pullenbrook this weekend.”