(1982) The Almighty (21 page)

At 10 a.m. they had witnessed the king’s arrival at the modest Palacio de Ayete, after they had parked the car and mingled with the curious crowd of spectators waiting outside the building. Ramsey had become restless at the inactivity, chain-smoking and complaining until the king emerged, resplendent in his visored cap and bemedaled sashed tunic jacket and dark trousers.

The people all around them had cheered, and Victoria had been ecstatic, pointing at her watch, saying, ‘It’s ten-thirty, Nick. Right on schedule. Now he’ll be heading for Town Hall. Let’s stay with the motorcade. Which way is our car?’

‘If you insist,’ Ramsey had grumbled, elbowing ahead of her through the mob of onlookers.

Back in the car, they tracked the royal motorcade to the San Sebastian Town Hall, left the Renault illegally parked in a side street, and made their way through more spectators in time to see the king and his aides enter the Municipal Building with the mayor.

They had lingered outside for twenty minutes, with Ramsey becoming more and more restless and inattentive.

Now he was pulling at Victoria’s coat sleeve. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

‘Nothing yet,’ she said.

‘Nothing yet, and nothing now, and nothing later. Vicky, it’s a washout. I warned you this would be a non-news event, and by now you should know that I’m right.’

‘Be a little more patient, Nick.’

‘For what? I’ve had it, Vicky. I’m cutting out.’

‘You’re leaving?’ she said incredulously.

‘You bet. This is a drag, as predicted. You can handle any big beat by yourself. If king bites dog, you’ve got it. As for me, I’m going to walk back to the hotel, have a few drinks, and take a nap. When you’re ready to file your hot story with New York - well, just wake me up and I’ll give you moral support.’ He handed the car keys to Victoria. ‘Stay alert, old girl, and sober.’

He disappeared into the crowd.

Disheartened by his cynicism, feeling a little foolish about her romantic expectations, feeling sophomoric and inexperienced, Victoria planted herself firmly on the pavement and prepared to wait. Dammit, she told herself, this could be a story and I’m a reporter and Nick is a jaded old drunk.

By 11:15 the king had not yet reappeared, which meant that from this point on he would be running late. Victoria kept searching the spectators, hoping for some demonstrators or protestors, but there were none.

Ten minutes more passed, and then Victoria was brought to attention by an outburst of cheers and applause. Rising on her toes, she could see the impressive figure of the king. He was shaking hands with the San Sebastian mayor before departing for his limousine, while members of his entourage and the plainclothes men quickly surrounded him.

She whirled about, fought through the mass of people, burst into the open, and raced for the side street where the Renault was parked.

She breathed a sigh of relief that there was no parking ticket.

Once inside the sedan, she found her street map of San Sebastian, located the X’s she had marked on the sites of the royal stops, pinpointed Town Hall and her present location,

pinpointed the king’s next scheduled stop, the Catedral del Buen Pastor. She traced the route, started her car, and was on the move through the less traveled back streets.

Finally, when she had the dominant 75-meter main spire of the church in view, she sought a parking place, and after many misses, she took the Puente Cristina across the Rio Urumea and found an empty slot near the Norte railroad station. Purse suspended from her shoulder, map in hand, she began striding briskly over the bridge. Shortly she was in the Plaza de Bilbao and approaching the massive neo-Gothic cathedral.

Once more there were thickets of onlookers. They ringed the church entrance and were being held back by a cordon of local police. She tried to edge her way closer for a better view, but was unable to get nearer than fifty yards from the entrance.

Her view was partially obscured by the applauding townsfolk, but she could make out that the royal motorcade had already arrived and that the king, caught up in his entourage, was making his way to the cathedral entrance. There, the members of the entourage appeared to melt to one side and hold still as the king, followed by two personal bodyguards, left them to join a single clergyman. Together, the four men went inside the church.

This was unexpected, the king going into the cathedral with only two of his party, but at once Victoria realized what was happening. She recalled the itinerary that she had prepared. The Cathedral was a brief interruption in the ceremonial day during which the monarch would go to confession.

This was respect. Victoria sighed. It wasn’t news.

Dumbly, and more weary now, she settled down for one more wait.

The interior of the cathedral had been tactfully cleared of tourists and worshippers, and except for the few clergymen who discreetly lost themselves in various shadowed recesses, the king of Spain was left alone with his cleric guide and pair of guards. Gesturing for the cleric and his guards to remain where they were, the king moved ahead.

Far below the majestic vaulted ceilings of this house of God, the king of Spain passed the rows of empty pews and

made his way to the nearest confessional box. Arriving at the curtained entrance, far from the hue and cry of the multitude, isolated from the grave matters of state, the monarch paused to gather his thoughts, and then he stepped into the booth to cleanse his soul.

Inside the confessional, an openwork lattice was set into the wall that separated him from the priest who would hear his confession and give him absolution. The king knew that it would be the bishop himself beyond the lattice.

The king brought himself to his knees on the padded step, bowed his head before the lattice, and began in a low but distinct voice.

‘Father, I have sinned.’

‘Yes, my son.’

‘I wish to confess -‘

That instant, the lattice was pulled aside. To the king’s astonishment, the bishop’s face was not revealed. Instead, a gloved hand pointed a heavy Parabellum 9 caliber pistol through the opening and pushed the gun’s metallic nozzle against the king’s forehead.

‘Silence,’ a harsh voice commanded. ‘Do as directed or die.’

The king remained on his knees, petrified.

The curtain to the confessional was jerked open, and he could barely make out a person in clerical garb, holding a gun and some sort of garments, standing behind him. He felt the bishop’s white miter being shoved down on his head, felt a clerical robe - plainly the bishop’s own purple cassock - being forced on his arms and around his body.

‘On your feet,’ a voice in his ear ordered in Spanish.

Incapable of rising, the king allowed himself to be yanked to his feet. Another armed clergyman, a gunman dressed in surplice and cassock, had now materialized.

The pair pulled the king out of the confessional into the cavernous hollow of the church.

Prodding with their guns, prodding, pushing hard, the pair were swiftly joined by two more men in the garb of clerics, who helped surround the monarch.

The four hustled him between the pews and altar.

The king had only a glimpse of his bodyguards and several other clergymen - the real ones, he assumed - being tied up

and gagged while fake clergymen held submachine guns on them.

Close to the king’s ear a breathless voice, the harsh one, said, ‘We take you outside to a car in the rear. Behave, and you are safe. One word from you, and you are dead.’

The king nodded, remained mute, and allowed himself to be hurried away.

Outside, continuing to keep her gaze on the cathedral entrance, Victoria was becoming increasingly tired.

Fifteen more numbing minutes had gone by, a wind chilled the air, and still the king had not emerged, as members of his entourage patiently stood by in front of the cathedral. Victoria was almost ready to concede that Nick Ramsey had been right. This was a day for no news, a cosmetic ceremonial day, disappointing not only her but a disappointment for Armstead in New York.

She weighed backtracking to her car, walking to it as fast as possible for warmth, and returning to Ramsey to have him assist her in calling in her newsless story.

That instant she heard a shrill outcry ahead.

Startled, instantly curious, Victoria barged forward between the peasant couple in front of her and fought closer to the cordon of police to hear and see what was happening better. After a minute she came to a full view of the church entrance, and what she saw surprised her even further. In the entrance, a disheveled, bareheaded elderly man, apparently the bishop himself, attired in a cassock, was shouting frantically to members of the uniformed Guardia civil and the royal entourage. A Guardia civil officer now had the bishop by the shoulders, trying to calm him, and the bishop ceased his shouting and was speaking hysterically to the officer.

Abruptly the cordon of police heaved backward, and Victoria would have toppled over except for the press of spectators around her. Ahead of her there was an eruption of persons at the cathedral entrance - Guardia civil officers, policemen, plainclothesmen rushing toward waiting cars -and breaching this avalanche, other officials and clergymen were leading the hysterical bishop back into the church.

All about Victoria, the babble of rising voices mingled with the whine of automobile engines. Obviously something had

gone terribly wrong, but Victoria did not know what was happening because she had not understood a word of Spanish. She raised her voice, calling out to the spectators around her, ‘What’s happening? What’s going on? Can anyone speak English?’ Her neighbors ignored her until one bespectacled young man, who looked like a student, reached between the people separating them and touched her shoulder to gain her attention. T speak English,’ he said. ‘The king has been kidnapped from inside the church, abducted by terrorists at gunpoint. They tied up the bishop, took his place. The rest dressed up as priests.’ Rattled, disbelieving, Victoria held on to the young man’s arm to keep him from getting away. ‘The king kidnapped?’ she shouted. ‘You’re sure?’ The young man was nodding vigorously. ‘It is true. He’s been kidnapped.’ Victoria tugged at the young man’s arm. ‘Who did it? Do they know?’ The young man was shaking his head. ‘They did not tell - but for certain it must be ETA.’ The young man was pulling away from her and she called after him. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

There was not time to think, only to act. She was clawing through the crowd, battling to get out of the noisy mob, and after minutes the crowd was thinning. Victoria scrambled free, fully into the open, halting only to catch her breath.

Her mind reeled. She’d been right to stay with the royal tour. Nick had been wrong to leave, to believe nothing would happen. An incredible event had happened, and she was half-witness to it. She had a - a scoop. The Record would have it. Armstead would be out of his mind.

She was running away from the cathedral in the direction of her car. The first thought that entered her mind was to find a telephone somewhere, anywhere, and call New York. But reality dampened the thought. The obstacles would be insurmountable: she did not know the method of making a call outside the hotel, she would be unable to deal with a Spanish operator, she would have to make the longdistance call collect - impossible. She was winded, now only half-running as she approached her parking place. Her immediate destination had become clearer. She must get back to the Londres Hotel, to her room, use the hotel’s English-speaking operator to get the first flash across to Armstead.

The king of Spain kidnapped!

She threw herself into the front seat of the Renault, started the car, gunned the engine, and was off as if flung from a catapult.

Safely inside her hotel room, Victoria had dialed the hotel operator, said that she wanted to call New York City, a station-to-station call prepaid, and she carefully enunciated the telephone number of the New York Record. ‘Hang up, please,’ the operator had told her. ‘I will call you back.’ Victoria had pleaded, ‘Make it fast as possible.’ The operator, unperturbed, had replied, ‘I will call you back when I have the connection.’

Now Victoria was waiting, trying to put the story together in her head, and silently beseeching the telephone to ring.

In less than a minute it rang, and Victoria grabbed it. ‘Yes?’

The operator’s tone was maddeningly cool. ‘Miss Weston, on the call you have placed to New York - it cannot go through at this time.’

‘What?’

‘Maybe later, in a few hours, by this evening.’

‘Why can’t I make my call?’

‘There is a police emergency. All calls going out of San Sebastian have been temporarily stopped. Your call cannot be placed. I will let you know when longdistance service is resumed.’ 4

Victoria knew that any further pleading with a minor functionary, minor cog, would get her nowhere.

‘I’ll be waiting to hear from you,’ she said helplessly and hung up.

Only one bit of light alleviated her dark frustration. If no outgoing calls were being permitted during this emergency, it meant that other press people, rivals, were being similarly frustrated. No Spanish newspaper or foreign wire service would be allowed to send the news out of San Sebastian. Nor, she was sure, would any Spanish radio or television station be permitted to broadcast the news. This was an immediate clamp-down on word that the king of Spain had been kidnapped. Whatever the reason the police had for the censorship, she had no doubt that it was in full effect.

What to do?

Nick Ramsey, of course. Nick right next door napping,

unaware of what had taken place and of the great scoop she alone had. She must enlist him, with his experience, ask him what they should do to get the story to New York.

Quickly she left her room, entered the corridor, and hurried to the next room. She rapped hard on Ramsey’s door, to be sure to awaken him.

No sooner had her knuckles left the door than it was thrown open.

‘Nick -‘ she started to say, stepping into his room, and immediately she stopped in her tracks.