Remember (41 page)

And it was his car that had exploded. There was no other vehicle on the rue Georges Berger.

T the two women sat on the old stone bench at the top of Sweetheart Hill. It was Sunday afternoon, sunny and warm, and a light breeze rustled through the trees, sent the white clouds scudding across the arch of the shining blue sky. It was a perfect September day.

Neither woman noticed the weather. They sat with their arms around each other, their blond heads close together, sharing a moment of quiet after a long and frequently painful conversation, one that had lasted well over an hour.

It was Nicky who now pulled slightly away, looked into Anne’s eyes and said, “That’s it. I’ve told you the whole truth, and I’ve left nothing out. Now you know everything, Anne.”

Anne nodded and squeezed her hand, then she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

“So, my son is dead.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “It’s funny, you know, I just don’t think I can weep any more tears after today.

There are none left. I’ve grieved for Charles for three years, I don’t think I can grieve all over again.”

“No, you can’t. You must go forward, Anne. You must get on with your life—your life with Philip.”

“Yes, darling, you’re absolutely right.” Anne smiled and continued, “A moment ago you said that I knew everything, and thanks to you, I do.

Butyo don’t know everything, Nicky. You don’t know my side of the story. I think I should tell you about Nayef Al Kabil, and what happened forty-one years ago.”

“Only if you really want to tell me, Anne.”

“I’d like to, yes. And I shall tell Philip later. He has a right to know as well.”

Anne stared into the distance, her face still, her eyes pensive, and it was a few minutes before she began to speak.

At last, she said, “I remember every moment as if it were only yesterday, each nuance as clear to me now as it was then. My father, Julian Clifford, was a renowned statesman in his day, Nicky. He was frequently associated with that very great man Winston Churchill, especially during the Second World War and at the end of it, they were political allies. My father became involved with the creation of the State of Israel in 1948. He and I were rather close at this time, he was a widower—my mother had died during the war. Anyway, my father took me with him to Palestine, as it still was then, in 1947. He liked to have me with him when he traveled abroad or stayed away for long periods.

In January of 1948

I met Nayef. He was from an old, very good Palestinian family, a prominent family, who came from Gaza. They owned land, orange groves, and were well established in the area, respected. Nayef was only a few years older than I was, and we fell in love.”

Unexpectedly Anne fell silent.

Nicky looked at her, squeezed her hand, but said nothing, and she noticed then that the other woman was trying to compose herself.

Anne picked up her story again. “We were very much in love, Nicky. We were the first for each other, and you know what first love is like.

We were blind to everything except ourselves. He was so handsome, a slender young man, not all that tall, but very fair, with the most beautiful light green eyes, so clear and innocent. He was kind to me, very loving and devoted, and we became inseparable. In May of 1948, just after my seventeenth birthday, I discovered I was pregnant.”

Anne paused once more, and looked at Nicky pointedly. “Things were very different in those days. There was nothing I could do, even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. Naturally, I was distressed and frightened. Nayef and I told my father together, and then Nayef explained how much he loved me, said that he wanted to marry me. And I told my father that I felt the same way about Nayef. My father reacted badly. He was horrified, furious.

He took me home to England immediately. I was heartbroken. And it was seven years before I saw Nayef again.”

“Oh, Anne darling, how sad. You were so young, just a child.”

“Yes, we both were. And inexperienced in so many ways. As it happened, my father’s oldest and dearest friend was Henry Devereaux, the British industrialist. Henry had known me all my life, and loved me. Since he was a widower and childless, he agreed to marry me at my father’s request. Our marriage was in September of 1948. Imagine my horror, being torn from Nayef, carrying his child, and marrying a man I hardly knew, except as my father’s friend. I was in agony of mind and spirit, but there was nothing I could do except obey my father.

Actually, Henry knew he had Hodgkin’s disease, cancer of the lymph nodes, by that time, was

aware that he did not have long to live.

Since he had no family, other than a distant cousin, and because he had always cared for me, he was excited about our marriage. It pleased him to have someone to care for, and also to have a young companion for the last few years of his life. I must say he was good to me, and he did love Charles. But I was not happy with him. How could I be?

Our marriage was a mockery. But I suppose, looking back, that I didn’t make much of an effort. He seemed like an old man to me.

He was, being a contemporary of my father.”

“And naturally you yearned for Nayef,” Nicky murmured, reaching out, taking hold of her hand again.

“Oh yes, Nicky, how I yearned for him! But there was nothing I could do. Also, I did have my beautiful child—Charles. Nayef’s child. I loved my son to distraction, and he did help to heal the hole in my heart. And eventually I adjusted—one always does, you know. Charles had been born in February of 1949, but it wasn’t until he was six years old that I decided he ought to meet Nayef, his real father. Things were much easier for me by then, inasmuch as Henry and my father had both died. So in 1955

I took Charles to the South of France, to Nice, to meet Nayef.”

“And from that time on he saw his father on a regular basis over the years. Charles explained that to me in Paris.”

Anne nodded. “Very regularly. I’d told him it was a secret, that no one must know about Nayef—I was worried about my brother, Geoffrey, you see. I must say, Charles was very good. He kept the secret. He loved Nayef, and Nayef loved him. Little did I know he was brainwashing our child.” She paused, took a deep breath, then added, “But I couldn’t have stopped that. Once Charles was eighteen, he came and went as he pleased, and he was always strong-willed, independent.

But to tell you the truth, Nicky, I had no idea how strong the bond was between them, how much the relationship had grown, until you told me today. Charles was very secretive about that—I suppose he had to be.”

“Did you continue your relationship with Nayef?”

“No, I didn’t. Well, that’s not strictly true. I did for a couple of years, between 1955 and 1957. We picked up where we had left off. But it was never quite the same—it never is—and then it ended by mutual consent.

It wasn’t feasible, darling. He was living in Lebanon, and I was here at Pullenbrook, and by then he was starting to become involved in politics, was consumed by his beliefs. I think he was already deeply committed to the cause.”

“Charles told me his father was a moderate. Do you believe that?”

“Absolutely. Nayef wasn’t a man who would ever condone violence, or resort to it. He always believed that peace could be achieved by other means.”

“Did he ever marry? Have other children?”

“No, he didn’t marry. Nor did he have children—not to my knowledge, anyway. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why Charles was so important to him. He was his only son, and he claimed him for himself, didn’t he?”

Nicky said softly, “Yes, he did. And Charles allowed himself to be claimed. He did have a choice.”

Anne sighed heavily and looked at her. She said slowly, “It’s all my fault, Nicky—if I had not become involved with Nayef when I was a young girl, none of this would have happened….”

“But you wouldn’t have had Charles either.”

“That’s true.” Anne forced a small smile and murmured, “Well, darling, perhaps we’d better go inside for a while. You and Clee will have to leave for the airport soon. Also, Philip and I have something to tell you. And I have something to show you.”

The two women stood. In the distance, the great Tudor house gleamed under the brilliant sky, ancient, unchanging, everlasting. Together they walked down the hill toward it, their arms linked.

Philip and Clee were in the library talking when Anne and Nicky came in a few minutes later.

Philip exclaimed, “There you are! I was about to come looking for you.

Inez will be bringing tea shortly. I’m sure you’d both like a cup.”

“Thanks, I would,” Nicky said.

Anne merely nodded, walked over to the desk and took an envelope out of a drawer.

Nicky looked across at Clee and smiled. It was such a comfort to have him here, and over lunch he had seemed to make everyone feel more relaxed. He was not only warm and understanding, but sane and down-to-earth, and you knew where you stood with him. It pleased Nicky that Anne had responded so well to him, was comfortable around him.

She had been so uptight when they had arrived from Paris late last night.

Clee led Nicky to one of the Chesterfield sofas near the fireplace and they sat down together. Anne handed Nicky the envelope she had taken out of the desk. “I think you should read this, Nicky.

It arrived last Thursday morning.”

Nicky took it from her, and when she saw Charles’s handwriting she flinched. The letter had arrived at Pullenbrook the day he had died.

Shaking off the sudden chill she felt, she looked more carefully at the envelope. It was postmarked Tuesday, September 5, and it had been mailed in Paris. Slipping the letter out of the envelope, she read it slowly.

Paris Dear Mother.

Monday evening, September 4, 1989

Three years ago I allowed you to believe I had committed suicide. I could not take you into my confidence, because if my suicide was to be effective, you above all had to believe it. This was a cruel thing to do to you, I know, but I was certain my life was in danger. I had to slip off theface of theearth, becomesomeoneelse if I wasgoin.g to live.

I was being sought by intelligence agents from various foreign countries. You see, unbeknownst toyou, I had adopted my father’s cause long ago and I had been active in his organization since 1979.

My father, whom I loved very much, was a moderate man, asyou well know.

And so am I. Sadly, there are those in thegroup he founded, The Return, who have not held to those principles. There is a faction within it now that lS embracing violence. I cannot and will not condone that. I have spoken up many times in the pastyear, made my feelings clear. In consequence of this I know that once again my life is in danger—this time from within my own organization. They tried to eliminate me last week by blowing up my plane at Madrid airport.

There has been too much killing in the Middle East over theyears. It must come to an end . Palestinuans and Israelis must learn to live together. And in peace. Terrorism is foul. It must be outlawed, once and for all.

I know my time is limited now, a few weeks, a couple of months at the most.

And before I due there is something I must do to help the innocents in the Mutdle East. Arab and Jew alike. For the past tenyears I have manaed the f nancual affairs of my father’s organization, and bnlliantly, if I say so myself. Today thefunds belongin0 to thegroup total three hundred million U.S. dollars. That money is deposited in a numbered account in a bank in Zurich. I want that money used for thegood of the Middle East, notfor killing and mayhem. Only I know the number of the account and which bank it is in. This is the International Bank of Zurich. You will also know the number of my account if you think of my favorite childhood toy. The name of that toy is the number. I want you and Philip to go to Zurich the day you receive this letter. Take the money out of the International Bank of Zurich and deposit it in another Swiss bank, using a numbered accountagain.

Inventyour own number.

I wantyou and Philip to use that money to help the children of the Muddle East, to help ease their sufferin. And it must be used for all children, no matter their race, creed or color.

I know you can never forgive me, Mother, butI do hope you will think more kindly of me one day. I have always loved you.

Charles Nicky held the letter in her hand, and looked across at Anne.

“May Clee read it?”

“Of course, I would like him to.”

Clee did so, and then silently handed the letter back to Nicky, who quietly sat holding it. Finally she said, “Did you remember the favorite childhood toy, Anne?”

“Of course I did. His rocking horse. It’s still upstairs in the old nursery. Charles called the horse Foxy. If you take the letters that make up the name and give each one a number, working on the principle that the letter A is number one, then you have 6152425.”

“Did you go to Zurich?” Nicky asked.

“Oh yes, that very day. I drove up to London immediately. Philip and I took an afternoon flight, and we visited the bank on Friday morning.”

“Was the number correct?” Nicky knew the answer from the look on Anne’s face.

“Yes,” Anne said.

Philip now explained, “We withdrew the money from the account, received a cashier’s check for the three hundred million U.S. dollars and went to another bank, where we opened an account and deposited the check.

We want to create a fund with it, and we plan to build hospitals, canteens and schools for the children of the Middle East, just as Charles wanted. Yes, you can be damned sure it’s going to be done.”

Nicky turned to Anne. “It was an act of redemption on Charles’s part, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was, Nicky.”

“Can you ever forgive him?”

“I think so … perhaps … in time.”

Later, after tea, Nicky and Clee went upstairs to the lavender-and gray bedroom where they had slept last night.

As she packed the few items of clothing they had brought with them she said to Clee, “Thanks for coming with me. You’ve been wonderful . ” ”you are glad you came now, aren’t you, Nick?”