Remember (40 page)

He was startled by this statement, and threw her a keen look.

“Who told you about the plane?”

“Philip Rawlings.”

His eyes fastened on hers intently. “Did you see Philip?”

“Yes. I went to London earlier this week, on Monday. I went to visit your mother, she was depressed, upset. And she was wavering in her belief that you had committed suicide three years ago. I met her at her apartment for lunch. I wanted to convince her that you were dead—” “Why did she have a change of heart?”

“The photographs—of the man in the newscast. Of you.”

“Yes, I understand. Go on.”

“I talked to your mother for about an hour, and I succeeded, I brought her back to believing you were dead. Then Philip arrived.

He broke the news of your death, and explained to your mother that I had been right all along.” Nicky now repeated everything Philip had told them, although she omitted Frank Littleton’s name.

When she had finished, Charles nodded, his eyes reflective. “I suppose Philip learned about the plane in Madrid from an old friend in intelligence. I know all about the British Establishment and the old-school-tie network.” Now he motioned to a group of chairs and said, “Let’s sit, shall we? I think we will be more comfortable.”

Once they were settled, Charles continued, “Contrary to what

you believe, I didn’t fake my death by having that plane blown up. In fact, I would have been on it, if not for a last-minute change in plans. I had to stay on in Madrid unexpectedly—an assignment.

Because there was an extra seat available—my seat-Javier took it. The destination of the plane was Gibraltar, where his sister lives. He was going for a weekend visit.”

“Are you implying the plane was sabotaged? That someone was trying to assassinate you?”

“I’m not implying it, I’m telling you.”

“Who?”

“I’m not exactly sure—although I do have a few suspects and a few theories.”

“Mossad?”

Charles frowned at her. “Why do you mention Israeli intelligence?”

“Philip suggested that the Falcon might have been blown up by them—that they could have been after you.”

He was silent.

“I didn’t say anything to your mother or Philip, Charles. I never mentioned our meeting in Madrid. I was also extremely careful in my reaction to Philip’s news.” She took a deep breath. “You see, I thought you were alive all along. I believed you were. I just knew you weren’t dead, and so there was no way I would have put you in jeopardy. Put your life at risk.”

Still he said nothing.

Nicky hurried on, “Philip told me something very odd, Charles.”

“What was that?” he asked, raising a brow.

“He said the person who gave him the information on Monday morning—about your death in Madrid—also implied that you were a terrorist.”

Charles sat perfectly still in the chair, a thoughtful expression settling on his face again. Finally, he gave her a very direct look and said, “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”

Nicky shook her head. “Sorry, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”

“It depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what I thought you meant.” She stared at him for the longest moment, and then said, “Are you telling me you are a terrorist?”

“Of course I’m not a terrorist!”

With a smile of relief she exclaimed, “No, you’re a British agent who has gone undercover. You’re a British mole who has inJiltrated a terrorist organization based in the Middle East. Right?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not a British agent?”

“No, and I never have been. Nor am I a mole.”

“You lied to me in Madrid?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to tell you the truth.”

“What is the truth?”

“I am involved with a Middle East organization, Nicky.”

“What is it called?”

“Al Awad—it means The Return.”

“I know what it means,” she cried, shifting in the chair, staring at him aghast. “It means the return to the homeland—Palestine.”

She leaned forward and added with intensity, “And it is a terrorist organization. A Palestinian terrorist organization, to be exact. I’ve heard of it, even though it’s not quite as high-profile as Abu Nidal and some of the other groups.”

“It’s not a terrorist organization,” he snapped.

“Oh, come off it! And what do you do for them?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Kill little children and women, innocent people?”

Charles said, “I told you, I’m not a terrorist. I handle the money, the financial matters.”

She glared at him, and cried, “You may not tote a Kalashnikov or a Beretta, but you’re still a terrorist. The money you handle finances barbaric acts, terrorism!”

“Nicky, Nicky, do you think the British Secret Intelligence Service, the CIA, Mossad, or the French DST are any different?

They’re all the same the world over. Everyone lies, cheats, kills, dies, and for what? Patriotism, they say. The Palestine freedom fighters are also patriotic.”

“Oh boy, do you have your rhetoric down pat!” she exploded angrily, scarcely believing what she was hearing. Charles Devereaux involved with Palestinians was the most unlikely thing she had ever heard. Now she took total control of herself, realizing that she must not let her past relationship with Charles or her feelings of anger and outrage get in the way.

Emotion must not cloud judgment. Think with your head, she cautioned herself, and ask a few more leading questions, get to the bottom of this. Solve the enigma of Charles Devereaux once and for all.

She said, “And why are you doing this—for money? Or what?”

He recoiled, a look of contempt on his face, and he said bitingly, “How little you know me, Nicky, if you think I can be bought. I work for he group because I believe in it, and in its aims.”

“You believe in its aims!” Nicky’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Are you saying that you believe in its ideology? Is that it?”

“Yes, I am saying that.”

“Why? Whyyou ? An Englishman, an aristocrat. I just don’t get it.

“Do you really want to know?”

“That’s a pretty stupid question—of course I do.”

Charles leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs and stared at her.

Nicky suddenly realized he was wearing the brown contact lenses.

They did make a difference, added to the change in his appearance. He suddenly seemed less than ever like the Charles she had once loved.

After a few seconds of contemplation, he said, “It was a man I loved—” “A man ! ” “Ah, no, Nicky, it’s not what you think.” With a faint smile he murmured, “To continue, it was a man I loved, and the love that that man felt for me, which brought me to Al Awad and the Palestinian cause. His love, his influence over me, his greatness as a man, all of those things induced me to adopt his beliefs, and follow in his footsteps.”

“He’s a Palestinian, correct?”

“He was.”

“He’s dead?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Who was he?”

There was only the merest hesitation on his part before he said, “My father. He was my father.”

Nicky was thunderstruck. After a second, she managed to say, “Are you telling me that Henry Devereaux was not your father?”

“I am.”

“Did Anne adopt you?”

“No, she didn’t. Anne is my mother.”

“Your biolo,ical mother?”

“Yes. Just as Nayef Al Kabil was my biological father.”

“Anne Devereaux had an affair with a Palestinian?” Nicky’s voice echoed with incredulity.

“Yes, she did. But that’s my mother’s story, not mine, and I’m not going to tell it. If you want to know more, you must ask her.”

“But you were born and brought up in England, educated in England, at Eton and Oxford. How did all this come about? How did you become involved—become involved with your father?”

“My mother thought I should know him.”

“When did you meet him?”

“When I was a little boy—six years old, actually.”

“And is that when your indoctrination started?”

“No, later, when I was older, when I could understand everything properly. But I wouldn’t call it indoctrination. It was his legacy to me. I have his blood in my veins! I am his son!”

“Your father’s bloodline is more important to you than your mother’s?

Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I am more of an Al Kabil than a Clifford, I suppose. That’s what it comes down to in the end. I am my father’s son.”

“When did your father die?”

“He was killed in 1981. In southern Lebanon, during the hostilities there.”

“Is that when you became involved with his cause?”

“No, about two years before that, in 1979. That was when he asked me to help with the group’s finances. He had started Al Awad in 1958, and for what it’s worth, he was a moderate. He believed in moderation, violence was not his way, Nicky. He believed in the conference table.”

Nicky ignored these comments. She said, “So you were part of the group when we met?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you ever get involved with me in the first place?” she demanded, staring hard at him.

There was a hesitation, and then he said quietly, “It was a sexual attraction at first. I wanted you—I wanted to have an affair with you. But I made the same mistake as my father.”

“What does that mean?”

“He fell in love with a beautiful Englishwoman. I fell in love with a beautiful American. I hadn’t intended our relationship to go that far, Nicky. Then when I did get emotionally entangled with you, I thought I could handle it, handle you, and my involvement with my father’s group, and our marriage as well.”

“And you changed your mind?”

“No, not really.”

“Then why did you decide to vanish into thin air three years ago?”

“Not actually because of you, although you were starting to become something of a problem. I thought certain foreign intelligence agencies were on my trail, were about to take me out.”

“Which ones?”

“The CIA. And Mossad.”

“Why was I becoming a problem?”

“As I told you, my father was killed in 1981. His second in command, who took over after his death, relied on me rather heavily, more than my father had, in some ways. I was getting really sucked in, and more so than I had intended, although I did believe in my father’s cause.

Nevertheless—” “You wanted to lead your life in London as well, isn’t that so?”

He nodded. “Yes. By 1986, just after we became engaged, I realized that it wasn’t going to work. That you were a problem after all. I also realized that I wasn’t being fair to you, I didn’t want to put you in any kind of danger. And that, combined with my worry that agents were tracking me, convinced me I should disappear. So I did.”

“And your mother never knew anything?”

“Never. My father didn’t want her to know, and neither did I.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because there’s no reason you shouldn’t know.”

“Are you going to have me killed?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nicky!”

“I could expose you.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you did. Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I’m leaving today for the Middle East. I won’t be returning to Europe. I shall live there for the rest of my life.”

“Why?”

“It’s too dangerous for me here now. And there are other reasons, which I can’t go into.”

“Are you going to Lebanon?”

“I can’t tell you where I’m going, surely you know that.”

There was a sudden knock on the door. Charles looked toward it and said, “Come in.”

Pierre, the man who had searched her suite in Madrid, was standing there. “The car is downstairs,” he said.

Charles nodded and stood up. Turning to Nicky, he said, “I have to go.

I have a plane waiting at Le Bourget.”

Nicky also stood. “I won’t tell your mother anything or mention our meeting today, you know.”

He nodded. “No, it would only hurt her even more.”

Nicky glared at him, the anger so close to the surface flaring for a split second, and then she bit it back to take hold of herself. “She wept bitter tears for you the other day,” she said.

“I love hen-but …” He left his sentence unfinished, picked up his briefcase and went out into the hallway. Nicky followed him.

Opening the front door, Pierre lifted the two suitcases standing there and hurried down the short flight of stairs out into the street.

When Nicky and Charles reached the bottom of the staircase, he turned to her in the little vestibule and said, “This is finally good-bye, Nicky.”

She nodded. “In case you think I was doing a story on you, I wasn’t

.

” “I know. You love my mother far too much, you’d never hurt her in that way.”

They were outside on the pavement. “Small world, isn’t it?”

Charles said suddenly. “The way you ran into me today in Belleville

.

” “Yes.”

“Can I give you a lift?”

“No, thanks, I prefer to walk,” she said.

He smiled at her faintly. “Good-bye, Nicky.”

“Good-bye, Charles.”

Pierre had stowed the luggage, and after Charles got into the backseat he went and sat next to the driver. The car slid smoothly down the narrow street.

Nicky turned away and began to walk in the direction of the boulevard de Courcelles, with so many thoughts whirling in her mind.

The blast from the explosion was so forceful it threw her forward onto the pavement. For a split second she was dazed and then a strangled cry escaped her throat as she struggled to her knees and turned her head. The car Charles had been traveling in had exploded about eighty feet away. She gaped at it in horror, and pushed herself up onto her feet. The air was filled with smoke and the smell of burning, the street littered with bits of metal, broken glass and shreds of clothing. From the Parc Monceau

across the street a policeman who had been on duty and several passersby were rushing toward her.

Still shaking, Nicky leaned against the wall of the building and closed her eyes. There was no chance that he was alive. Not in that inferno.