The Miracle (10 page)

But this morning, he suspected, he had badly overslept, not from lack of sleep but for lack of a reason to get up. He was always awake by eight o'clock, and on the move by nine, with some new promotional venture to research, investigate, organize, sell. But this morning, uncharacteristically, perhaps because he had no special new venture in mind, he had half awakened, turned over in bed, and slept on until ten minutes to noon.

When he had seen the time, he had worried about it, pushed himself out of bed, reluctantly done his sitting-up exercises (which gains would be lost to ale consumed in several pubs throughout the day), shaved, showered, dressed, and waddled into the combination kitchen-dinette of their Chelsea ground-floor flat for breakfast. While eating his breakfast—two eggs, black coffee, a scone—he had opened the book he had recently found in the outdoor bin of a secondhand bookstore. It was a thick old reprint of an autobiography by a onetime famous American who'd also sought success in Great Britain. The book was Struggles and Triumphs; or. Forty Years' Recollection by P. T. Bamum. Although

Reggie Moore rarely read books, in fact never read them, he considered himself well-read and knowledgeable due to the fact that he religiously perused both the London Mirror and News of the World from first page to last every day. His purchase of the Bamum autobiography had been motivated by a desire to seek creative stimulation, maybe come on one of Bamum's old schemes that might lend itself to conversion into some modern exhibit and promotion.

He had started to read the Bamum book in the middle -- the early years would be a waste and unprofitable—at the time the old humbug had been at the peak of his powers with his Tom Thumb and Feejee Mermaid enterprises, when Reggie had been intemipted by the unexpected phone call from Edith.

The old girl had sounded crazy at first, words tumbling one over the other in a rush that made them almost incomprehensible. He had finally realized that she had just finished her visit with Archbishop Henning, and then it came back to Reggie that Edith had told him last night about the mysterious appointment.

She was trying to explain what had happened at the meeting, and in order to understand her, Reggie had finally broken in on the torrent of words to say, "Edith, slow down, it's hard to make out what you're saying, slow down. You seem very excited. What's this all about?"

After that, she had gone on a bit more slowly, articulately, but still very excited.

After a minute or two he had understood, grasped it all, and somehow had realized that this was not only of great importance to Edith, but might be of importance to both of them.

"Edith," he said, before hanging up, "don't bother to shop for dinner tonight. This deserves a celebration at a proper restaurant. Let's say Le Caprice."

"Oh, Reggie, but that's so expensive." Edith was beginning to come down.

But then Reggie was high. "Nothing is too good for a miracle woman."

He had trouble finishing his breakfast. His mind was dancing. He shut the boring Bamum book and shoved it aside. He gulped down his coffee, and gave his mind the freedom to wheel and deal.

Miracle woman!

My God, there must be a thousand ways to convert this into cash, gold, coin of the realm. Immediately, it came to him—it always came to him fast and whole when he was at his best—what could be done.

The initial inspiration had come on a previous visit with Edith to Lourdes three years ago. They had taken to having dinner in a small,

comfortable restaurant in Lourdes, Cafe Massabielle, on the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous. Despite the wretched and colorless replica of the Virgin Mary in a niche above the red awning, the little restaurant was attractive, homelike, with a first-rate cuisine and chef, and a wonderful location. But what appealed to Reggie most about the eatery had been its proprietor. Reggie had got to know the owner, Jean-Claude Jamet, whose father had been French, his mother Enghsh. Although Jamet had proved a bit aloof, reserved, his fish-faced countenance and pencil-thin mustache put-offs, there was something special about the man that appealed. Reggie could discern that Jamet, at heart, was also a promoter. Unfortunately, he did not use his gifts to make a good thing of his restaurant in Lourdes. He used the restaurant only for a small profit. His real devotion was to his lively and innovative travel agency, Full Circle, in London, which arranged numerous money-making pilgrimages to Lourdes during the season.

Yet, Reggie had felt, the restaurant could be more than a minor adjunct, could become a major adjunct, an equal in profitabihty. True, it needed expansion and modernization -- but even more it needed a partner who believed in it. Reggie had gone to Jamet and offered himself as that partner, the right partner, one with get-up-and-go. For his investment Reggie had offered a modest sum of money and his own creativity. Jamet had flatly turned him down. The money offered was not enough and the creativity was not proved. Reggie had not brooded over the defeat. He was a veteran of rejection. He had turned to other things.

But today, his mind was back on Jamet and the restaurant. Because, today, Reggie had the money to invest and a stimning creative idea.

Reggie went quickly to the telephone to learn whether Jamet was still in London, and if in London but out to lunch, to learn when he would be back in the office and available. He was there, but not easily available. He was eating a sandwich at his desk. He was extremely busy trying to schedule additional pilgrimages to Lourdes because of the demand created by the news of the Virgin Mary's expected reappearance in three weeks, or soon after.

"Great turn, that Virgin Mary bit," said Reggie, "and I've got something super that will tie in with it. I have a wonderful piece of news that will help both of us."

"Like the last time?" said Jamet dryly.

"Jean-Claude, this is something special, a once-in-a-lifetime thing, manna from heaven. I thought of you right away. You've got to find a minute for me."

"Well, I'm still eating, haven't gone back to work yet. I suppose I

could see you while I'm on the dessert, if you can come right over. Might as well get it done with or you'll keep nagging me. If you have to see me, do it now, right now."

"Be over in a flash," said Reggie, hanging up and grabbing for his sports jacket.

Outside, the sprinkles had stopped, the sun was doing its late act, and Reggie was whistling as he strode to the garage. There was trouble in starting his old Rover, but at last he had it going. He backed out of the garage, shifted into high, and raced off in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. Jamet's Full Circle Agency was three blocks north of the Circus.

Once at his destination, and snugly parked, Reggie straightened his tie and plaid jacket, pressed down a stray lock of hair, and moved confidently into the agency. It was busy, all right, as Jamet had said it was, and there were at least a dozen would-be tourists at the two counters vying for the attention of the three clerks. With a possessive air, Reggie barged in behind the long counter. When the nearest clerk made an effort to stop him, Reggie said airily, "Jamet's expecting me. We have an appointment."

Reggie moved on to Jamet's private cubbyhole of an office in the rear. Jamet, at his desk surrounded by walls decorated with scenic de-lights of the European Grand Tour and a square of color photos of Lourdes including the Cafe Massabielle, was shoving the last piece of his apple pie into his mouth.

He gave Reggie an uninviting sour look as his visitor entered breezily. When Reggie was up, nothing could put him down. He had a salesman's armadillo shell, thick and insensitive. Reggie tugged a straight wooden chair around to the front of the desk and quickly seated himself, ready to start.

"What's the big deal this time?" Jamet asked coldly.

"Your restaurant in Lourdes. I'm still interested in buying into it. I still think it can become an enormous winner."

"Do you now? Well, my friend, you'll have to do much better than you did last time."

"I'm prepared to, or I wouldn't be here," promised Reggie with verve. "This time I've got it all together, and you won't be able to resist. Jean-Claude, for a half ownership of the restaurant, I'm ready to put up fifty thousand pounds in cash toward expansion and improvement of your property. The money is my wife's inheritance that she's held on to in case she should ever become ill again. But now she knows she's not going to be ill anymore. She's cured, and she won't need her nest egg.

Yes, rm ready to toss in the whole sum, the entire fifty thousand pounds—"

Jamet had been listening stonily. He interrupted. "Sorry, not enough." He dumped the remnants of his lunch into a wastebasket, prepared to terminate the meeting. "For you to come in, you'd have to have much more to offer."

"But I have much more," Reggie exclaimed. "I have something far more valuable than a mere fifty thousand pounds to invest. I have something unique, a surefire thing that'll make the Lourdes end of your business boom."

"Oh, yes?" said Jamet with unconcealed boredom, twisting to look in the desk mirror as he combed his hair.

"Listen to me. My wife, Edith, was called to a meeting by Archbishop Henning a few hours ago. It was to report something important to her about her cure at Lourdes over three years ago. The Medical Bureau of Lourdes and the Canonical Commission have decided that Edith's cure is of a miraculous nature, and she is being officially added to the 'Cures of Lourdes Recognized as Miraculous by the Church.' Since 1858 there have been only sixty-nine of these—only five since 1978—and now Edith Moore will be the seventieth."

For the first time, Reggie had Jamet's undivided attention. "Really? This is true?"

"You can confirm it. Call Archbishop Henning's office. Tell him I told you."

"I congratulate you," said Jamet, cautiously but interested. "This will be good for both of you."

"Good for both of us?" said Reggie, jumping up from his chair. "It'll be slam-bang sensational. Overnight, Edith will be famous, a living legend. Everyone will want to meet her, everyone. In fact, she's going to Lourdes again, the center of everything, to be honored. She's probably the one the Virgin Mary is coming to see. Now, as to the rest of my proposition, Jean-Claude. Besides the fifty thousand pounds, I'm ready to throw Edith in as well, Edith Moore the authentic miracle woman. Can't you see it? Edith to go along on your pilgrimages and give advice. Why, you could immediately raise your rates for the next pilgrimage groups. And at the restaurant—after you enlarge it, improve it—Edith could be the star, the special attraction, in effect the hostess. In order to meet her, see her, touch her, listen to her, even dine with her, the wealthier tourists and pilgrims would order from a Miracle Menu at our new Miracle Restaurant at double your present prices. I tell you, you'd triple your profit. Pilgrimages arranged at one end, restaurant waiting at the other—and Edith Moore, the latest miracle

woman, your main attraction." Reggie gulped for air. "Now, what do you say to that?"

For the first time, Jamet's stony exterior displayed a fissure. It was a reluctant smile, but an actual smile. He stood up, hand extended. "Reggie, my friend, now you are talking my language. Let's shake on our partnership."

Grinning, Reggie pumped the other's hand. "We're celebrating tonight at Le Caprice. Join us, partner, and get to know the miracle woman."

Mikel Hurtado sat tensely at the wheel of the dusty blue Seat Panda parked in the Calle de Serrano across from the iron gate at the entrance to the massive Catholic church and kept an eye on the schoolchildren and Madrid matrons going inside for nine o'clock Mass. This was the tenth and last day of their scouting vigil. If their quarry arrived today, as he had the previous nine mornings, the pattern was set. They would place the dynamite in the tunnel beneath the street tonight. They would detonate the explosives and assassinate their hated enemy tomorrow morning.

Hurtado peered at his wristwatch. "You better go in now," he said quietly to the girl in the front seat beside him. "If our man is on schedule, he should be here in five minutes for Mass."

"Do I have to?" Juha Valdez protested. "What purpose? He'll never get to the church tomorrow morning."

"For positive identification," said Hurtado. "I want you to see him close up. We've got to be certain he is Luis Bueno, our deputy prime minister in charge of defense, and no other. Go ahead, Julia, it's the last time."

"Father knows best," she said with a shrug, and then laughed and they both laughed. It was a joke between them because she was nineteen and he, in her eyes, an elder at twenty-nine.

Hurtado watched her leave the car, cross over, and reach the landing below the massive church door. She fell in among other worshippers at the steps, climbing up and going inside the church.

A good girl, this one, Hurtado thought, and brave for one so young. They were lucky to have her enlisted in their cause. Julia had come down to Madrid from Bilbao two months ahead of the rest of them. She had enrolled at the University of Madrid for the fall term, and then spent her spare time acquainting herself with the big city and finding them a $200-a-month apartment, all in preparation for her comrades' arrival. Their leader, Augustin Lopez, had met her through family ties, had been satisfied with her loyalty to the nationalist cause, and had recruited her for the ETA—the underground Euskadi Ta As-katasuna, or Basque Homeland and Freedom Organization—two years ago.

When Hurtado had begun to work with her, he was pleased by her intelligence. Although she had not been exactly his type of woman—too much nose and jaw, too short and sturdy (he had always preferred the more dehcate, fragile feminine types in his writing days)—he had slept with her any number of times. Neither had been in love with the other, but they had respected and liked each other, and their sexual encounters had usually been for physical release and fim. If Julia could be faulted at all, it was for a hangover of religiosity which she had carried into the separatist revolutionary movement with her.

He consulted his wristwatch once more. Any minute now. His mind went to his two veteran Basque companions at the apartment, awaiting this last scouting expedition and eager to prepare for tomorrow's assassination.

Suddenly Hurtado became aware of a bustle among the spectators at the entrance across the street. Casually, from the comer of his eye, he observed the arrival of the three government cars, one, two, three. The middle one was the maroon Mercedes in which Minister Luis Bueno should be sitting. Sure enough, it appeared to be the devil himself who emerged from the Mercedes, as his bodyguards leaped out of the other two cars and flanked him. Oddly enough, Bueno was still reading a newspaper as he started for the entrance to the church.

Bueno was an ugly old man, small and strutting in his immaculate black suit. His mustached monkey face could be seen as he turned toward one of his guards. He was smiling cheerfully and handing the guard the newspaper. Since Bueno rarely smiled, Hurtado was curious. Bueno was a mean man, and even though he had been a friend of Franco, he had been retained by the King as minister in charge of defense. A rigid Catholic and conservative, Bueno had proved to be the ETA's main enemy in the cabinet and had been unswervingly opposed to Basque autonomy. Now, Hurtado thought, the little bastard will pay for it.

Watching Bueno disappear into the church, Hurtado thought -- go and pray, you bastard, for the last time.

Tomorrow, Luis Bueno would be roasting in hell alongside Admiral Carrero Blanco.

It gave Hurtado much joy, picturing Bueno and Blanco and the devil in the deepest recess of Dante's flaming hell.

Hurtado could not deny that the assassination of Admiral Blanco, in 1973, a classical Basque assassination operation, had provided the blueprint for the current Operation Bueno and had made the preparation for it easier, almost too easy.

In the upheaval after Franco's death, the Basques' killing of Admiral Blanco had been half-forgotten, relegated to Spam's distant past. But no Basque had ever forgotten it, and the ETA's president, Augustin Lopez, and Mikel Hurtado least of all. The 1973 Basque commandos— there had been a dozen of them—had carefully spied on Admiral Blanco, and learned that every morning he attended Mass at this same church (a practice that Minister Bueno, a more fervent Catholic, happily emulated).

Having been reassured of Admiral Blanco's consistent route to the church every morning, the 1973 Basque commandos had rented a basement apartment on this route near the church. They had painstakingly dug an eighteen-inch-high tunnel beneath the street, removing the dirt in baskets, and planted seventy-five kilos of dynamite in three spots in the tunnel. Then they had run electrical wires from the detonating cord into a comer room in the apartment from which Admiral Blanco's approach could be seen.

On the fateful morning, Admiral Blanco had ridden to Mass in his black Dodge, and as the car passed over the tunnel, the dynamite had been detonated.

Admiral Blanco and his vehicle had been blown over a five-story building.

Fantastic.

Tomorrow morning. Minister Luis Bueno, enemy of the Basques, would be given the same free flight.

And this one act of terror, after a long period of passivity, would remind the government that the ETA was prepared to go to any length to unshackle the 2,500,000 Basques in northern Spain from their servitude.

Not that he was by nature a violent person, Hurtado told himself. He had been a writer from the time he had first been able to pick up a pencil, and writers by and large achieved action through fantasy. He had published three books -- a collection of his poetry, a play about Lope de Vega, and a short novel based on the hfe and death of Garcia Lorca—when Franco's terror had struck against his own family and convinced him to put down his pencil for a rifle. Words, he had realized, would never be enough to fight the oppressors. He had joined the ETA to take up arms.

He wondered what was delaying Julia this long, and then as he wondered about it, he saw her emerging from the church.

He started the car, waited for her to settle into the seat beside him, and began to drive the Seat Panda away from the curb and into Calle de Serrano.

Eyes on the traffic, concentrating, because this was no time for an accident, he asked Juha, "Identification confirmed?"

"Confirmed. Minister Luis Bueno himself right there."

Hurtado was jubilant. "We're on target. We blast him tomorrow. Good work, Julia. Thanks."'

"You're welcome."

For a short while he drove in silence. "What took you so long?"

"I'll tell you—" But she did not tell him more until the Seat Panda had attained the Gran Via, and they were rolling along the sweeping boulevard. "Fascinating thing," she said. "I heard one of Bueno's bodyguards talking about it to some official, so I hung around to listen. It seems that Bueno had a call from a Spanish journalist in Paris yesterday. A French Catholic cardinal held a press conference. He had an announcement to make about Lourdes."

"Lourdes? What about it?"

"They just found Saint Bernadette's diary. The Virgin Mary told her that She would reappear in Lourdes this very year, in about three weeks, I think. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Not especially. What's more interesting is the news we'll give the world tomorrow."

"Maybe," said Julia uncertainly, feeling in her purse for a cigarette. "Anyway, this news made our friend Luis Bueno very happy. Even with the solemnity of Mass, he couldn't hold back his pleasure. I'd never seen him smile that broadly before. In fact, he was reading the Lourdes story when he went into church."

"Yeah, I saw him reading the paper," said Hurtado. He spun the wheel of the Seat Panda off" the Gran Via and headed for their apartment. "Can't wait to tell the others it's on. They've probably got the dynamite by now. Tonight we'll place it, and tomorrow morning the big bang."

Ten minutes later, Hurtado led the way up the hall to their apartment. He felt good about the apartment, the building, the neighborhood. Despite the cost, it was worth every peseta because it was safe. This was an upper middle-class neighborhood, white collar, and therefore attracted fewer informers or grises, the Spanish security police.

At the door, Hurtado could hear the television playing inside. "They must have got the explosives," he whispered to Julia as he took out his key and let them in. The room was darkened, the curtains drawn, the lights off, obviously to make television viewing better. Hurtado turned on the overhead lights, and to his surprise he saw seated in the armchair not one of his commandos but the husky, rough-hewn figure of Augustin Lopez, their leader and the ETA president

from San Sebastian. Lopez had straggly eyebrows and fiill mustache, a lined, leathery wide face with a jagged scar along one cheek. At first, devoting himself to the television program, he did not look up.

"Why, hello, Augustin, what brings you here? This is unexpected."

Even more surprising was Lopez's attire. He was actually wearing a suit and a tie. Hurtado could not remember when he had seen his leader dressed up before.

With a grunt and the movement of a big bear, Lopez pushed himself out of the armchair, acknowledging Hurtado and Julia, reaching down to turn off the television set. As their leader returned to the armchair, and busied himself lighting a cigar, Hurtado followed him.

"You've come at the right moment to hear good news," said Hurtado. "We've just finished our final check on Luis Bueno. We know he'll be going to Mass tomorrow morning at nine, following the same route and procedure he has followed for ten days. We're set to assassinate the pig in the morning." Hurtado glanced around the room. "Where are the others?"

Lopez drew on his cigar. "I sent them home to San Sebastian," said Lopez calmly, "one in the panel truck with the explosives, the other on the Talgo Express with the detonating device."

Hurtado blinked, uncertain that he had heard right. "You what?"

"I sent them both back to San Sebastian," said Lopez. "I'm sending you and Julia back today. That's what I came here to tell you."

"What the hell," said Hurtado, bewildered. "I don't understand. What about our operation tomorrow—?"

Lopez remained unperturbed. "There will be no operation tomorrow," he stated matter-of-factly. "It has been cancelled—or at least temporarily postponed."

Hurtado stepped closer to his leader. "Hey, what are you talking about? What's going on here?"

"Let me tell you," said Lopez, lighting his cigar again.

'There's nothing to tell," said Hurtado. "We're all set—"

Julia had gripped the sleeve of Hurtado's jacket. "Mikel, give Augustin a chance to explain."

"He'd better explain," snapped Hurtado.

Augustin Lopez straightened in his chair. He was not a man of many words, but now he mustered the words to relate what had happened. "Yesterday, in San Sebastian, I had a telephone call from Madrid, from the minister himself, Luis Bueno. He wanted to see me at once. He wanted to have a preliminary talk about Basque autonomy. He wanted to see me at his home this morning before he went to church."

Hurtado was astounded. "You saw Luis Bueno?"

"For the first time, yes. Until now we had always communicated through intermediaries. But this time he wanted to do so in person. So I met with him for an hour. It was the first time, also, I ever found him ready to discuss our nationalist cause and our autonomy."

To Hurtado this was beyond belief. It was something that he would never have been able to imagine. "He discussed our freedom with you?" said Hurtado. A dark suspicion crept in. "Or did he have word of our assassination plan?"

Lopez shook his head. "He had not even a suspicion of that. It was our freedom he wanted to talk about." Lopez placed his burning cigar on the edge of an ashtray. "It had to do with negotiating our freedom. Luis Bueno is, as you know, an extremely religious man. When he heard about the announcement in Paris yesterday, about the expected return of the Virgin Mary to the grotto in Lourdes—or have you heard about that?"

"Everyone's heard," said Hurtado irritably. "What's that got to do with us?"

"Shh, Mikel," said Julia tugging his sleeve once more. "Let Augustin speak."

"Apparently, it has very much to do with us and our future," continued Lopez. "Bueno was extremely and deeply moved by the announcement of the reappearance of the Virgin Mary. He believes it will happen, and if it does, he believes it will be a sign that Christ wants him, and all those in positions of power, to show more charity on earth. Therefore, with the coming of the Virgin Mary, Bueno will release all Basque political prisoners, proclaim a broad amnesty, and initiate a series of formal talks here and in Bilbao to resolve the Basque problem. These talks, he promised me, will lead to some form of autonomy for us, something satisfactory to both sides." Lopez took up his cigar, waved it. "So, in the light of this real possibility, this reasonableness— and there was every indication that Bueno was sincere—I decided that I should indefinitely postpone any further violent actions."

Hurtado had been fidgeting throughout the recital. He spoke at last. "Augustin, I have always had the greatest respect for your counsel, your judgment, but about this matter I must express my doubts. Surely, you don't trust Luis Bueno, do you?"

"I do. I must. This is the first time the government has offered to negotiate. If we can resolve this through negotiation, it would be the most satisfactory means to a happy end."

"That bastard is just buying time, trying to soften us up," insisted Hurtado. "Augustin, this Madrid operation was your plan. You had lost

patience with them. Now, after weeks of planning, days of work, we have everything in order. The operation can be our greatest success. It will make the King see how strong we are, how determined, and that we must be dealt with as equals. Augustin, I implore you, recall the others and the equipment."

"No," said Lopez with finality. "If we can achieve autonomy without bloodshed, all the better. We are not killers. We are patriots. If the enemy wants to give us our freedom peacefully, we must allow him the opportimity."

Hurtado would not let go. "What you're saying is we may not be killers—and what I am saying is that they are. They are oppressors and ruthless murderers who cannot be trusted. I will not forget what they did to my family—that raid—killing my father, my uncle, my cousin in one night, simply because of their anti-Falangist pamphlets."

Lopez stood up, a giant presence. "That was under Franco. This may be a new day."

"New day?" said Hurtado loudly. "Bueno was a Franco puppet."

"Mikel," Julia interrupted, "maybe he's right. Give it a chance. For all the violence, you've never killed a man before. It's worth the risk to avoid that."

Mikel turned on her furiously. "Who asked you? What do you know about killing."

"I know it's a sin."

"I have already killed him in my heart, for what that's worth. I am not afraid to do what has to be done." He turned to Lopez. "Bueno is a murderer. The leopard does not change his spots. He is no different from before."

"I am guessing he is different, both mellowed and excited by the miracle he expects to happen at Lourdes. I am betting that the possibility of the miracle has wrought a change in him, and if it happens, the change will be permanent. To our benefit."

"What if the miracle doesn't happen?"

"Then we would have to reassess matters. And see how Bueno behaves toward us. Let's wait for the happening at Lourdes. Let's wait and see."