(1982) The Almighty (52 page)

No sooner had the reverberation of General Judson’s voice ceased than he ran into the conference room, uncontrollably furious, stumbling toward the windows. He pushed himself next to Hugh Weston at the middle window. With the others, he scanned the empty, forbidding sky.

At his own window, Ramsey strained his eyes, seeking their executioner. There was nothing, only innocent clouds. Instantly he was chilled by the general’s outcry. ‘Hey, up there, look up there! The sonofabitch is coming down at us like a bat out of hell!’

Heart hammering, Ramsey squinted off to the left, lifting his sight, and could make out the sliver, the ominous sliver, in the blue sky, distant but pointed at them, coming from above at incredible speed, diving, growing in his vision until he could see it was the feared configuration of a MiG fighter.

‘Je-sus, like a fucking bat out of hell,’ the general was gasping. ‘Coming two thousand miles an hour straight for us!’

‘We’re goners,’ the President groaned.

Ramsey had caught another sliver, two slivers, out of the corner of his eye, and staring down through the window, he shouted, ‘Look - look below!’

They had burst out of a cloud formation, the two of them, zooming and screaming upward.

‘F-15 long-range fighters!’ the general bellowed. ‘Our own!’

‘By God, lookit!’ the President yelled.

They all saw the Advanced Medium Range Air-to-Air Missiles leave the defending planes - the AMRAAM’s come bursting out - sizzling through the sky like twin avengers, going with the speed of lightning, homing in on the oncoming attacker.

Awed, mouth agape, Ramsey could see the kamikaze destructor almost upon them and the twin missiles almost upon the kamikaze destructor.

Which would hit and obliterate first? He steeled himself for the impact of carnage and death.

But before his eyes the blue sky grew into a huge orange ball - the kamikaze MiG exploding in a mass of flame and debris, debris sailing off, debris falling toward the ocean, no full part of the attacker in the sky, only smoke, and bits and pieces floating away.

Air Force One had shuddered violently under the pressure of the nearby explosion.

It was shaking still, but now leveling out, and continuing uninterrupted to London.

And four men were hugging each other and dancing in the big warm room.

Finishing her call to Air Force One, Victoria had only one more thing to say, ‘I’m praying for you and Dad,’ she said, and then she blurted out, ‘Nick, I love you.’ But she had realized that the phone was dead, that Nick had already hung up and was doing what could be done.

Replacing the receiver on the hook, Victoria had remained rooted in the stifling telephone booth.

Unfinished business, one piece of unfinished business, one more call to be made.

Captain Timothy Crawford, detective division of the New York City police department. In haste, Nick had asked her what she was going to do next, and in haste she had told him. ‘Don’t confront Armstead alone,’ Nick had warned her. ‘Contact the New York City police, detective division, speak to my friend Timothy Crawford, tell him everything, everything. He’ll know what to do.’

She had contacted Captain Crawford, identified herself,-mentioning Nick Ramsey, and she had spilled out her story. ‘The last is enough to act on,’ Crawford had assured her. ‘About the rest, we’ll have to be sure, and see what happens to Air Force One. But the last will do. A charge of attempted murder, with you and his wife making the charge. Can you get over to the Armstead Building right away? Meet you there.’

Emerging from the booth, trying to suppress any further thoughts of Air Force One and her loved ones, she had run a gauntlet of five angry persons awaiting their turn to use the telephone, but she had been deaf to their curses. She had run out of the liquor store into Madison Avenue and waved down a cruising taxi. ‘Armstead Building on Park Avenue,’ she had instructed the driver.

Now, approaching the showdown, the fear that had been gripping her in a viselike hold began to tighten. She could see the fourth of four police squad cars drawing up before the entrance to the Armstead Building. She tried to concentrate on what was immediately ahead.

‘I’ll get out here,’ she told the driver. As he braked to a halt, she pushed three dollar bills into the slot under the partition, and unlatched the rear door.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’ the driver called out.

‘Plenty,’ she called back. ‘You’ll read about it in the papers.’

There was a gathering of a dozen uniformed policemen and plainsclothesmen on the sidewalk, and she tried to guess which one would be Detective Timothy Crawford, and guessed it might be the behemoth of a man with the ruddy face, the one in the middle.

She guessed right. The burly man was approaching her. ‘You Vicky Weston? I’m Crawford. You can see, we’re all in place. You think he’s in?’

‘He’ll be in all right,’ Vicky promised. ‘He’s standing by for news of the big blowup, so he can break his story. He’s probably in his office at the back of editorial on the sixth floor. I’ll show you the way.’

‘Better stay out of this part, Miss Weston. Could be dangerous. I’m taking up a detail of men.’

‘Will you know which one is Edward Armstead?’

Captain Crawford showed his crooked teeth in a half smile. ‘His face has been plenty visible for weeks. The Almighty, right? Couldn’t miss him.’ He wheeled toward the arrest team. ‘All right, boys. Four of you up the stairs. Three of you with me up the elevator. The rest of you stake out down here and all around the building in case he tries to get away.’

They were barging into the lobby, and Victoria was right behind them.

She squeezed into the elevator, apologizing to Crawford. ‘I’ve got to be there.’

Breaking into the sixth-floor foyer, Crawford held his men until the other half of the arrest detail came up the staircase. Crawford ordered these arrivals to stand guard. He raised his hand, and signaled the rest into the city room.

Victoria dashed ahead, followed by Crawford and his squad. The room was full, buzzing with activity when they entered and moved purposefully between the endless desks toward the executive offices in the rear. Gradually all work ceased as editors, reporters, rewrite men remained motionless and curious, watching the steady march of the five of them through the vast room to the publisher’s office.

Passing her own desk, Victoria heard her telephone ringing. She tried to ignore it, then saw someone else pick it up.

‘For you, Vicky,’ the reporter called to her.

‘Not now,’ said Victoria.

‘He says you’ll want to hear. He says his name is Sy Rosenbloom.’

Victoria stopped, looked at Crawford. Victoria said, ‘A second. It must be about - Air Force One.’ She hurried to the phone, listened briefly, felt her strained facial muscles beginning to relax.

She turned to Crawford’s side, face wreathed in a smile. ‘Air Force One made it,’ she said. ‘Interceptors shot down Armstead’s terrorist.’

Crawford’s crooked teeth revealed his pleasure. ‘Okay, then we only have to wrap it up.’

The march resumed. Victoria preceded them into Estelle Rivkin’s reception room. Estelle brought her head up from the typewriter and tried to understand the interruption. ‘What do you want?’

‘Is Mr. Armstead in?’ demanded Victoria.

‘He was. He’s in, but he may be with Mr. Dietz. Let me ring him.’

Crawford stepped forward. ‘Don’t lift a finger, lady. We’d like to surprise your boss.’ His head made a gesture toward Armstead’s door.

Victoria threw the door open, heart beating faster as she watched the police hurry into the publisher’s office. Then she

went inside, in time to hear Captain Crawford announce, ‘No one here.’

At that instant the door across the room opened, the door into the corridor that led to Dietz’s office/and there was Edward Armstead holding aloft some sheets of paper, his head turned as he laughed jubilantly at Dietz behind him. Victoria thought there was someone else, too, partially visible, possibly Pagano. Armstead was still laughing, speaking to Dietz over his shoulder. ‘Greatest electronic contraption I ever heard of. Jacklin said he heard the midair explosion clear as day. Now we’ve got the big one. I’m-‘

‘Chief,’ Dietz croaked. ‘Turn around-‘

Crawford took a step toward him. ‘Edward Armstead, you are under arrest for criminal conspiracy and attempted murder.’

Victoria emerged from behind the other police, and stood beside Crawford. Armstead had not been aware of her before and his eyes widened.

‘We got out, Hannah and I. We told it all.’ Victoria was having difficulty with her voice, but she went on. ‘You’ve got no story. The explosion you heard about was the explosion of your kamikaze, shot down by interceptors. Air Force One is safe.’

Armstead was shaking his head in disbelief, looking wildly at everyone in the room with the glazed eyes of a lunatic, backing away slowly, until he had backed against the sliding doors to his balcony.

‘Read him his rights, boys, and then book him!’ Crawford called out.

‘No!’ Armstead shrieked, yanking the sliding doors wide open and whirling around toward the balcony.

Crawford instinctively whipped out his service revolver and was taking aim when Victoria grabbed at his wrist. ‘Don’t - don’t kill him. His wife, she - He has no place to go out there. He’s sick, crazy.’

The detective was staring at Armstead. ‘Look at him. Nuttier than a fruitcake.’

Armstead was climbing to the top of the cement parapet. He was teetering on the narrow railing.

‘I can’t let him,’ growled Crawford, moving toward the balcony. Victoria was running alongside the detective, calling

quieted down, and it was late afternoon when Victoria was through with the story. She punched the printer beside the word processor, and the final draft was automatically typed out.

Tearing it free, Victoria leaned back in her chair and reread it one final time.

The story of the Almighty’s accidental fall to his death, at the peak of a distinguished career. His life. His achievements. His instinct for news. His memorable exclusive stories.

All of that. Nothing else. Hannah had implored someone to be kind.

Victoria rolled up the story.

Hannah’s legacy.

Drained, Victoria managed to get to her feet. With weariness, she trudged to Ollie McAllister’s coop. He was hunched over his desk, studying copy for the first edition to go.

He glanced up. ‘Got it?’

‘All done,’ said Victoria. She tossed the pages on his desk. ‘Long day. Good night.’

She walked slowly through the editorial room. Outside the end alcove, she could hear the teletypes clattering away. She paused to go inside the wire room, making her way to the machine that was spewing out the latest news from Europe via London. She watched the automatic keys hitting the roll of paper, which cascaded to the floor. She picked up the stream of paper that had already been printed out, seeking a Paris date-line.

There it was, second story from the top.

BULLETIN MATTER… FIRST LEAD PARIS… TONIGHT THE FRENCH SURETE RAIDED A LEFT BANK HIDEOUT OF THE LEGENDARY TERRORIST CARLOS, WHO SUCCESSFULLY ESCAPED MINUTES BEFORE POLICE BROKE INTO HIS APARTMENT. HE HAD BEEN HIDING WITH ANOTHER TERRORIST GROUP LED BY SOMEONE KNOWN ONLY AS COOPER. MEMBERS OF THIS GROUP, ALONG WITH COOPER, ALSO SUCCEEDED IN EVADING POLICE. ONE MEMBER WHO HAD LINGERED BEHIND TO DESTROY EVIDENCE, AND HAD BEEN MORTALLY WOUNDED, GAVE HIS NAME AS PETER QUIGGS, OF LEEDS, ENGLAND. HE CONFESSED BEFORE DYING THAT THE COOPER GANG HAD BEEN RESPONSIBLE FOR MANY RECENT TERRORIST ACTS. SURETE INVESTIGATING FURTHER .., XXX … MORE.

Victoria dropped the teletype printout.

Someone had alerted Cooper just before the raid, allowing Cooper to release Carlos and escape himself with most of his men.

Someone had got to them first.

Of course, someone was Gus Pagano. She was sure that she had seen him with Armstead and Dietz. Afterward, she had not seen him at all. He had got away. She knew that she would never see him again. He was not the Almighty. He was the Survivor.

She heard her name, and saw that it was Ollie McAllister outside the teletype alcove, holding her story. She went to him.

McAllister was shaking the story and studying her owlishly. ‘Vicky, it says here - it was an accident. Is that true?’

She met his eyes. ‘Ollie. I was there. I say it’s true. I think the new owners of the paper - Hannah Armstead and Roger -would agree with me.’

“Then, it is true,’ said McAllister.

Victoria made to leave, when the managing editor’s hand caught her. ‘One more thing.’

Victoria waited.

McAllister was tapping the story again. ‘The by-line here. You want it to stand? It reads “by Mark Bradshaw.”’

‘Yes, Ollie.’ She smiled. T want it to stand.’

And she left the elevator.

One week and one day later.

The evening of his homecoming. He would be here any minute, and Victoria had begun the celebration by herself.

She had spruced up the old studio apartment, turned away as workers removed the sofa bed in which Kim Nesbit had died, watched as they replaced it with a fresh new one. She had bathed herself and perfumed herself, and changed into the sheer shift of a nightgown she had saved for a night like this since Paris. The chilled champagne bottle was uncorked on the table beside her, and she reclined against the pillow placed against the back of her new sofa bed, enjoying her fourth glass of champagne while waiting.

The fourth glass went down quickly, and she was sipping from her fifth glass when she heard the buzzer.

She set down the goblet, jumped off the bed, running to the door, undoing the elaborate new safety locks, flinging the door wide, knowing it would be he.

Nick Ramsey, carrying a suitcase and typewriter, grinning, walked in, dropped the suitcase and typewriter, and lifted her up and off the floor.

They were hugging each other and kissing.

‘You’re here, Nick, you’re here.’

‘You bet I am,’ he said. ‘That’s quite a getup you’re wearing or not wearing.’

‘I’ll take if off,’ she said gaily.

‘Not yet,’ he said, removing his jacket. ‘Did you save a glass of bubbly for me?’