Remember. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
that he was somewhere nearby. And alive.
She walked for hours and eventually she was no longer in the desert. She was wearing thick winter clothes and it was dawn on a frosty day. All around her were dead men and the bloody signs of war and destruction. Clee walked towards her through the mist and took hold of her hand. He helped her to climb over the dead bodies. Suddenly they saw a jeep in the distance. Clee said, ‘Look, Nick! We can get a lift back with the retreat!’ He leapt forward, running. She ran, too, but stumbled. When she stood up he was not there. For a split second she was afraid, and then she went searching for him amongst the dead soldiers. But she could not find him. There were miles and miles of dead bodies, and everything was so silent she wondered if it was the end of the world. She saw two bodies lying close to each other side by side. She hurried to them, turned their cold, dead faces to see if either one was Clee. She drew back in shock. One of the bodies was Yoyo. The other was Charles Devereaux. She turned and ran away, stumbling and falling against the dead soldiers in her haste to escape the carnage. At one moment she looked down at her hands and clothes. They were covered in warm, sticky blood from the dead. A wave of horror and nausea swept over her, and just as she began to despair at not finding Clee she reached the end of the battlefield. Now she was walking along a white, sandy beach, and parked under a palm tree was the jeep she had seen earlier with Clee. It was abandoned. She looked towards the dark-blue sea. Not far out she saw a body floating. It was Clee. He beckoned to her. He was alive! She rushed into the water. It was icy but curiously thick like oil, so that swimming was tedious. And then she realized that the sea was not blue but red. It was made of blood.
Clee smiled and held out his hand to her. She reached for it. Their fingers were inches apart. She struggled to grasp his hand. And then his body sank into the sea.
At this moment the dream had ended and she had awakened because someone had screamed. It had been her, she knew that. Nicky shuddered. Goose flesh sprang up on her face and arms, and she pulled the robe around her, feeling suddenly so cold. Rising, she went over to the small bar next to the bookcase and looked at the bottles, reached for the Marc de Bourgogne. The label rang a bell. Of course, it was one of the brandies Charles had imported from France. With a small grimace she put the bottle down on the silver tray, then immediately picked it up again, poured herself a small glass and, taking a sip of it, she slowly walked back to the sofa.
Nicky did not know a lot about dreams, but she was well enough informed to realize that her recent nightmare was simply a manifestation of things jostling around in her subconscious. Once, several years ago, her mother had told her that one dreamed one’s terrors, and that whatever truly frightened a person came to the fore in sleep, when the subconscious rises. And so it did not take her long to analyse her dream. She knew very well what it meant: firstly she was afraid that Yoyo was dead. Secondly, she was worried that Clee, a war photographer and in constant danger, might one day be killed.
It’s all very understandable, she told herself, taking another little sip of the marc. Both men had been on her mind lately, and were therefore at the forefront of her thoughts.
But why had Charles Devereaux been part of the nightmare? She had no answer for herself … but, yes, of course she did. Several times in the last few days he had insinuated himself into her thoughts, for the simple reason that she was in France, where he had travelled often, buying wine for his importing company. And where they had spent those two weeks together before he had chosen to vacate her life.
The more she thought about it, there was no denying the fact that she had dreamed about those three men because each one of them, in his own way, troubled her enormously.
EIGHT
Clee stood staring at the dozen or so transparencies arranged on the large light box in his Paris office, an expression of deep concentration on his face.
After a couple of minutes studying the pictures, he turned to Jean-Claude Roche, who ran his photo agency, Image, and nodded. ‘I think you’re onto a winner, and the pictures are good, Jean-Claude. Damned good, as a matter of fact. So let’s get the guy to come in and see me, and the sooner the better. We can certainly use another world-class photographer around here, there’s more work than we can handle right now.’
Jean-Claude looked pleased. ‘Marc Villier is really terrific, Clee. Very bright, aggressive, yet sensitive. And he possesses the unflinching eye, as you do. You are going to like him, he is … how shall I say … very personable.’
‘Good. And if these photographs are anything to go by, his work is more than excellent. It’s brilliant. Let’s move on. Do you have anything else to go over with me?’
Jean-Claude shook his head. ‘No. Everything is under control. The assignment sheet is on your desk. Everyone is booked out for the next few weeks. Except for you. I’ve kept you free.’
‘That’s great. I could use a few days respite after Beijing and Moscow,’ Clee exclaimed, his face brightening at the prospect of some time off. Turning around, he collected the transparencies which lay on the light box and handed them to Jean-Claude.
‘Thanks,’ Jean-Claude said as he slipped them into a large envelope. ‘I shall go and call Marc, ask him to come in tomorrow morning. Is that all right with you?’
‘Sure. By the way, where do we stand with my assignment for Life?’
‘They need you for about three weeks, late July and early August. They want you to go to Washington first to photograph the President and Mrs Bush, this is their priority.’
‘Yeah, that figures. Congress is still in session through July, and Bush is probably going to be gone in August, either to Camp David or Kennebunkport. And who am I doing after the President and Mrs B?’
‘They have not said, Clee. But they want you for a few specials. I told them I would give them the date of your arrival as soon as possible. They need to confirm with the White House. So, when will you go?’
‘About the fourteenth, I guess.’ Clee walked over to his cluttered desk and sat down. ‘Ask Marc Villier if he can come in early tomorrow, around seven thirty, eight.’
‘I will.’ Jean-Claude crossed the floor to the door, paused before leaving and looked back at Clee. ‘There will not be any problem, he will come whenever you wish. He wants nothing more than to work with you, Clee. You are his … idol.’
Clee merely smiled, made no comment. He knew all about idols and what having one could mean.
Jean-Claude nodded and left.
Clee’s eyes automatically strayed to the photograph of Robert Capa, which hung on the side wall along with a collection of other pictures, and he felt a little stab of familiar sadness, as he often did when he looked at it. His one and only regret in his life was that he had not known Capa. He had been born too late and Capa’s tragic death had been so untimely, far too soon.
After a moment, he swung his gaze and dropped his eyes to the papers littering his desk, shuffled through them without paying much attention, which was quite normal for him. Paperwork was not his strong suit; in fact, it bored him. He clipped the letters together, scrawled across the top one: Louise, please deal with this stuff any way you see fit, and dropped the pile into the tray in readiness for his secretary the following day.
Glancing at the clock he saw that it was almost six. If he was going to cancel the dinner with his close friends Henry and Florence Devon he had better do it immediately. Henry was a writer and worked at the Paris bureau of Time, and Clee dialled his direct line. It rang and rang then was finally picked up and Henry’s gravelly Boston-accented voice was saying, ‘Allo, oui?’
‘Hank, it’s Clee. How’re you, old buddy?’
‘Jaysus, Clee, don’t tell me you’re cancelling!’
‘I have to, Hank. Business, I’m afraid. Look, I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.’
‘Oh hell, Flo has invited this Lacroix