‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I was going to ask you to meet me last night, and then I changed my mind. I thought I might frighten you off, and I decided it was better to wait until this morning.’
‘Do you live in Madrid?’
‘No.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Everywhere. Nowhere. I sort of… float around. I’m never in one place for very long.’
‘For security reasons?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘I’m sorry that I might have put you in danger, Charles, showing your photograph and asking questions about you. That foreign intelligence agency would have you killed, if they knew you were a mole, wouldn’t they?’
He laughed lightly. ‘Oh yes, they’d have no compunction. But that’s the intelligence business. No one ever said it was safe.’
Nicky opened her handbag and took out the photographs of him. ‘I want you to have these,’ she said and handed them to him.
‘Thanks, Nicky.’ He tore them into shreds and dropped the pieces on the tray.
‘You do know I won’t tell a soul that you’re alive, or discuss what you’ve told me, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I know you’ll be my conspirator, keep my secret.’
‘I could have blown your entire operation,’ she began, and stopped, biting her lip.
‘You could have, that’s true,’ he agreed. ‘And that could have been quite horrendous, because it’s taken several years to set up. However, don’t look so worried, I’m positive you haven’t. If you had, I’d know by now. I probably wouldn’t even be around to have this conversation with you. I would have been taken out.’
This thought chilled her to the bone, and she fell silent. But after a short while, she said, ‘About the man I thought was following me… Shall I ask if he’s a guest in the hotel? You could call me later, to find out what the concierge said.’
‘Oh no, Nicky, I don’t want you to be involved in anything I do. It’s far too dangerous. Please don’t worry, I’ll find out who the man is. I have my ways, my contacts. Just leave everything to me. Please leave everything alone. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing is ever as it seems in the world of intelligence and counter intelligence. You might say that everything is upside down in the clandestine world that I live in.’ He let out a small breath. ‘You never really know who anyone is.’ He straightened in the chair, and added, ‘I want you to leave Madrid as soon as possible.’
‘I will. I intend to go tomorrow.’
‘That’s good, Nicky. I’ll feel better knowing that you’re nowhere near me.’
Nicky understood there was nothing more to say, and she pushed herself to her feet. ‘I think I’d better be going.’ She began walking towards the archway that led into the foyer.
Charles also rose and followed her.
She turned, waited for him to draw closer, and then she said, ‘I’m glad we met, that we had this meeting, Charles. So much has been clarified for me.’
‘Yes, I’m glad we saw each other too, Nicky.’ He studied her for a moment, his head on one side, and then the small smile touched his mouth, and he said, ‘You’re as beautiful as ever.’
She nodded, but discovered she could not speak.
He went on, ‘You’re obviously still flying around the world, covering disasters and the like. But you’re not married, I see. Or rather, I should say you’re not wearing a ring. Are you married, by any chance?’
‘No, I’m not married.’
‘There’s no special man in your life?’
‘Yes, there is, as a matter of fact, but only recently.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘I think so… I’m not sure.’
‘Are you going to marry him?’
‘He hasn’t asked me.’
‘He’s a fool if he doesn’t. And if he does ask? Will you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I wouldn’t have done you any physical harm, you know,’ Charles remarked, changing the subject. ‘However, I can’t say that I blame you for wanting your own car and driver to come out here to see me.’
‘I was being cautious.’
‘And independent. That was one of the many things I always loved about you.’
She turned to walk into the foyer and he caught hold of her arm, pulled her to him, took her in his arms and held her tightly, held her very close to him.
Nicky was taken by surprise, but she did not resist him, let him hold her, understanding that he needed to do this, needed to be close to her. She could feel his heart hammering under his thin shirt, and with a sudden flash of insight, she thought: oh God, he still loves me. Swallowing hard, she gently pushed him away.
‘It’s better that I leave now,’ she murmured softly, and then against her own volition she reached up and touched his cheek. ‘Please don’t worry. I will never betray you, Charles.’
‘I believe you, Nicky,’ he said, taking her arm, walking with her to the front door. ‘I trust you. With my life.’
***
Once she was back at the Ritz Hotel, and in the privacy of her suite, Nicky broke down.
She lay on the bed and cried bitterly, sobbing as if her heart would break. Her tears were for Charles and the dangerous and lonely life he had chosen to lead, for herself and what they had once had together, and for what might have been.
But eventually she calmed down, and she took control of herself. The tears ceased, and she lay for a long time propped up against the pillows, thinking of everything that had happened in the past few weeks. And not unnaturally, she felt a sharp stab of guilt when she considered some of the dreadful things she had ascribed to Charles. How could she have ever thought that he was some sort of criminal… an arms smuggler, a drug trafficker? She should have known better.
Yes, he had sacrificed her, their love, their future, the future of the children they might have had together. But he had done it for a noble cause. He had done it for his country. And yes, she ought to have known it was something like this, not some grubby deal. After all, his mother’s family, the famous Cliffords of Pullenbrook, had always been in service to the Crown of England since time immemorial. Honour and duty and loyalty to country had been inculcated in him since birth. He was simply following in the footsteps of his illustrious ancestors.
PART FOUR
Enemies and Friends
In thy face I see
The map of honour, truth
and loyalty.
William Shakespeare
For I have sworn thee fair,
and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as
dark as night.
William Shakespeare
THIRTY-ONE
It was that time of the year when Parisians have fled to summer resorts for their annual vacations, and the tourists have invaded, and Paris was awash with foreigners. But Nicky did not care; she was both relieved and glad to be here.
Madrid was not a city she knew well, and she had only visited it once before this last trip, but she had no desire to return. The past forty-eight hours had left their mark on her, particularly the confrontation with Charles yesterday, and she knew that thereafter Madrid was always going to hold unpleasant memories for her.
She had managed to get a flight out of Madrid late on Saturday afternoon, and had checked into the Plaza Athénée when she had arrived last night. Clee was not returning until Sunday evening, and was not expecting to see her until Monday. In any case, she needed some time alone, time to sort out her turbulent thoughts, to come to terms with all that had happened since she had last seen him in New York at the beginning of August.
Though she had been on a quest for Charles Devereaux, the unexpectedness of his note, of suddenly coming face to face with him, had been an enormous shock, as indeed was the news that he had a secret life as an agent with British Intelligence. She had not slept well last night, even though she had been bone tir
ed, and after restlessly tossing and turning for hours she had finally fallen asleep as dawn broke.
When she had awakened around ten, she had felt out of sorts with herself, and by noon a heavy sadness had settled over her. It was a sadness so acute it verged on melancholy, and in an effort to throw this off she had dressed and left the hotel.
Optimistic by nature, positive, and generally upbeat, Nicky was not accustomed to feeling down in the dumps, nor was she prone to depression, and she loathed the feelings enveloping her now. And so she hoped that being outside in the sunshine, walking the familiar streets and visiting favourite haunts, would help to diminish the sadness, if not make it evaporate entirely.
For as long as Nicky could remember she had felt a spiritual affinity for Paris. It was her city in so many different ways, and the childhood years she had spent here in the sixties had been extraordinarily happy. And so it was that she tried to recapture some of that youthful joy as she walked in the direction of the Left Bank; perhaps the happy memories of the past would help to chase away the demons of the present.
Nicky was not actually sad for herself, but for Charles. Long ago, long before he had known her, he had set himself upon a deadly course that was irrevocable. He had made a choice, one that had ultimately led him to that safe house in Madrid, where they had met yesterday. In deciding to serve his country, he had elected to live in the covert world of espionage, a dangerous, nether world of secrets and spying, duplicity and double-dealing… and, more often than not, death.
A chill ran through her, despite the warmth of the day and the radiant sunlight. Such a life had little to commend it, or to offer a man, really; she knew Charles could never marry now, never have children, never lead a normal existence. The loneliness and fear he had to contend with must be excruciating, and the spectre of betrayal or discovery unnerving. That kind of terror must strike close to the bone, she thought, and shivered involuntarily.
Nicky walked on at a steady pace, but her mind raced.
Charles had admitted to being a British agent since the age of twenty-five, and since he was so obviously deeply committed, then why on earth had he ever become involved with her in the first place? She wished she had asked him this; she also wished she had asked him why he had not left one last word for her, as he had his mother. Maybe he had not known what to say to her, or had had nothing to say, perhaps; certainly the letter to Anne had been brief and to the point, a bleak little epistle. Well, she would never find out now. It was too late, the chance had gone.
Having come down the Avenue Montaigne from the hotel and turned onto the Champs-Élysées, Nicky now struck out across the vast Place de la Concorde, and was soon entering the Jardin des Tuileries. She slowed her steps as she did, and glanced around. It was years since she had been here in the gardens, but there were so many good things to remember, so many lovely memories of her childhood associated with this spot.
Quite unexpectedly, she thought of Marie Thérèse Bouret, the au pair who had looked after her. She had been seven years old, Marie Thérèse seventeen, when she had come to live with them, and the young French girl had been more like a big sister than a nanny. Vivacious, loving and joyful of spirit, Marie Thérèse had brought her to the gardens to play almost every day in summer. And she had taken her to so many other places as well, during the six years her parents had been based in Paris for their respective newspapers. It was with Marie Thérèse that she had gone to the Louvre for the first time to see the Mona Lisa and the other great paintings; together they had gone up the Eiffel Tower to view Paris from on high, and, as the young nanny had explained, for her to see how the Arc de Triomphe resembled the hub of a giant wheel, with the great avenues and boulevards designed by Georges Haussmann stretching out from it like long spokes.
And when her mother had taken her to Fontainebleau, Versailles and Malmaison, on her ‘historical outings’ as she called them, Marie Thérèse had always accompanied them. She, too, had been treated to her mother’s unique lessons in French history, which were never dull and boring, but intriguing and fascinating. And it was Marie Thérèse to whom she had clung when her parents were away, plying their trade as journalists, and to whom she had said her first halting words in French. Yes, she had been indispensable to her when she was little, had loved her dearly, taught her so much about the language, about Paris and the French way of life.
They had stayed in close touch over the years, and saw each other from time to time, whenever Nicky was in Paris. Marie Thérèse had married at twenty-three, and had had a son a year later. Sadly, her husband Jean-Pierre had been killed ten years ago in a car crash in Mozambique, where he was working on an engineering job. Her son Paul, now twenty-two and an engineer like his father, had recently married. I must call her, Nicky thought. I’ll do it later when I get back to the hotel, and take her to lunch tomorrow. I hope she can make it. The thought of seeing the woman she held in such affection, and who had played such an important role in her life when she was a child, cheered Nicky; a little of the sadness evaporated.
After dawdling in the gardens for a while, Nicky finally went on her way, passed the Jardin du Carrousel and strolled across the Pont des Arts. This was the only metal bridge in Paris, and one she knew well, since her father had a very good painting of it by Jacques Bouyssou, the official painter of the French navy.
When she arrived at the Quai Malaquais, Nicky hesitated, looked up and down, wondering whether to wander along the Seine to Notre Dame, or to plunge into the streets behind the quais. The apartment she, her parents and Marie Thérèse had lived in had been on the two top floors of an eighteenth-century house on the Ile St Louis. It stood in the shadow of the ancient cathedral, and she loved that particular part of the city. She decided to wander up there later.
Striking out down the rue Bonaparte, she headed for the Place St-Germain-des-Prés. Napoleon Bonaparte, she murmured under her breath, recalling how that name had been a common one in their home for years. She had learned it young, and at once it evoked another rush of memories. Her mother had been fascinated by Bonaparte, and after years of scholarly research had finally written a masterful biography of the great general and France’s first emperor.
To Nicky the book had been extraordinary, and she still believed it to be her mother’s best. It was a portrait that was extremely fair and well-balanced; her mother had made the man accessible in modern terms. He had been all too human, and so had Josephine, his grand passion, the only woman he had ever really loved. But their love had foundered on the sharp rocks of his overweening ambition; he had had their marriage annulled in order to beget an heir to his empire with a younger woman.
According to her mother, this heartbreaking decision had ruined their lives. Without Josephine at his side, Napoleon’s luck turned bad, and Josephine died of a broken heart just after his first abdication and exile to Elba in 1814. ‘They never stopped loving each other,’ her mother had said to her time and time again when she was writing the book. ‘And that was the tragedy of it all.’
Nicky sighed. The anguish men and women caused each other, the terrible things they did to each other in the name of love never failed to amaze her. Nothing has changed and it never will, she thought, because human beings are exactly the same as they were thousands of years ago. And we’ve learnt nothing over the centuries. What Charles had done to her was cruel, unconscionable, however important his cause might be. It had been wrong of him to even contemplate marrying her under the circumstances. He had been selfish. But then who isn’t? she asked herself.
By the time she reached the Place St-Germain, Nicky was damp with perspiration, tired from the heat and footsore. Heading in the direction of a café on the shady side of the square, she took a table, and a few minutes later was ordering café-au-lait, bread, a tomato salad, sliced chicken and a bottle of water. She had not really eaten much in the last few days and she discovered she was starving.
The waiter brought the bottle of water immediately, and she thirstily drank a
glass straight down, and then leaned back in the chair. The long walk had done her good, and she felt certain she would sleep tonight, and tomorrow she would be with Clee. This prospect filled her with warmth and pleasure. She could hardly wait.
Taking off her sun glasses, Nicky blinked and looked around. The area was busy. People were strolling around or sitting at cafés as she was, whiling away the time, enjoying the nice weather on this pleasant Sunday afternoon. The noise of people talking and laughing surrounded her, and as her eyes scanned the Place St-Germain she could not help thinking how ordinary and normal everybody looked and sounded. This was reassuring, and she pulled her thoughts away from Charles Devereaux and the treacherous and cynical world he occupied. Suddenly it struck her that he had done her a favour in vanishing when he did. How terrible her life might have turned out to be if she had married him.
***
Marie Thérèse lived on the opposite side of Paris, just off the Boulevard de Belleville. Since this was quite a distance from the Plaza Athénée, almost as far as the Porte des Lilas, Nicky allowed herself a good half hour to get there by taxi on Monday. Even so, she was a bit late when she finally arrived, because of the distance and the heavy traffic congesting the streets at this busy time of day.
As she climbed the long flight of stairs to the apartment, she could not help wondering why her friend now lived in this section of the city. Belleville certainly did not live up to its name—pretty town. It was an odd area, not at all salubrious, totally lacking in elegance, and even a bit scruffy. It struck her that it was rather off the beaten track for a woman like Marie Thérèse, who was used to so much better.
But after she had hugged and kissed the Frenchwoman in the small foyer of the apartment, Nicky quickly glanced around and saw that the living room ahead was large, and nicely appointed. Also, there was a happy feeling about the place; it had a pleasant atmosphere.
As for Marie Thérèse, she was as pretty and vivacious as she had always been, her large, dark eyes dancing, her generous mouth twitching with hidden laughter, just as it had years ago.