Remember (39 page)

“My friend Frank Littleton told me this morning. Frank and I were at Harrow together, and Cambridge, and we’ve been close friends since those days, for donkey’s years. Frank’s with the Secret Intelligence Service—MI6—but he’s not an agent out in the field. He has a desk job. He sent me a note this morning, asking

me to come and see him.

I did, and he told me that Anne’s son had been killed.”

“Oh God, what are you saying?” Anne looked at him frantically.

“MI6. Agents. Intelligence. Was Charles involved in something dangerous?”

“Frank didn’t go into too many details,” Philip responded quietly, wondering how he was going to help her get through this new ordeal.

“You just said killed.” Nicky stared at Philip. “So he didn’t die of natural causes. Nor in an accident, presumably. Are you saying he was murdered?”

Philip nodded. He put his arm around Anne as she let out a strangled cry. She began to tremble.

“When was Charles killed?” Nicky demanded.

“Late last week,” Philip said.

“Where?” Nicky clasped her hands together, hardly breathing.

“In Madrid. He was in a plane that blew up at Madrid airport, a small private plane, a Falcon.”

“Oh my God!” Anne pressed her hands to her mouth. “My son!

Charles!” She turned to Philip, pleaded, “Please tell me what this is all about, Philip. Please tell me. I don’t understand.”

Nicky cut in, “Was his body recovered?”

Philip paused, then said in a low voice, “It was a very bad explosion

.

” Anne was sobbing quietly, leaning against Philip’s shoulder. He held her closer, desperately trying to comfort her.

“You said the information came to you through your old friend with MI6,” Nicky continued. “That implies Charles was an operative, working in the covert world of intelligence. And if he was, then he was probably killed by foreign agents. Is that the case?”

“I think so, Nicky.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Frank gave me the barest details, he’s not supposed to tell me anything. But he knows Anne, is aware we’re going to be married, and he wanted me to have the information. He stuck his neck out for me.

But he certainly wasn’t going to breach security. That’s more than his job’s worth.”

Leaning forward, Nicky said, “But didn’t he vive you any clue at all about the killer, or killers?”

Philip hesitated. “I got the impression they might have been Israeli agents.”

“Mossad!” Nicky was startled. “Why would Mossad want to kill Charles Devereaux? From what you’ve just told us, it sounds as if he was a British agent. The British and the Israelis don’t bump each other off.

They’re on the same side.”

Philip said nothing.

“He was working for British intelligence, wasn’t he?” Nicky probed, all of her journalistic training coming out.

Philip shook his head. “Perhaps not. Frank told me—” He broke off, and changing his mind, he finished, “I think that perhaps I ought not to say anything else. Not that I know much more than I’ve already told you.”

“Just one thing,” Nicky pressed. “If Charles wasn’t working for the British, he must have been working for someone else. Who?”

“Frank didn’t actually say, Nicky. However, he implied Charles was involved with an organization based in the Middle East.”

Nicky gaped at him. “A terrorist organization? Is that what you’re saying?”

Philip nodded.

“Do you mean he was a terrorist?”

“It’s possible,” Philip said.

“Did he work for the PLO? Abu Nidal? The PFLP-GC? Who?”

“Frank didn’t mention any of those groups, but he did indicate that Charles was working for the Palestinians.”

“I don’t believe it!” Nicky exclaimed incredulously. “I don’t!”

“The Palestinians,” Anne repeated, suddenly pulling away from Philip, sitting up straighter on the sofa. She looked from Philip to Nicky and back to Philip, as if bewildered. “Did you say Charles was working for the Palestinians?”

“That is what Frank implied, yes.”

Anne’s face went as white as chalk. Her eyes glazed over, were suddenly devoid of all expression. She sat staring ahead, appeared to be gazing into some far distant place, it was as if she saw something Nicky and Philip could not see. There was an extraordinary remoteness about her, and she was silent, utterly still, as if she had fallen into a trance.

Philip glanced at Nicky worriedly.

Nicky nodded, then looked across at Anne. Drawing on the information she had been given by Charles in Madrid, she said slowly, “Perhaps Charles wasn’t a traitor to the British. Maybe he was amok A British agent who had assumed a new identity and gone undercover.”

“I don’t know,” Philip replied. “But it’s possible, of course.

Sometimes these things are done at a very high level. Often others in an agency don’t even know, for security reasons. Maybe Frank doesn’t have all the information.”

“Exactly,” Nicky exclaimed. “And if Charles was a mole, that would make him a counterfeit traitor, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Philip agreed, and glanced at Anne, hoping she had heard what Nicky had just said. And it was a possibility. A very strong possibility. Certainly Nicky’s theory made sense.

Nicky sat back in the chair, rapidly turning over in her mind all the facts she had and suddenly she found herself thinking, Is Charles really dead? Or has he faked his own death a second time?

He just didn’t trust me not to betray him, she thought. He was afraid—afraid I would put him in jeopardy. Yes, that’s got to be it.

Somehow he’s faked his death a second time, in order to continue to work as a mole for the British!

Her heart tightened. What, really, was she to think? Was he dead this time? If he was, then had Mossad killed the wrong man? Had they assassinated a British agent?

There was no noise in Clee’s apartment. Everything was perfectly still, not even the ticking of a clock disturbed the silence. It was late, almost midnight. Nicky was alone, Clee was still in Brussels on assignment for Paris Match. She had spoken to him on the phone earlier, and had managed to limit discussion about her day in London.

Now she sat in the living room, finishing a bowl of soup and reflecting on the events of the day.

Philip’s extraordinary revelations had not startled her as much as they had Anne—for obvious reasons. After all, she had seen Charles ten days ago, had heard his story, and it was a story she fully believed.

She also believed he was still alive. The Charles Devereaux she had known, been engaged to, had always been exceedingly clever, a brilliant man. And so it was reasonable to assume that he was a superlative agent and the best mole in the business. Therefore, he had not been blown up in that plane at the airport in Madrid. Somehow he had managed to make it look as though he had, because he wanted her and everyone else to think he was dead. She was certain another man had been in the Falcon in his place.

But whether he was alive or dead, she was positive that he had not worked for the Palestinian cause, he had simply infiltrated a terrorist organization as a mole. Deep within herself she wished she could have told Anne what she knew, if only to make her feel better about her son.

But for Charles’s sake, just in case he was alive, she had not dared to do this.

Eventually Anne had roused herself from her trancelike state, and Nicky had had the opportunity to repeat her theory that Charles was a counterfeit traitor, a double agent, a mole. And she had expounded on the idea that Frank Littleton, Philip’s friend, did not have all of the facts at his disposal.

All of this had seemed to give Anne a measure of comfort, and after a while she had excused herself and retired to her bedroom, explaining that she needed to be alone.

Nicky and Philip had talked for another hour, before she left for Heathrow and her plane back to Paris. At one moment he had started to worry out loud that he had made a terrible mistake.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have told Anne anything at all, Nicky,” he had said. “I ought to have kept it to myself, don’t you think?”

Nicky had reassured him that he had done the right thing, and he had appeared to be heartened when he heard this. Then he had confided, “I love her very much, Nicky, I’ve loved her for years.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune when she finally agreed to marry me.

And I told her about Charles because I respect her, and because there’s never been anything but honesty and truth between us. She and I have never dealt in lies. Anne’s a mature, intelligent woman, and I thought she was entitled to know absolutely everything that I knew about her son, to know what Frank had told me out of friendship. And I thought you should know the truth, too, Nicky.”

If it’s really the truth, Nicky had thought at the time, but she had said, “Yes, you’re right, Philip, and you really did do the best thing.

No woman wants to be treated like an imbecile by a man.”

Marie Therese said, “Ah, Nicky, ma petite, you are being evasive.

How can you say you don’t know if you are going to marry this Clee of yours—you must have some idea what you intend to do .”

“But I don’t,” Nicky protested. “He only asked me on Sunday morning—” “But it’s Thursday today!” Marie Therese exclaimed, laughing. “You should know how you feel by now. Anyway, I think he will expect an answer when he returns to Paris tomorrow. N’est-ce pas? In my opinion, you must say yes, che’ne. What else is there to say?”

Nicky smiled at the Frenchwoman, her dear old friend from childhood.

“Ah, Marie Therese, you are an incurable romantic. I could say no, you know.”

“Mmmm, that’s true. On the other hand, why would you want to do that when you are so very much in love with your Clee.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“I see it in your eyes, ma petite, and when you speak about him your face glows with love.”

Nicky sighed. “We’ll see. I guess I’ll make up my mind in Provence—I haven’t had time to think straight in the last few days.” Glancing at her watch, Nicky exclaimed, “I’ve got to go! I promised Yoyo I would have dinner with him tonight, and I’ve so much to do this afternoon.

Thanks for another delicious lunch.

Hopefully, you’ll have your cast offby the time I get back from Provence, and then I’ll take you for that fancy lunch at the Relais Plaza.”

“With Clee, I hope.”

Nicky nodded. “With Clee.”

“And if we can’t have lunch, you will phone me before you go back to the States at the end of September, won’t you, Nicky?”

“Of course I will—but don’t worry, we’ll be having our lunch, I promise.” Bending forward, Nicky kissed Marie Therese on the cheek.

“Don’t get up, I can let myself out.”

“Au revoir, cherie.”

“Au revoir, and take care.”

Nicky closed the door of the apartment behind her and ran

down the steep flight of stairs. Dashing out of the front door and into the street, she turned right, hoping to find a taxi—and ran into a group of men leaving the restaurant next door to Marie Therese’s apartment building.

“Oh, pardon!” she exclaimed as she bumped into one of them.

“De rien, mademoiselle, ” the man said, and swung around, smiled Nicky’s jaw dropped, she was staring at Charles Devereaux.

“Oh my God!”

Stepping forward, Charles took hold of her arm and propelled her into the car waiting on the curb. “Au revoir, Bernard, Haji,” Charles said as he got in behind her.

“What’s happening, where are you taking me, Char—” “Be quiet,” he hissed, cutting her off. “Don’t say another word.

” T lhey stood facing each other in the living room of the drab apartment to which he had just brought her.

“What in God’s name were you doing in a disreputable district like Belleville?” Charles asked. “I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw you. What were you doing there?”

“Before I answer any questions,” Nicky cried, “I’d like to pose a couple myself.”

He nodded. “All right. I’ll respond if I can.”

“First of all, you bundle me into a car, which shoots across Paris and turns into a side street, the name of which I don’t see, then you drag me out and into this building. I haven’t the slightest idea where I am. Where are we, I’d like to know!”

“This apartment is on the rue Georges Berger, northeast of the

Arc de Triomphe, behind the Parc de Monceau, just off the boulevard de Courcelles.”

“Why did you push me into the car?”

“I didn’t know what you were going to say, what you would blurt out.

It was much easier to come here. Now, tell me why you were in that area. Belleville is not a pretty place. Are you on to some sort of story there? Interviewing people in Belleville?”

“No, but what do you mean? Is there a story in Belleville?”

He shrugged. “How should I know.”

“But you just brought it up!”

“I can’t imagine why you would be there, that’s all. It’s the Arab area—a lot of North African immigrants live there. But surely you knew that.”

“I was visiting Marie Therese Bouret, the Frenchwoman who was a sort of nanny to me when I was little. I’m sure I told you about her, once.”

“Yes, I think you did.”

“She moved to Belleville because her boyfriend lives there. She’s moved in with him.”

“Is he Moroccan, Tunisian, Algerian?”

“I don’t know—I’ve never met him.” Immediately Nicky remembered the couscous Marie Therese had ordered for lunch the previous week, and the name of the restaurant, Cafe Tangier. She exclaimed, “That restaurant you were leaving—it’s North African, isn’t it?”

“Moroccan .” Nicky went on, “Why did you bring me here?”

“I didn’t want to talk to you in the middle of the street.”

“Do we have anything to say to each other?” She paused, looked at him closely, and added, “You could’ve trusted me. I wouldn’t have betrayed you. I gave you my word of honor in Madrid. So you see there was no need for you to fake your death a second time.”

“I didn’t! And I did trust you—do trust you—Nicky.”

“You were thought to be in that private jet, that Falcon, that blew up in Madrid late last week. I was told you’d been killed in the explosion.”