Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  World news. American news. Business news. Sports news. But no news of Bill Fitzgerald, chief foreign correspondent for CNS.

  Later in the evening, for the umpteenth time that day, Vanessa checked her answering machines at the Manhattan loft and the cottage in Southampton. There was no message from Bill.

  At one point she ordered sandwiches, fruit, and a pot of hot tea. She had not eaten anything since breakfast, and suddenly she was feeling hungry. After her light supper she watched CNS until the early hours, although she did so with only half an eye. It was mostly repeats of everything she had seen earlier, and her mind was elsewhere anyway.

  On Sunday morning, after she had drunk a quick cup of coffee, Vanessa dialed the Commodore Hotel in Beirut and asked for Bill Fitzgerald.

  Once again, there was no answer in his room.

  This time, Vanessa asked to be put through to Frank Peterson. She clutched the phone tightly, listening to the ring, hoping that at least Frank would pick up. He did not.

  After a split second the hotel operator was back on the line. “I’m sorry, both of them seem to be out, miss. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Yes, for Mr. Fitzgerald. Please ask him to call Vanessa Stewart at the Gritti Palace in Venice.”

  Vanessa spent a miserable Sunday, waiting for the phone to ring and watching CNS and CNN on television, alternating between the two cable networks. At one point she checked her answering machines in the States, but there were no messages. Not a whisper from anyone. She even phoned the international news desk at CNS headquarters in New York. But they wouldn’t give her any information about Bill’s whereabouts.

  By late afternoon she had given up hope of Bill arriving. In any case, she was due to leave for New York on Monday morning, and so she got out her suitcase and began to pack. She did so in a flurry of emotions—frustration, anger, disappointment, worry, and dismay.

  That night, when she went to bed, Vanessa was unable to sleep. She turned restlessly for hours, praying for morning to come.

  Eventually she must have dozed off because she awakened with a start as dawn was breaking. As she lay there in the dim, gray light Vanessa finally acknowledged what she had been denying all weekend: The real reason Bill had not shown up was because he was no longer interested in her. Their affair was over for him. Finished. Dead.

  No, she thought, he cared too much. I’m wrong.

  And yet deep down she knew she was right. There was no other possible reason for his absence.

  She closed her eyes, remembering all the things he had said to her . . . that he loved her . . . that he was playing for keeps . . . that he was serious about her . . . that this wasn’t a game for him. He’d even encouraged her to divorce Peter. Why did he do that, if he hadn’t meant what he said?

  Well, of course he meant those things when he said them, that niggling voice at the back of her head muttered. He was glib, slick, smooth. A wordsmith. Clever with all those wonderful words that tripped off his tongue so lightly. Wasn’t that all part of his talent? Hadn’t he told her that his grandmother had always said, when he was growing up, that he’d kissed the Blarney Stone?

  There was another thing, too. He was back in the close company of Frank Peterson, his best friend, his alter ego. Frank was a man Bill had characterized as a womanizer with a terminal Don Juan complex. Those had been his exact words. Maybe they were off somewhere together for the weekend. Bill was very close to Frank, and impressed by him. And perhaps some of Frank’s habits were contagious.

  Suddenly she felt like a fool. She had been sitting here waiting for Bill for four days and there hadn’t been the slightest word from him. As chief foreign correspondent for CNS he had access to phones wherever he was. He could have called her from anywhere.

  But he had not, and that was a fact she could not ignore.

  Dismay lodged in the pit of her stomach and she found herself trembling. Tears sprang into her eyes and she sat up, brushing them aside as she turned on the light, looked at her travel clock. It was five o’clock. She sat on the side of the bed for a moment, endeavoring to pull herself together. As painful as it was, she had to admit that she had been dumped. Why, she would never know. She began to cry again, and she discovered that she could not stop.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  Southampton, Long Island, April 1996

  Over the years, I’ve discovered that the more you love a person, the more they’re bound to disappoint you in the end,” her mother had once said to her, adding: “And, in my opinion, men understand this better than we do. That’s why they rather cleverly spread their bets. Always remember that, Vanny. Don’t give all for love. And don’t be duped.”

  But she had given all for love. And she had been duped. And she had remembered her mother’s wise words far too late for them to matter.

  Was it true? Did men spread their bets when it came to women? Was that what Bill had done?

  Certainly she had loved him a lot, put all of her trust in him. And in the end he had bitterly disappointed her. But no, wait, it was so much more than disappointment, wasn’t it? He had humiliated her, made her feel foolish, even ridiculous, and he had hurt her so badly she thought she would never recover from that hurt. It cut deep . . . deep into her very soul.

  She had been so open with him, so honest, baring her soul, her innermost secret self. She had given him everything she had to give, far more than she had given any other man, even her husband.

  Seemingly, her gifts of love and adoration had meant nothing to him. He had discarded her as easily as he had picked her up in the bar of the Hotel Gritti Palace.

  Unexpectedly, and quite suddenly, she remembered something he had said to her about Frank, something about Frank hedging his bets as far as women were concerned. Perhaps all men did that.

  Vanessa let out a long sigh and walked on across the sand dunes, her heart heavy, her mind still fogged by the pain of Bill’s defection.

  It was a fine, clear day in the middle of April—cold, with a pale sun in a pale sky. The Atlantic Ocean was calmer than it had been for days despite the wind that was blowing up.

  She lifted her eyes and stared up into the sky when she heard the cawk-cawk of seagulls. She watched them as they wheeled and turned against the clouds.

  The wind buffeted her, driving her toward the beach. She hunched down farther into her heavy duffle coat and stuck her gloved hands into her pockets. She felt dispirited to the point of depression.

  She was well aware that her depressed emotional state was because of Bill Fitzgerald and what he had done to her. She found it hard to believe that he had disappeared from her life in the way that he had, but it was true. At times she even tried to tell herself she didn’t care. But of course she did.

  Their love affair had been so intense, so sexual, so passionate in every way and so . . . fierce. He had swept her off her feet and into his bed and then out of his life when he had grown tired of her. Just like that. Puff! She was gone. Had their affair been too hot? Had it burned out too fast for him? She was not sure. How could she be sure . . . of anything . . . ever again?

  Vanessa felt the splatter of raindrops on her face and immediately looked up. Thunder-heads were darkening that etiolated sky, turning it to leaden gray, and there was the sudden bright flourish of lightning, then the crack of thunder.

  Turning swiftly, she walked back to the cottage at the edge of the dunes. She made it just in time. It was a cloudburst. The heavens opened and the rain poured down.

  She locked the door behind her, took off her duffle, and went into the library. Here she turned on lamps, struck a match, and brought the flame to the paper and logs Mavis had stacked in the grate.

  Since she had returned, Mavis Glover had taken to coming almost every day, fussing over her, bringing her fruit and vegetables and other groceries. Once Mavis had even offered to pick up newspapers and magazines, but Vanessa had told her not to bother. She was not interested in the outside world; she had cut herself off
from it.

  She had returned from Venice and moved out to Southampton permanently. She had turned herself into a virtual hermit. She had unplugged her telephone and pulled the plugs on the radio and the television. In fact, she vowed she would never look at television again as long as she lived.

  She was out of contact with everyone. Out of action. The only person she saw or spoke to was Mavis.

  Licking my wounds, she thought now as she sank onto the sofa in front of the fire. Licking my wounds like a sick animal.

  The truth was, she did not want to see anyone, not even her mother. The world was well lost for her.

  Peter had sent the divorce papers; they had arrived yesterday by special delivery. She had laughed loudly and hollowly when she had seen them. As if they mattered now. She had pushed for the divorce when Bill was a part of her life, and now seemingly he had discarded her.

  The anger flared again in her and with it came the hot, endless tears. Pushing her face down into the cushions, she cried until she thought there were no tears left in her.

  She sat up with a start. The fire had almost gone out. Glancing at the mantelpiece, she focused on the clock. It was just five. Time to go to work.

  Pushing herself up off the sofa, Vanessa looked out of the window and saw that the rain had ceased. The late afternoon sky, washed clean of the dark clouds, was clear again.

  After putting on her duffle coat, she walked slowly across the lawn to the red barn, then stopped for a brief moment as she passed the small copse of trees to the left of the house. Years ago her mother had planted hundreds of daffodils, and she had added to them since she had owned the cottage.

  Many of them were pushing their golden heads upward, fluttering in the breeze, pale yellow beacons in the soft light. How fresh and springlike they looked. So pretty under the trees. Her eyes filled. She brushed her damp cheeks with her fingertips and walked on.

  Once she was inside her studio, Vanessa focused on her work. Going to the drawing board, she switched on the light above it and was soon sketching rapidly, drawing spheres and globes, until she found her way through the many shapes springing into her mind. She settled, at last, on kidney and oval shapes.

  Her work had become her salvation. She found it hard to sleep at night, and so she had reversed her routine. From five o’clock until eleven she created her designs in the barn. She had a drink and ate dinner at midnight, and then read half the night, until fatigue finally overcame her.

  And once the designs on paper were finished, she worked in the foundry, hand-blowing the glass pieces. As she did she would ask herself how she would ever be able to go to Venice again. She would have to because of her work. But she knew she must find another hotel. She would never again set foot in the Gritti Palace.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Beirut, April 1996

  You were there, Joe! What really happened?” Frank Peterson exclaimed, his voice rising slightly. His face was pale, and he looked strained and anxious.

  Leaning over the table, he pinned his eyes on Joe Alonzo. “What the hell happened to Bill?” he demanded again.

  Joe shook his head. He looked as if he were about to burst into tears. “I’m telling you, Frank, it was over before I could blink. We were in West Beirut, not too far from here, near the mosque. We all got out of the car, Mike, Bill, and me. Bill started to walk toward the mosque; Mike and I went to the trunk, to take out our equipment. Suddenly this big Mercedes slid to a stop. Three young men jumped out, grabbed Bill, and hustled him into the car. Then the Mercedes sped off.”

  “And you didn’t follow it!” Frank said in a hard, tight voice, staring at the CNS soundman. “Jesus, Joe!”

  “I know, I know, Frank, I can guess what you’re thinking. But the point is, Mike and I were stunned for a second. We couldn’t believe it.”

  “And so you didn’t react.”

  “We did, but not fast enough! Within a few seconds we ran to our car, raced after the Mercedes, but we couldn’t find it. The damned thing had just disappeared. Literally, into thin air.”

  “These local terrorists know all the side streets and back alleys,” Frank said, and eyed Joe thoughtfully. “And if you and Mike hadn’t been taking your equipment out of the trunk, you would’ve probably been grabbed as well,” he asserted in a quieter tone.

  “Damn right we would!” Mike Williams said, coming to a halt at the table where Frank and Joe were sitting in the bar of the Marriott in the Hamra district of Beirut.

  Frank jumped up at the sight of Mike, grabbed his hand and shook it. “Join us, Mike, I’ve just been talking to Joe about Bill’s kidnapping.”

  “It’s a hell of a thing . . . we’re at our wits’ end . . .” Mike sat down heavily. He looked tired and worried. “When did you get back to Beirut, Frank?”

  “Last night. From Egypt. I was covering a story there when the new trouble between the Israelis and Hezbollah erupted. The civil war is over, everything’s on the mend, and then they start skirmishing again. But did they ever really stop?”

  “I doubt it,” Mike replied. “Still, it’s the first time the Israelis have attacked Beirut directly in fourteen years. And with laser-homing Hellfire missiles, no less, shot from four helicopter gunships off the coast. My jaw practically dropped when it happened two days ago.”

  “Yeah, but the Israelis were actually responding to Hezbollah’s bombing of Israel,” Joe pointed out quickly.

  Frank nodded. “And after Israel’s attack on Beirut, Hezbollah retaliated yesterday by sending another forty rockets into Israel. The war of attrition continues.”

  “Nothing changes much,” Mike murmured and motioned to a waiter, ordered Scotch on the rocks.

  Frank said, “I couldn’t believe it when I saw the story on CNS about Bill’s kidnapping. My God, I’d just left him when he was taken. I flew out of Beirut on March twenty-seventh and he was grabbed the next day. And for most of the time I was away I thought he was having a good time in Venice.”

  “He never made it to Venice,” Mike responded. “I’m sure you realize the network sat on the story for a few days, hoping he would be released quickly. When he wasn’t, they got it on the air at once.”

  “Who’s behind it? Have you heard anything?” Frank probed.

  “No, we haven’t,” Joe answered.

  “I was just on the phone to Jack Clayton,” Mike explained. “The network still doesn’t have any information. Nobody’s claiming this, the way the bastards usually do. It’s a bit of a mystery. Total silence from all terrorist groups, according to New York.”

  “It’s got to be Hezbollah,” Frank said in a knowing tone. He turned from Mike to Joe, raising a brow. “Who else but them?”

  “You’re right,” Joe agreed. “That’s what Mike and I think, too. At least, we believe that the Islamic Jihad is behind it. You know better than anybody, Frank, that the terrorist arm of Hezbollah is full of wackos. They’re the ones who took Terry Anderson and William Buckley, and they’re not known for fast releases.”

  “Terry Anderson was a hostage for seven years,” Frank muttered.

  “Don’t remind me,” Mike said dourly. “By the way, we’ve been in touch with Bill’s mother.”

  “I spoke with her myself from Egypt,” Frank answered. “As soon as I knew what had happened. It’s remarkable the way she’s holding up.”

  Joe volunteered, “We try to call her every few days. Unfortunately, there’s not much we can tell her.”

  “Hearing from you helps her a great deal, I’m sure of that.” Frank lifted his glass, downed the last of his scotch. Leaning back in his chair, he thought for a moment about Vanessa. He had tried to reach her for days, but there was no answer at her loft or the cottage in the Hamptons. “What’s the network doing about trying to find Bill?” he asked.

  “There’s not a lot they can do,” Mike said. “Bill’s picture has been circulated throughout Beirut, the whole of Lebanon, in fact. And a great deal of pressure has been put on the Le
banese and Syrian governments, and right from the beginning. Even though the story wasn’t released immediately, the CNS top brass were on top of the situation at once, the same day Bill was snatched.

  “And pressure was put on the White House as well. Let’s face it, Frank, there’s nothing anyone can do until an organization claims the kidnapping as theirs. Only then can the U.S. Government and the network start pushing for Bill’s release.”

  “I always kidded him, said he was bulletproof,” Frank began and stopped when Allan Brent, the Middle East correspondent for CNN, stopped at their table.

  “We’ve just had a news flash,” he said. “Hezbollah is claiming they have Bill Fitzgerald.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Frank cried.

  “How long ago was the flash?” Joe asked.

  Allan Brent glanced at his watch. “It’s now seven, about six-thirty, thereabouts.”

  Mark Lawrence, who was covering Bill’s kidnapping for CNS, appeared in the doorway of the bar. When he spotted the CNS crew with Frank and Allan Brent, he hurried over. He said to Mike, “I guess you’ve heard that the Islamic Jihad has Bill.”

  “Yes,” Mike said. “Allan just told us.”

  “I hope to God Bill’s all right,” Frank cried. “I pray to God he’s all right. That group is fanatical, unstable, and unpredictable.”

  It was always dark in the cramped, airless room.

  They had nailed old wood boards over the windows and only thin slivers of light crept in through the cracks.

  Bill Fitzgerald turned awkwardly on the narrow cot; his movements were restricted by handcuffs and leg chains. Managing at last to get onto his back, he lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to assess what day it was.