(1982) The Almighty (35 page)

His small, spartan office, separated by a glass wall from the staircase, was furnished with no more than a bare wooden desk, one file, three chairs.

As Professor Leclerc eased into the chair at his desk, Victoria became aware that his face, deeply lined, looked as brittle as papyrus, and that he wore a hearing aid. His youngest feature was his eyes - clear brown, bright, alert. He apologized for his tardiness. He had been lecturing to a class of five hundred students on comparative religion, a two-hour class that had unaccountably run over to nearly two and a half hours. ‘We become more garrulous as we age,’ he explained shyly. ‘Do not let me go on that way with you. I do not have the time.’

Victoria plunged immediately into her prepared questions, skipping the ones on the history of Lourdes to make sure that she got in the ones on the layout of the shrine that the Pope

would be visiting. Professor Leclerc, who apparently considered Lourdes his private preserve and the Pope’s visit a personal one, presented his answers with clarity and enthusiasm.

Victoria listened and jotted notes for more than an hour. Professor Leclerc had begun by explaining that Lourdes lay at the foot of a valley that led up into the French Pyrenees. He described the Boulevard de la Grotte that brought pilgrims and tourists, and would bring the Pope himself, to the ‘Domaine de la Grotte.’ He described the benches in front of the shrine, and the interior of the cave, with the white and pastel blue statue (somewhat blackened by years of candle smoke) of the Lady herself set in a niche, and the holy stream below it covered by a glass panel. He discussed the Upper Basilica and the Rosary Basilica and the thirty-acre park that surrounded both. ‘ He spoke now of the Underground Basilica, the St. Pius X Basilica, the most mammoth man-made subterranean structure on earth. ‘This basilica,’ he said, ‘completed in 1958, measures 81 meters by 201 meters and is covered by a grassy esplanade. It can hold 20,000 pilgrims, more than the entire permanent population of Lourdes. It is used for ceremonies in poor weather, in winter, or to hold excessive crowds. The Pope will bless the thousands who will convene in this Underground Basilica. But do not forget, the Pope will be only one of four million persons visiting Lourdes this year.’

Victoria had recorded all of this, but her writing hand was becoming cramped.

Professor Leclerc seemed to be aware of her distress, for he stopped discoursing abruptly to inquire, ‘Forgive me, madame, but do you have a watch with the time?’

Victoria consulted her wristwatch. ‘Twelve thirty-two, Professor.’

He pushed himself erect, wheezing. ‘I must take leave. I am late for a lunch appointment. I hope my descriptions were clear enough?’

Victoria scrambled to her feet. ‘More than clear. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

But Professor Leclerc was not wholly satisfied. ‘Too bad I did not have the map to show, an excellent map, the best,

issued several years ago by the Lourdes Hotel de Ville. Unfortunately, I gave my only copy to another American who came by yesterday.’

Victoria concern was immediate. ‘Another American?’

‘Yes, but have no fear, he was not a competing journalist. He informed me that he is a historian preparing a definitive work on world miracle sites, so-called.’

Victoria remained suspicious. ‘Did he - did he give you his name? Was it Mark Bradshaw, by chance?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. It was -‘ He tried to remember. ‘Voila, Ferguson, Mr. James Ferguson, of a New York university. A rather lean young man with curly black hair, a prominent nose, a beard. An arresting appearance. I have no idea how erudite, since he spoke very little. Perhaps you know this Mr. Ferguson, and he might share with you his map of Lourdes?’

‘I wish I knew him, but I don’t,’ said Victoria.

But five minutes later, walking back to her car, the name James Ferguson kept coming back to Victoria like the refrain of an old song. She did not know James Ferguson, but she thought she had heard or seen the name somewhere.

But where?

After lunch in the Plaza Athenee, Victoria went up to her room, took out her portable typewriter, and examined the pages of notes that she had made on Lourdes. At last, when she had absorbed them all and organized them, she began to write.

In an hour her feature story was finished, and it was good. After editing it, she was ready to telephone the Record in New York. It would be nine-thirty in the morning in New York, and the offices would be filling. It was unclear to her whether she was supposed to file the story with Armstead or Dietz. Nevertheless she put in a call direct to the publisher. Neither Armstead nor Dietz was in his office, so Victoria had herself connected with McAllister. He was present and ready to have her dictate the story on a recorder.

No sooner had she hung up on McAllister than the telephone rang. The caller was Sid Lukas.

‘Zilch,’ he said.

For a moment, Victoria, mind still on the Lourdes story she

had delivered, was confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Zero on Mark Bradshaw,’ Lukas said.

Her disappointment was immediate. ‘You mean nothing?’

‘I queried every damn bureau this side of the Atlantic and in the Middle East,’ said Lukas. ‘Asked each chief if Mark Bradshaw worked out of his bureau, or had ever worked for him, and if he knew Bradshaw could he give me a current address and telephone. The response was one hundred percent negative. None had ever employed him. None had ever met him. Several added that they could certainly use him out their way. Everyone was curious about him. For such a hotshot, you would think he’d have been more visible.’ As an afterthought Lukas added, ‘But maybe that’s the point when you’re pulling off beats like that. Being invisible, I mean.’

‘Maybe that’s the way it’s done,’ admitted Victoria.

‘Sorry, I can’t be of help to you, Vicky.’

‘Gee thanks, Sid. I’ll buy you a cigar someday.’

After putting the receiver back on the hook, she sat contemplating the instrument. Disheartened but not defeated, she resolved not to quit so easily. She even felt a challenge. With growing determination, she decided to chase the elusive by-line down to its primary source.

Before leaving, Nick had told her that if she ran into trouble, to contact a good friend of his in the personnel department of the New York Record. She remembered that this friend of his, Mrs. Crowe, was trustworthy. Feeling better, Victoria did a direct overseas dial to the New York Record. The switchboard connected her with a female voice that announced, ‘Mrs. Crowe speaking.’

‘This is Victoria Weston,’ said Victoria. ‘I’m with the paper.’

‘Yes, I know. I remember you.’

‘Of course,’ said Victoria. ‘I’m phoning from Paris.’

‘You sound like you’re next door. Can I do anything for you?’

‘It’s a personnel matter,’ said Victoria. ‘I’ve been working with Nick Ramsey, and he suggested I call you. He told me to say that it was confidential.’

‘And so it will be.’

‘I’m calling about another member on our staff. Mark Bradshaw. I have to contact him. Could you check -‘

‘What a coincidence,’ Mrs. Crowe interrupted. ‘You know, for weeks we’ve been getting at least one call a day inquiring about him. Everybody from Newsweek to the Columbia Journalism Review wants coverage. Doubleday and Simon and Schuster want to talk to him about a book. CBS wants to consider him for an anchor spot. Now, today, yours is the second call in a row concerning Mr. Bradshaw. About an hour ago someone, a reporter from Time magazine, wanted information on Mr. Bradshaw.’

‘Time magazine,’ said Victoria. ‘Why?’ ‘Apparently the editors are considering doing a story on Mr. Armstead and his fantastic string of exclusive terrorist stories. Of course, Mr. Bradshaw has been playing a major role in getting those stories. So they wanted to know something about him. I’m afraid I couldn’t help them, any more than I can help you. We simply have no card on Mark Bradshaw. As far as we’re concerned, he does not exist as a member of our staff.’

‘But he has to be,’ insisted Victoria. , T know,’ replied Mrs. Crowe, with resignation. Suddenly her voice came alive. ‘Wait. I have one more idea. Hold on, dear.’

Victoria held on, entertaining a bit more hope and wondering what Mrs. Crowe was up to.

It was a full minute before Katherine Crowe’s voice came on again. ‘Miss Weston?’ ‘I’m still here.’

‘I gave it the old college try, but it didn’t work. It occurred to me that the one person who might know where you could find Mark Bradshaw would be Estelle Rivkin, Mr. Armstead’s secretary. So I took a chance and buzzed her. I told her I had you on hold in Paris, and that you wanted to know where you could locate Bradshaw. All Estelle could say was, “I don’t have the faintest idea. I’d guess Mr. Armstead has him under personal contract and works with Mr. Bradshaw himself.” I’m sure Estelle was leveling with me. She doesn’t seem to know a thing. I believe her.’

Victoria sighed. ‘Well, I guess that’s it. Many thanks for the old college try, Mrs. Crowe.’

Once more Victoria dropped the phone receiver into the hook. Her frustration was accentuated, and now overlapped

by a patina of worry. Nick, at their parting, had suggested that she speak confidentially to Katherine Crowe, but not to reveal her quest for Bradshaw to any other person at the Record. Any other person might include Edward Armstead’s private secretary, and Mrs. Crowe had gone ahead on her,own and spoken to her. In a sense, Victoria’s secret cat was out of the bag. But it was surely unlikely that Estelle Rivkin would find the incident important enough to repeat to her busy employer. Victoria relegated her worry to minor concern and, undaunted, tried to think whether there was anything more that she could do.

And then she realized that there was one last resort.

At his departure, Nick had suggested the names of two persons for her to consult, if she needed them, in her hunt for Mark Bradshaw. One had been Katherine Crowe at the Record, and that contact had been a failure. The other had been - she recalled Nick’s exact words - Howie Dittman on the New York Telegraph. He moonlights as a researcher. He’ll do anything for me and he’s a whiz.

Howie Dittman would be her last shot.

The Plaza Athenee telephone had become like another limb, an extension of her body. She was on the telephone now, making one call, two calls, before she reached the Telegraph and was put through to Howie Dittman’s desk. There had been seemingly countless rings, and Victoria had become discouraged and was about ready to hang up, when a male voice answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Is this Mr. Dittman?’

‘Naw. I’m at the next desk. He went home an hour ago. Any message?’

‘I’d like to speak to him at home.’

‘I dunno. Not supposed to give out home numbers.’ The male voice was wary. ‘You want him on business or social?’

‘Social,’ Victoria declared, and let her own voice go cute. ‘This is Kitty, his new girl friend. Maybe he spoke of us. He was expecting me to call, but I couldn’t get to the phone till now. And I’ve misplaced his home number.’

The voice on the other end had softened. ‘All right. One second and I’ll get it for you.’ The voice quickly returned. ‘Got a pencil?’

‘Sure.’

‘Endicott 2-9970. Got it?’

‘Sure.’

‘If you can’t find him, maybe call me back: I’m Ozzie. I’m not busy tonight.’

‘Sure,’

She hung up. Ozzie. Je-sus. Okay, Howie.

The phone once more. The long direct dial. She got Howie Dittman on the first ring. After Ozzie, she had not known what to expect, but Howie Dittman was a serious type, with a low voice and what sounded like a controlled stutter.

After she had introduced herself, she started to explain that she was a friend and colleague of Nick Ramsey. But Dittman interrupted her before she could finish.

T know about you,’ Dittman said. ‘Nick gave me a call from D.C. yesterday to tell me you might contact me and to cooperate.’

Victoria felt a warm tingle for Nick who had been thinking of her from so far away.

‘You in Paris?’ Dittman asked.

‘Yes, I’m still in Paris, at the Plaza Athenee Hotel.’

‘Then we better get right on with it. Let’s not run up your costs.’

This reminded Victoria to make certain that she paid cash for these phone calls, to be sure that they were not charged to the Record and somehow came to the attention of Armstead or Dietz.

‘I need some quiet and fast research help from you,’ said Victoria. T want to find out what I can about a person, a media person who’s received a lot of attention in the media itself. I want to learn whatever can be known about him. I want to trace him. I have to speak to him.’

‘His name?’ inquired Dittman, businesslike.

‘Mark Bradshaw, a foreign correspondent on the New York Record.’

‘What else can you tell me about him?’

‘Not a darn thing. That’s just it. He’s pretty famous by now, I’d imagine. He’s done those front-page scoops for the Record starting with the kidnapping of the king of Spain -‘

‘Yes, I know, right through to the killing of the Israeli prime minister. His name has become quite well known, Miss

Weston. Yet you can find out nothing about him?’

‘Not a thing. I need help. Don’t bother with the New York Record. I’ve tried it, fairly thoroughly, and officially Bradshaw is not on the paper, except on the front page. I don’t understand it.’

‘Obviously he’s working for the paper in an unofficial capacity, or on a personal basis with someone high up there.’

‘That’s, what it sounds like. I want to get to him.’

‘You think someone wants to keep you from getting to him?’

‘I don’t think anything as dramatic as that. In fact, except for Nick, you, a friend of Nick’s at the Record, the publisher’s secretary, and the bureau chief in Paris, no one even knows I want to meet Bradshaw.’

‘Is that what you want to know? How to meet him?’

Victoria backtracked. ‘Well, maybe not exactly, although it might come to that in the end. No, what I want from you is something about Bradshaw, and most of all, where he can be reached. You think you can help?’

‘I can try.’

‘Nick said you were a whiz.’