The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  "A hill, then," she said. "Maybe I heard it wrong. Anyway, he took a fall and injured himself. A friend, climbing with him, got him to the nearest hospital. Roger sustained two leg fractures. Not serious, but incapacitating. It'll keep him laid up a little while."

  For some reason, hearing about this outdoors nonsense irritated Armstead. "What in the hell was he doing climbing?"

  "It had something to do with his job."

  "Idiotic," Armstead muttered. "Serves him right." He couldn't think of another Armstead in the family who had ever climbed anything, except into bed. The thought amused him, and he said more cheerfully, "Well, as long as he's all right. Let me know how he's coming along. Is this it—what you wanted to talk to me about?"

  "Not completely," said Hannah. "Ed, I wanted to ask you to come to Green Bay with me for the weekend."

  Armstead scowled. "To do what? Hold his hand? God, Hannah, he's not a child anymore. Besides, he's got a doctor, plenty of friends there."

  "It's not the same as family, Ed. He's flat on his back. You know how he hates to be confined. I'm sure he'd like more company, be happy to see his parents. It would be comforting."

  Armstead waved his cigar in disgust. "Hannah, you know better than that. I've just taken over. I've just made my mark. I'm up to my ass in business, in the very middle of everything, with a million plans in progress—"

  "Can't you put it aside for just one weekend?"

  "Hannah, for chrissakes, I can't spare the time. Look, if you feel Roger needs company, then go to Wisconsin yourself and see him for the weekend. I'll arrange for a nurse to accompany you. How's that?"

  With effort, Hannah said, "I think he wanted so very much to see you, Ed. He told me on the phone he'd read about your Yinger exclusive in the local newspaper up there. He said to tell you it was fantastic. He was very proud of what you'd done."

  Armstead was both surprised and pleased. "Well, now, the boy has at least some sense." He searched for the time. "Tell you what, I've got to rush out now or I'll be late. But leave Roger's telephone number out for me. I should be back not too much after dinner. A short victory celebration with Dietz and Harmstan. When I get back I'll give Roger a call myself. You go up and see him for the weekend. I'll miss you, but he needs you more. Now I'd better hurry."

  Once Armstead had left the apartment and stood waiting for the elevator, an odd thought occurred to him.

  It occurred to him that he himself had been a son so long, he'd never had time to be a father.

  Well, he told himself, maybe his own sonhood was coming to an end. Life would belong to him alone (and Roger—of course Roger). He'd have to get into it in today's session with the shrink.

  Edward Armstead had sunk into the worn brown leather chair in Dr. Carl Scharf's office, and he had been talking for forty minutes, forcing the psychiatrist to listen. It had been a test of strength, and Armstead had enjoyed it.

  Now he ceased talking and shifted his weight in the leather chair. Then he said, "Carl, when are you going to get a new chair or have this one fixed? Christ, the springs are practically coming out. I have a sore ass every time I leave you."

  "It's to remind the idle rich of the Spartan life. To remind you life is real, life is earnest, and it is also a pain in the ass."

  "If I have to, I'll buy you a new chair for Christmas."

  Armstead knew that Dr. Scharf would use the last ten or fifteen minutes to do a sum-up of their session. It was his pattern. It was all right. It always allowed Armstead—and other patients, too, he supposed—to leave with a clear picture of where he stood and where he should be going. Emotionally, that is.

  Waiting for the sum-up, he kept his eyes on the psychiatrist. Momentarily Dr. Scharf had taken on a resemblance to a beach ball. He was very globular this afternoon. His protruding curved belly hung over a narrow belt. He was as untidy as ever in the turtleneck sweater and wrinkled slacks. Dr. Scharf was busily adjusting his feet on the footstool.

  Armstead waited for wisdom. Or at least support for his own good cheer.

  'Well, I must say, that was quite a scoop you pulled off, Edward," said Dr. Carl Scharf.

  We don't call them scoops anymore," said Armstead. "We call them beats."

  "Your scoop was on the television news," Dr. Scharf said. "That's where I heard about Yinger's escaping."

  "You didn't read it in my paper? You know that paper is my life."

  "I bought three copies, just to keep you affluent," said Dr. Scharf. "I wondered, how did you get that story so fast, and exclusive yet?"

  "Professional secret."

  "Hey, I'm your analyst, Edward. You're not supposed to have secrets. If I'm to be of help—"

  "I don't need help today," said Armstead complacently.

  "Well, I'm proud of your—of your achievement," said Dr. Scharf. He clasped his hands over his belly. "You must be pleased with yourself. You officially won the right to keep the paper. You overcame your father's mistrust, and you accomplished what your father had not been able to accomplish in a decade. You're a mensch."

  "That's the way I feel."

  "You're free, free to do what you want to do, go as high as you want on your own."

  "I'm only beginning," said Armstead. "The Yinger beat was no flash in the pan. I'll see to that. I have a million plans. Once I get ready, I'm really going to shake up the media world. Everyone will know who I am."

  "That's still so important?"

  "To be me, yes."

  "Is that it?"

  "Well, you know what's in my head. I've got to eclipse my old man completely. Anything wrong with that?"

  "I didn't say so."

  "When people speak of Armstead, they're going to mean Edward, not Ezra."

  "Anything else you want to say about your father?"

  Armstead considered it. "No, I think that's it. Well—I guess there's something else I should mention. After I saw you the other day, I dropped in on Kim, Kim Nesbit."

  The psychiatrist nodded. "How was she?"

  "Drunk. Also, beautiful."

  "Was she pleased to see you?"

  "I think so." He held back a moment, then added, "I fucked her." He paused. "It was good, very good. I—I intend to see more of her."

  Dr. Scharf took his feet off the ottoman. "Why?" he asked.

  "I don't know. Do you object?"

  "You know I'm not here to judge you. I'm just curious about why you were intimate with her."

  "I don't know. Why not?"

  Dr. Scharf pushed himself to his feet and said pleasantly, "Was it to show your father you were a man—or to show yourself?" He waited for his patient to rise, and then accompanied him to the door. "Let's talk about that next time."

  It was to show no one anything, Armstead decided as he rested on the lime green sofa in Kim Nesbit's apartment. His eyes followed her graceful movement as she walked to the portable bar. He needed a woman, a passionate woman, because he needed the feeling of youth and strength and purpose. His wife had dried up on him years ago. Except for occasional worry about their son Roger such as she had displayed earlier in the day, Hannah's main concern had become herself and her ever more sickly body. Kim was vibrant and pleasure-giving and a discovery that he had dreamt of and only now was able to explore. He did not have to prove anything to his father or to himself. It was far less complicated. He wanted this woman, and he had her, and would have her again and again, and it was delicious. He would have to convince Dr. Scharf of his true feelings at their next session.

  "Scotch and water?" Kim called from the bar, pouring.

  "Exact."

  "I'm learning," she said, bringing him the glass. "I want to please you in every way, Ed."

  "You do, you do." He saw that she was empty-handed. "What about you? Aren't you drinking?"

  "I'll have a Perrier."

  "That's not drinking."

  "I don't need it anymore," she said, sinking into the sofa beside him. "I have you, darling." She took his head in her hands and drew him closer.
He found her moist lips, felt her tongue, felt the softness of her breasts against him.

  Ending the kiss, he could see her bare breasts beneath the opening of her diaphanous negligee, and he was fully aroused.

  "Are you still as happy as you were when you called me this morning?" she asked.

  "I know what could make me happier," he said, getting to his feet and pulling her up in front of him.

  "Darling—" she said, about to turn to the bedroom.

  "One second, Kim." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out the small velvet Tiffany box. He pressed it into her hand. "For you. To celebrate."

  She fussed over it, lifting the lid. "Oh, Ed," she murmured, near tears. "It's beautiful."

  "Like you."

  She took out the shining pink sapphire ring and slipped it on her finger. "Are you buying me?" she said, trying to smile. "You don't need to, you know."

  "I'm adorning you." He smiled. "You don't need it, you know." She held up her hand with its pink sapphire. "I love it," she said. Her arms went around him. "I love you."

  "Show me," he said as they parted.

  She clasped his hand tightly and walked him to the bedroom. He undressed quickly, and when he was naked he saw that she was naked lying on her back on the bed, arms outstretched.

  "Let's not play," she said. "Let's love."

  She lifted her legs and spread them apart, and he was atop her immediately. She clutched him tightly as he pressed between her legs and entered her.

  She gave a throaty outcry, and he groaned.

  He quickened the pace, thrusting hard, pushing her against the headboard. He rose and fell as she held on, gradually rolling her hips, until he was in a frenzy.

  They went on and on, for long minutes, until their mutual eruptions.

  He came off her, on his back, wet and panting. She dropped her legs, brushing her corn-silk hair from her eyes, trying to catch her breath and even it out.

  Side by side, they lay in silence.

  "Never stop loving me," she said.

  "It's all I want to do," he promised.

  Later, when she was breathing regularly again and sound asleep, and he had raised himself on an elbow, ready to get out of bed and leave her, he knew that his last words to her had been a lie.

  Loving her was fantastic, a small fulfillment, but it was not all that he wanted to do, or intended to do.

  Sex was not first-best but second-best.

  Power was first-best.

  Power to manipulate, control, dominate—everything, everyone, the world.

  It had come to him with clarity after he came, what to do, how to do it. It was dangerous, very dangerous, this bigger seduction, this rape of life. But he would attempt it. He would enjoy the ultimate orgasm.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tempting as it had been to bask in another morning of sunshine, Edward Armstead had firmly adjusted the blinds to minimize the brightness. He wanted no relaxing atmosphere in his office. He wanted the tone to be somber and businesslike.

  When Nick Ramsey and Victoria Weston answered his summons to see them, Armstead greeted them curtly. After gesturing them to places before his desk, he went behind it, sat down, and picked up the sheaf of typewritten notes that Ramsey had left for him yesterday.

  Although he had read the notes twice, Armstead reviewed them once more.

  "You can smoke," he said without looking up. Ramsey immediately extracted a bent pack of cigarettes and lit one. Victoria remained with her hands folded in her lap.

  Presently Armstead put down the sheaf of notes. He was ready to tread the path—a trailblazer's path—toward which the Yinger affair had directed him. He would have to ascend it cautiously, a step at a time, conscious always of the possibility of fatal pitfalls.

  First step.

  "Nick, I've been reading the notes you originally made for our Special Project, the one we called 'The Time of the Terrorist," said Armstead. "It's still good stuff."

  "I really enjoyed digging it up," said Ramsey. "I wish it had worked out."

  "It may yet," said Armstead. "I have something in mind. Something that would require cooperation from both of you.

  First, I want to find out more about these notes from you, Nick. For the time, Victoria need do no more than listen. Then we'll see. You ready to discuss your terrorist researches, Nick?"

  Ramsey came out of his slouch, more alert. "I'll be glad to tell you anything that's not in my notes, Mr. Armstead, anything I can remember or help you with."

  "I want an evaluation from you, Nick," said Armstead. "There are so many of these terrorist groups running around, I was wondering—well, simply put, which ones are the most important?"

  "The most important in what sense?" inquired Ramsey.

  "Relatively, a lot of these groups must be fly-by-nighters or Mickey Mousers. Ignore them. Which are the most powerful and effective?"

  "Of those currently in existence?"

  "Right now," said Armstead.

  "The most powerful, the most effective . . ." repeated Ramsey. "Easily the biggest, the best trained, the best financed is the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, known as the PFLP. They're a Marxist organization directed out of Damascus. Saudi Arabia gives them $25 million a year. Colonel Qaddafi of Libya gives them at least $50 million a year. One of their cadres pulled off the Munich Olympics massacre in 1972."

  "Name some others."

  "Others who are powerful?" mused Ramsey, giving it some thought. "Without ranking them exactly, I'd say the best disciplined and most active after the .PFLP are the Red Brigades of Italy, the Baader-Meinhof gang in West Germany, the Japanese Red Army, the Irish Republican Army or IRA, the Turkish Popular Liberation Front, the ETA Basque separatists in Spain and —down in South America—the Tupamaros in Uruguay."

  "Any common bond?" wondered Armstead.

  "Revolution in our time, down with capitalism," said Ramsey. "Most of them are supported with money, weapons, training, by the Kremlin, the Soviet Union. I suppose the one person who's had something to do with a majority of the groups is the leading terrorist hitman, the man known as Carlos."

  "Ah, Carlos," said Armstead, touching the research folder. "The Venezuelan playboy turned killer. I saw several of the photographs you had of him. A fat, soft, moon-faced young man. He looks harmless."

  "Don't let his looks fool you," said Ramsey. "Carlos is ruthless. Human life means nothing to him. Before Carlos was well known, he was living in a third-floor apartment in the Rue Toullier in the Latin Quarter of Paris. A friend of his, a Lebanese named Moukarbel, was forced to turn informer, and he led three French intelligence detectives to Carlos. During his interrogation, Carlos got permission to go to the bathroom. He came out with a 7.65mm Russian automatic blazing, killed two of the detectives, seriously wounded the third, shot the informer in the head, and escaped. All in ten seconds. His other credits are in my notes."

  "I don't recall the details," said Armstead. "There's so much."

  "Carlos helped organize the Japanese Red Army massacre at Israel's Lod Airport," said Ramsey. "He tossed a grenade into Le Drugstore in Paris, killing two, injuring twelve, burning the store down. He drove a Peugeot to a runway at Orly Airport and unleashed a hand rocket launcher against a Boeing 707 El Al plane with 136 passengers. That was a miss. He set up the hijacking of an Air France plane in Athens that led to the Entebbe rescue by the Israelis. I personally think his most successful caper was the one in Vienna in 1975, when he and five comrades took a streetcar to OPEC headquarters in the Texaco Building. Carlos and his group walked in and murdered three security guards, took eleven oil ministers hostage, flew them to Algiers where they were released once he had his payoff. That took planning and guts. He's a tough one."

  "You speak as if he's still around. Is he?"

  "I don't know," said Ramsey. "He was when I researched the story for you in Paris. That's the last I heard."

  "You don't know if he's alive?"

  "I really don't know. But I'd guess
so. There's been no word of his death. He was alive in 1982 when he sent a threat, with his thumbprints, to the French Interior Ministry from somewhere in Holland."

  "Where would he be now?"

  Ramsey shrugged. "Could be in London, in Bonn, in Damascus. But he's probably in Paris."

  The publisher stared past Victoria reflectively, then engaged Ramsey again. "Nick, tell me what this is all about. This Carlos, is he a Commie?"

  Ramsey shook his head. "Oddly, I don't think he is. From his background in my notes, you might believe so. His father was a Colombian who moved to Venezuela and made millions in real estate. The father had three sons and he named them after Lenin. The father was a rich Marxist. He gave his son Carlos the name Ilich after Lenin's middle name. Carlos was Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, born in 1949. He got Communist training at Camp Matanzas, outside Havana, under a KGB colonel. Later, Carlos attended Patrice Lumumba Friendship University in Moscow. He was thrown out for drinking and womanizing—probably a KGB ploy to get him underground. But I don't think he was a Communist. You know, when he did that OPEC caper in Vienna, one of his hostages was Sheikh Yamani, the oil minister from Saudi Arabia. Yamani talked to Carlos a great deal, and had no sense that Carlos believed in either the Communist or Palestinian cause."

  Armstead remained puzzled. "Why has he been going around kidnapping and shooting people?"

  Ramsey lifted his shoulders. "Not certain. He is supposed to believe in international revolution, Maoist variety. Don't bet on it. Maybe he likes the adventure. Maybe he likes the money. Maybe he likes the power. He's supposed to have his own group, hand-picked German and Arab assassins. All the other groups are purely political. Carlos's group may or may not be."

  The publisher busied himself unwrapping a fresh cigar. After a few moments he inquired, almost casually, "How'd you get all this material on Carlos and his gang?"

  "Many sources," said Ramsey. "The best one was an informant in the Carlos group. A minor member who mostly did errands, but a member. I was in Paris, spreading money around, and met this Middle Eastern type who had a girl friend in the Carlos group and did errands for her. I asked Mr. Dietz for a thousand dollars, and I paid off the informant for the information you've just read. It was all I could get."