Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (59 page)

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.

Y
ou 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 Lebanese 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.

All along he had attempted to keep track of time; he figured he had been a hostage for almost two weeks. When he asked his various guards, they wouldn't tell him. All they ever said was, “Shut up, American pig!”

He felt dirty, and wished they would allow him to have another shower. He had only
been permitted two since his capture. His clothes had become so filthy he had begged them to give him something clean, which one of his guards had done yesterday.
Finally.
Cotton undershorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of cotton pants had been thrown at him, and he had been unchained in order to change into them. The clothes were cheap, but it was a relief to have them.

He had no idea where he was, whether he was still somewhere in Beirut or in the Bekaa Valley, that hotbed of Hezbollah activities where the Iran-backed militia was in control. So many hostages had been held there.

Bill didn't even know why he had been taken, except that he was an American and a journalist. But he
was
certain of one thing—the identity of his kidnappers. They were young men of the Islamic Jihad, the terrorist arm of Hezbollah, and dangerous. Some of them were slightly crazed, on the edge, capable of anything.

They kept him chained up, shouted abuse at him, beat him every day, and gave him little food or water. And what food they did provide was stale, almost inedible. Yet despite their continuing mistreatment of him, he was not going to let them break his spirit.

Bill kept his mind fully occupied as best he could.

He thought mostly of his child, his mother, and of Vanessa, the woman he loved. He worried about them, worried about how they were reacting to his kidnapping, how they were handling it. He had faith in them, knew they would be strong; even his child would be strong.

As he lay staring at the dirty ceiling, he envisioned Vanessa's face in his mind's eye, projected her image onto the ceiling.

How lovely she was, so special, and so very dear to him. And how lucky he was to have found her. He knew they would have a wonderful life together. The first thing he was going to do when he was free was make a child with her. She wanted one so badly; she had confided that to him the last time they had been together.

He had worried about her for the first few days he was in captivity, knowing she was alone in Venice, waiting for him. And with no idea why he had not shown up.

Bill heard the key turning in the lock. He focused his eyes on the door and steeled himself for his daily beating. In the dim light he saw one of his captors entering the cell.

“Put on blindfold,” the young man said, walking across the room, showing the grimy rag to Bill.

“Why?” Bill asked, endeavoring to sit up.

“No speak, American pig! American spy!” the young man shouted and tied the blindfold around Bill's eyes roughly, pulled him to his feet, and led him across the cell.

“Where are you taking me?” Bill demanded.

“No speak!” the terrorist yelled, pushing Bill out of the room.