(1982) The Almighty (29 page)

Being let into his plush double room, Ramsey had something else on his mind. The lingering mystery. The prime minister of Israel had departed from Ben Gurion Airport for Cairo, and had not arrived. Tipping the bellboy and watching him leave, Ramsey tried to speculate on the mystery. Even if he could project no logical solution, and tempted as he was to immerse himself in a bath of hot water and try to arrive at some conclusion, he knew for certain what he must do first. A non-event could also be news, and his duty was to report that news or at least alert Armstead in New York to what was happening - or hadn’t happened at all.

He was about to go to the telephone on the table beside the couch when it began ringing.

Surprised, Ramsey lifted the receiver, sure that it was a wrong number. It was not a wrong number. It was a longdistance call from Paris and the caller was Victoria Weston.

‘Nick, is that you?’ he heard her say.

‘All me,’ he answered. ‘How’d you know I’d be here?’

‘I knew you had a reservation at the Nile Hilton.’

‘But I was supposed to be at the Cairo Airport.’

‘I figured you wouldn’t be hanging around there any longer -‘

‘Then you heard the prime minister never showed up?’ he said. ‘I was just going to report the mystery to Armstead.’

There was a silence, and for an instant Ramsey thought that they had been disconnected. But Victoria came on again.

‘You haven’t heard yet? Nick, you haven’t heard?’

‘What?’

‘The Israeli prime minister was gunned down by the Carlos gang during the theft of the Dead Sea scrolls. Then the Israeli government put the lid on that part of the happening, on the shooting. For security reasons.’

Ramsey lowered himself to the couch, stunned. ‘The prime minister shot? You’re kidding.’

‘Heard it with my own ears on French television, a French newscaster quoting a terse government announcement.’

‘What condition is Salmon in?’ Ramsey wanted to know.

‘No idea. Just the delayed government announcement that he’d been shot in the museum by the Carlos terrorists and was now in some Jerusalem hospital. No further details.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Ramsey finally muttered. ‘What am I doing here?’

‘Only knows God,’ said Victoria, quoting from an old profile of Time magazine’s Henry R. Luce, and adding, ‘In translation that means, Only knows Armstead - maybe. Don’t forget he had the heist part of it exclusive.’

‘Armstead,’ repeated Ramsey. T better hang around until I hear from him. And the prime minister -‘ he said wonderingly. ‘What’s happening with him?’

‘They what?’ said Edward Armstead, paling and rising out of his office chair, unable to believe his ears.

Nervously, Harry Dietz squirmed in the chair across from the massive desk. ‘They shot him, Chief,’ he repeated.

‘They shot the prime minister of Israel? Is that what you’re saying? They wounded him?’

‘Apparently. Because the government announcement said he was taken to hospital. The government release on that - it just came through - was curt, but according to my information, the prime minister is probably in critical condition.’

‘You heard that from Pagano?’

‘From Gus Pagano, yes. When he reported the scrolls operation to us, he didn’t want to tell us about the shoot-out. First, because it might have revealed that someone in the gang was reporting to us. Second, because he was uncertain whom they had cut down. But once he heard the government announcement, he phoned again with a few of the details.’

‘What details?’ Armstead demanded. ‘How did it happen?’

Dietz cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know exactly, but I do know this much. Cooper and his men had just grabbed the scrolls and were about to clear out when the prime minister and some guest, with three armed guards, walked in on them. Seeing our men in masks, one of the guards immediately understood what was going on and opened fire. He brought down one of Cooper’s regulars, Shields, apparently killing him instantly.’

Armstead stood unnerved. “They actually killed one of Cooper’s men?’

‘No question,’ said Dietz. ‘Pagano was certain of that.’

‘What happened next?’

‘The terrorists retaliated -‘

‘I don’t like your calling them terrorists,’ interrupted Armstead. He sat down behind his desk. ‘Then what happened?’

‘One of Cooper’s boys opened up with a submachine gun -just mowed them down, the five of them, one after another, the prime minister, his guest, the three guards. They were lying there on the floor like those bodies in the old St. Valentine’s Day massacre in Chicago. Pagano said Cooper couldn’t tell how many were dead and how many injured. It was all too fast.’

‘And Cooper and his gang got away safely?’

‘Absolutely.’

Armstead shook his head. ‘Thank God for that. But they had to leave Shields, they had to leave him behind.’

‘No choice. Every second counted.’

‘Shields - there wasn’t any identification on his body, was there?’

‘None whatsoever. None of them carried any identification.’

Armstead shook his head again, unhappily. ‘I never wanted there to be bloodshed.’

‘There had to be sooner or later,’ said Dietz in a practical tone of voice. ‘Besides, our men had no choice. It was self-defense.’

T suppose you’re right,’ mused Armstead. ‘Who will be blamed for this?’

‘The Israeli government announcement has already blamed Carlos.’

Armstead frowned. ‘Too bad we didn’t have the shooting exclusive, too.’ He looked up. ‘But the details of the shooting - no one has the details except us.’

‘That’s right, Chief.’

‘Well, when’s it coming off the presses?’

‘Chief, it hasn’t even been written yet. I just got Pagano’s second call. I -‘

Armstead slammed his fist on the desk. ‘Goddammit, Harry, get on the ball. We don’t want anyone else getting it into print before us. Let’s roll with it fast -another Armstead beat - another exclusive. The full and inside account of the shooting of Prime Minister Salmon - the story of the year.’ He came off his chair and around the desk as Dietz stood up. Armstead took him by the arm. ‘Let’s keep moving, Harry. We’re on top of the world. Let’s stay there.’

‘I’ll hustle it into print, Chief. Do I by-line it Mark Bradshaw again? We credited him with the beat on the theft of the scrolls. It would be logical for him to report on the rest of the story, the shoot-out.’

Armstead approved. ‘You’ve got it, Harry. Let’s keep him our star.’

‘Okay. Oh, one more thing -‘

‘Yes?’

‘- what about Ramsey?’ asked Dietz.

‘Better get Nick Ramsey out of Cairo. Bring him back to Paris to join up with the Weston girl. I think I may have something new brewing.’

Dietz hesitated at the door. ‘I was just thinking, Chief. Maybe it would be wise to have a breather between stories.’

‘Since when have you become cautious, Harry?’

‘I haven’t really, but-‘

‘Leave the planning to me,’ said Armstead. ‘When you’re running the world, you don’t get off.’

To Nick Ramsey, riding the unusual, undulating arrival escalators in Charles de Gaulle Airport was always an enjoyable sport, like taking a roller coaster standing up, no hands. But this day, returned to Paris from Cairo before one in the afternoon, he hardly noticed the escalators. He was bemused by the violent events that had swirled about him in Egypt and the Middle East.

He reached the ground-floor luggage conveyors and sought out the one that would be delivering his suitcase and typewriter. He watched the Cairo luggage sliding down the moving conveyor belt, spotted his own rubbed black leather bag, stepped forward to catch it as it came around and lifted the suitcase free. Shortly after that he had his portable typewriter.

He was surprised to see a young woman with an arm raised motioning to him. As he arrived at the customs exit, he could see that the young woman was Victoria. Finished with customs, he could not help smiling as he approached her - she was wearing her tweed jacket over a brown silk blouse and hip-hugging beige pants, and was a dream walking - but Victoria was not smiling at all. She was dead serious, even grim.

‘Nick,’ she said. He wanted to kiss those full red lips, but gave her a smack on the cheek instead.

He studied her expression. ‘Anything wrong?’

‘Nick, the prime minister of Israel - he’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘He died in surgery.’

‘Dammit,’ Ramsey said under his breath. ‘Where’d you hear that?’

“They broke in with a bulletin on French television. Salmon recovered consciousness only once before surgery. Someone told him the Dead Sea scrolls had been stolen, and

told him the ransom demand. In return for the scrolls, release of the five PLO terrorists who attacked the kibbutz Kfar Hanassi last month. The prime minister whispered, “Never, never in a million years. The scrolls are precious to all of us, but the safety of our people is more precious. Israel does not give in to terrorists, now or ever.” And then they rolled him into surgery. And then he died.’

‘That’s the whole story?’

‘Not quite. French television also had the details of what happened in the museum, details of what led to the killing. They had these by quoting an exclusive from an American newspaper.’

‘I assume they were quoting the Record,’ said Ramsey quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘A by-lined story by Mark Bradshaw.’

‘Yes.’

‘I see,’ he said. But he did not see a thing.

‘I think it’s odd,’ Victoria said, as they walked out of the terminal to the street.

Ramsey said, T think a lot of things that happen in this world are odd.’

She put up her hand to get the attention of a chauffeur smoking nearby, and he acknowledged her signal and strode off. T have a rented car at the hotel, but I was afraid if I used it on the autoroute I’d get lost and miss you. So I hired that driver with his Mercedes.’

‘Extravagant, aren’t you?’

His tone had been light, but Victoria remained serious. ‘It’s Armstead’s money, and he’s making more and more with all these scoops.’

‘Well, I guess he’s earned it.’

‘Armstead, he’s becoming famous, practically a legend.’

‘I guess he deserves that, too.’

‘He and Mark Bradshaw.’

Noting her emphasis, Ramsey glanced at her.

She touched Ramsey’s arm. ‘Nick, I want to talk to you about all this. Can we talk about it?’

He knew that he was supposed to ask her exactly what she wanted to talk about, but he was not ready for that yet.

The driver had drawn his Mercedes up to the curb. Ramsey

opened the rear door for Victoria. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll talk. But not yet and not now. Give me a chance to shake off the dust of Cairo, take a shower, get a change of clothes. Let’s just neck on the way to Paris.’

‘Nick, I’m really serious.’

‘So am I,’ he said.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said. ‘When we get to the city, drop me off at the Record bureau. I have to do something there. You go to the hotel, check in - same suite - and when you’ve come down, let’s meet at a cafe on the Champs-Elysees for a snack.’

‘You name it.’

‘Let’s say the Maison d’Alsace at Rue Marbeuf on the Champs-Elysees an hour from now. It’s only a short walk around the corner from the Avenue Montaigne.’

‘You’ve got a date.’

‘A serious talk,’ she said.

‘A serious talk,’ he agreed, and wondered what it would be about.

Victoria was seated at a table under a red umbrella in the front row of Maison d’Alsace, sipping her sweet sherry, idly observing pedestrians streaming past her in both directions along the Champs-Elysees. Because speculation on the backgrounds of various passers-by diverted her thoughts, Victoria shifted her gaze to the red awning that served as a canopy over the umbrellas and tables of the cafe. She tried to concentrate on what was uppermost in her mind and to organize her discussion of it with Nick Ramsey.

She and Nick had agreed to meet here an hour after he had dropped her off at the Paris bureau of the Record and she had come to the cafe on time ten minutes ago. She had expected Nick to be waiting for her, but he was nowhere in sight and the black-and-white-striped chair opposite her remained unoccupied.

Eager to have the conversation with him and to have his opinion, although she had foreseen that he would be skeptical, she stretched her neck and looked off toward the Avenue Montaigne. At once she saw Nick. Although he was a half block away, he was taller than the French pedestrians ahead of him and easy to identify. She could not help but

smile. He appeared neat, for him, in a gray suit, and refreshed, and was advancing purposefully, impeded only now and then by window-shoppers. She supposed he would invite her to dinner, but first she determined to have her talk with him here and now in the cafe.

For a moment her gaze had strayed, and she had lost him. Then she had him in sight, and her brow furrowed.

Nick was no longer walking. He had stopped or been stopped. He had been partially blocked out by a stout man in a dark suit who was speaking to him. Another man - shorter, even heftier, a person in a black leather jacket who resembled a Lebanese - had come up behind Nick, seemed to bump into him.

Curious, Victoria tried to make out what was happening.

She saw the pair who had detained Nick jostle him, pushing him off the sidewalk and nearer the street. The action was unclear, but it looked as if the pair were forcing Nick toward a sedan at the curb.

Alarmed, Victoria opened her purse, pulled out some loose francs, threw them on the table and searched for Nick once more.

The threesome, the two strangers and Nick, had reached the low sedan. What was taking place was even clearer now. Nick was definitely being forced into the back of the vehicle.

Victoria jumped to her feet, wondering why Nick did not resist the bullying tactics. Instantly she realized that he couldn’t. He was being forced into the car, probably at gunpoint. Nick was being abducted. He was being kidnapped.

And Victoria was running.

Obstructed by pedestrians, she dodged and wove and kept running toward the sedan.