198 / Barbara Taylor Bradford 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.
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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 send-ing another forty rockets into Israel. The war of attrition continues.”
200 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
“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
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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.
202 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
“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
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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 fan-atical, 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
204 / Barbara Taylor Bradford 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.
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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 envi-sioned 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.
206 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
“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.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Southampton, Long Island, April 1996
Vanessa sat up with a jerk, feeling disoriented, blinking as she looked around the library. Dimly, in the distance, the thudding noise that had awakened her continued.
She pushed herself to her feet, hurried across the room and out into the hall. Instantly the thudding sounded louder, and she realized that someone was hammering on the front door of the cottage.
She ran across the hall, shouting, “I’m coming,” and flung open the door. Much to her surprise and consternation she found herself staring into the face of Bill’s mother.
210 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
“Dru!” she exclaimed, completely taken aback. “Hello! Have you been knocking long?”
When his mother did not answer, but simply stared at her blankly, Vanessa went on, “Why have you come to see me? What are you doing here?” Her brows knitted together in a frown when suddenly she became aware of Dru Fitzgerald’s troubled face and bloodshot eyes.
She also noticed that she looked painfully thin.
“Dru, what’s the matter?” she asked, urgency echoing in her voice.
Dru leaned against the doorjamb, unexpectedly breathing hard, as if she was experiencing some sort of difficulty. She managed to say,
“May I come inside, Vanessa?”
“How rude of me to keep you standing here.
Of course, please come in. Can I get you anything?”
“A glass of water, please. I must take a pill.”
Vanessa took hold of Drucilla’s arm and escorted her into the cottage. After leading her to the sitting room, and settling her in a chair, she went to the kitchen for the water.
A moment later Vanessa returned. She handed the glass to Dru, waited for her to take the pill, then said, “I can tell you’re distressed about something. What’s the matter?”
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Drucilla Fitzgerald, staring intently at her, realized with a small jolt that Vanessa did not know what had happened to Bill. How that was possible she wasn’t sure, but, nonetheless, she was quite certain it was true. Dru wondered how to tell her. Tears flooded her eyes, and she clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling.
Vanessa was about to ask her again what was causing her upset when Dru cleared her throat, reached out, and took hold of Vanessa’s hand.
Dru said slowly, almost in a whisper, “I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone for days.”
No longer able to control herself, she began to weep. She groped in her wool jacket for her handkerchief.
“I’ve had my phone turned off,” Vanessa explained, and as she said these words she had a terrible sense of foreboding. “It’s Bill! Something’s happened to Bill, hasn’t it?”
Dru continued to cry, her sobs almost uncon-trollable, her pain even more apparent now.
Vanessa went and sat next to her on the sofa, put her arm around Dru’s shoulders. “I’m totally in the dark, Dru. I’ve had not only the phone turned off but the television as well.
212 / Barbara Taylor Bradford I’ve cut myself off from the world for the past two weeks.”
Dru turned to look at her, the tears streaming down her pale face. Her mouth began to tremble. “He’s dead,” she said in a voice that was barely audible. “My son is dead. My only child has been taken from me in the most cruel way. Oh Vanessa…Vanessa…Why did they kill him? They shot him. He’s never coming back.
He’s gone. Oh, whatever shall we do without him?” She continued to weep, gasping, holding her arms around her body. Her sorrow was unendurable.
Vanessa was gaping at Dru. She had gone cold all over, and she was stunned, reeling from shock, unable to respond for a moment. Her eyes welled, and she began to shake. At last, she said, “I don’t understand… who killed Bill?”
Choking on these words, she was unable to continue, just held on to Dru tightly. The two women clung together, sobbing.
Eventually, through her tears, Dru said, “It was Hezbollah. The Islamic Jihad. They kidnapped Bill, Vanessa. I realize now that you didn’t know, otherwise you would have come to Helena and me, to be with us.”
“When?” Vanessa gasped. “When was he
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taken?” Her voice shook and fresh tears flowed; she knew the answer even before Dru spoke.
“March the twenty-eighth,” Dru answered. “It was a Thursday. They took him that morning in Beirut. He was out with the crew, Joe and Mike—”
“Oh, my God! My God!” Vanessa cried out, pressing both of her hands to her face, trying to stem the tears. They slid through her fingers, fell down onto her cotton shirt, leaving damp splotches. “I was waiting for him in Venice, and he didn’t come! I thought he’d lost interest in me, that it was over between us. But he couldn’t come, could he? Oh, Dru, Dru…”
“No, he couldn’t. He loved you, Vanessa, he wanted to marry you. He told me that. He also told me that you were married, that you were getting a divorce.”
Vanessa swallowed hard. “Bill was mine and I was his and that was the way it was. How could I have forgotten that?”
Drucilla sighed and looked into Vanessa’s face sadly. “When we’re in love, things are always very extreme, intense…”
“I love him with all my heart. I shouldn’t ever have doubted him in Venice. I should
214 / Barbara Taylor Bradford have known something terrible had happened, something beyond his control.”
Dru was silent for a second, and then she said softly, “You were feeling hurt.”
Vanessa suddenly lost control again and started to weep bitterly. “When was he shot?”
she asked through her tears.
“We’re not sure.” Dru found it hard to continue. She brought her hand to her trembling mouth, and took a few moments to regain her composure.
Slowly, she went on, “Andrew Bryce, the president of CNS, and Jack Clayton, Bill’s news editor, came to see me yesterday.” Pausing, she took a deep breath before saying, “To tell me themselves that the Islamic Jihad had just announced they had executed Bill. They left his body at the French Embassy in Beirut, who have given it to the A
merican Hospital to send home.”
“But why did they kill him?” Vanessa cried.
“Why, Dru?”
“Andrew and Jack don’t know. No one knows. The Islamic Jihad haven’t said anything.
They’ve given no explanation.”
The two women who loved Bill Fitzgerald sat together on the sofa, not speaking, lost in their own troubled thoughts, silently sharing their heartbreak and sorrow.
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After a while, Vanessa spoke. Looking at Dru, she said, “Where is Helena?”
Dru covered her mouth with her hand once more, the tears starting afresh. After a moment she said, “I brought her with me. I hadn’t the heart to leave her. She’s walking the dunes with Alice, the nanny. The child’s heartbroken, she worshiped him so.”
Vanessa nodded. Rising, she walked across the room to the window, stood looking out at the dunes, her mind full of Bill and the love they had shared. She thought of his child. And she came to a sudden decision.
Turning to look at Bill’s mother, Vanessa said, “I think you and Helena should stay here with me for a few days, Dru. Bill would want us to be together.”
Much later that night, when she was alone in her bedroom, Vanessa wept for Bill once more.
She wept for the loss of the man she loved, the life they would never share, and the children they would never have.
It was a long night of tears and anguish.
There was a moment when guilt reared up,
216 / Barbara Taylor Bradford but she crushed it before it took hold. It was a ridiculous waste of time to feel guilty because she had doubted him briefly. He would be the first to say that, just as his mother had.
As dawn broke over the dunes, Vanessa came to understand that her grief would last for a long time, and that she must let it run its course.
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