The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  "I want more," said Armstead, standing up and lighting his cigar.

  Ramsey showed his surprise. "On Carlos?"

  "On Carlos and his group."

  "I'm not sure that's possible," said Ramsey.

  "Anything is possible," said Armstead. He made a meandering tour of his office, talking as he walked. "I want to reactivate the terrorist series, now that I'm in charge. I want Carlos to be the focal point, at least to start with. I want you to go back to Europe, Nick, to Paris—you and Victoria Weston together; you'll need all the assistance you can get."

  Ramsey met Victoria's eyes, and frowned. "I'm not sure this is woman's work—" he started to say to the publisher.

  "Nick, stop it," Victoria interrupted. "Male chauvinism went out with bloomers, or should have. I can speak French. I've been to Paris, to every part of France, three times. I can be of real help, and you know it. I'm not afraid."

  "I am," said Ramsey.

  Armstead intervened. "I agree with Victoria," he said. "I want her on this series. For two main reasons. One is, I want you to continue to break her in. Another is, I want the female touch, stories that can appeal to women as well as men."

  The other main reason, the one he had mentioned to Dietz, he now left unspoken. He wanted to do something for Hugh Weston's daughter, because he wanted to please Hugh even more. After all, he had told Dietz, Hugh Weston was now press secretary to the President of the United States. It would help to have him grateful to them. Someday a favor could be needed. Besides, Victoria might do well on the assignment. She was capable, even if relatively inexperienced. Armstead felt that this was a smart move.

  "Also, there's a lesser reason I want Victoria along on this assignment," he went on smoothly. "I want a good façade in Paris. With both of you there, you can pose as married tourists, at least while working on the outside. In the hotel, I'll register you as separate individuals. I want the Record left out of this investigation. You're not journalists. You want to see the Eiffel Tower, have duck at the Tour d'Argent." Armstead returned to his desk. "I think, Nick, you might start off by reviving your Carlos contact. What's his name?"

  "Abmet."

  "Okay, Ahmet. Learn if he's still in Paris. Can you do that?"

  "I had a bartender who used to be able to reach him."

  "Try to reach him," said Armstead. "Mainly, I want to know if Carlos has some action coming up."

  "That's asking a lot," said Ramsey, doubtfully.

  "I'm paying a lot," said Armstead. "You can pay that informant of yours, Ahmet, ten thousand dollars to find out. I'll pay others more to find out even more. What do you say?"

  There was concern in Ramsey's expression. "I can't say what we'll learn from Ahmet about Carlos. I can say you'll find money won't buy you anything from the other terrorist gangs. They can use money, but they are not after it. Their interests are purely ideological."

  "Money is ideology," said Armstead flatly. "Money is everything, as you'll find out when you start passing it around. Right now let's start with Ahmet. You and Victoria get ready to take off for Paris."

  Ramsey rose to his feet, followed by Victoria.

  "When do we leave?" Ramsey wanted to know.

  "Tomorrow. Concorde. There'll be a Mercedes and driver to meet you both at De Gaulle, and a two-bedroom suite waiting for you at the Plaza Athénéc. You are going as first-class tourists. When you have news, call my private number. After that, Harry Dietz or I will have your next assignment ready."

  "Also first-class?" asked Ramsey.

  "If your work is first-class," said Armstead. "Bon voyage."

  The following gray day the Air France Concorde had taken off from New York's John F. Kennedy Airport at i:oo in the afternoon and landed at the almost deserted Charles de Gaulle Airport 3 hours and 32 minutes later, at 10:32 in the evening, Paris time. Once they had cleared passport control and picked up their luggage, Ramsey and Victoria found their young French chauffeur, who led them in the cool late evening to the Mercedes sedan.

  By midnight they had settled into suite 505 of the Plaza Athénée Hotel. Although neither was hungry—they had just had a full lunch on the plane—they telephoned room service for sandwiches Gruyère. Ramsey located the small refrigerator behind a cabinet door in the entry hall, mixed himself two scotches before the sandwiches arrived and a double scotch after, and Victoria had a soft drink labeled Frampoise-Raisin de Fruité with her meal. Even though it was six hours earlier in their heads, Victoria found herself exhausted by the movement and change and she retired to the larger bedroom after her snack. Ramsey, a more seasoned traveler, was less tired and stayed awake two hours longer, going over his old notes on terrorism and nursing his drink. When he had finished both notes and drink, he yawned twice and knew that he was ready for sleep. He also knew what he must undertake the next day.

  After an early breakfast in the suite, and accompanied by a rested and eager Victoria, Ramsey strolled along the Avenue Montaigne, chose the longer way up the Champs-Elysées toward the Etoile to give the bar time to be open. Paris was not new to Victoria, but she hadn't visited it for five years and she was stimulated and wanted to talk. Ramsey did not want to talk. The tension of his first act preoccupied him.

  They turned into the Avenue George V, then into the Rue Pierre Charron. Ramsey led Victoria to a modest bistro where four outdoor tables were being set up by a waiter.

  Ramsey touched Victoria's elbow. "We're going inside. Let me do the talking. You just be quiet and have a drink."

  "What should I drink?"

  "Anything."

  Victoria felt a flare of resentment at the way Nick was taking over, treating her as an unwanted appendage. She had felt constrained by this foreign assignment anyway. When Armstead gave it to her, despite his apparent reasonableness she had felt a twinge of suspicion that there might be nepotism involved. It was a possibility, the publisher currying favor with her father for some payoff down the road. She couldn't prove this was true, but the thought of nepotism niggled at her.

  Instinctively she jutted her jaw, resolving to prove herself on her own on this trip. She quickly followed Nick into the bistro, going between the empty tables and the pinball machines being played by two tieless older men. With Nick, she went to the abbreviated zinc bar.

  Ramsey perched on a stool, and Victoria sat next to him. A hunchbacked bartender sorting bottles left his work to request their order. Ramsey lit a cigarette and said, "Scotch and Evian."

  Victoria had determined to order whatever Nick ordered, to show that she was tough and experienced, too, but the very idea of hard liquor at this hour in the morning nauseated her. She decided to be her independent self. Fearlessly she said, "I'll have a Coke."

  The bartender fixed their drinks, and when he served them Ramsey said to him, "Monsieur, last time when I was here, a year ago, there was a bartender named Henri. I wondered—"

  "Henri is here, oui. He has arrived. He is in the back changing.

  "Would you tell him a friend would like to see him?"

  The hunchbacked bartender disappeared through a doorway at one side of the bar, and seconds later a handsome, gray-haired, broad-shouldered man emerged, pulling on a white jacket. He squinted at the only occupants of the bar, coming toward Ramsey.

  "Hello, Henri," said Ramsey. "Remember me?"

  Henri's face broadened into a smile of recognition. "Monsieur Nick. How are you?"

  "Better than ever. As you can see. I'm a newlywed. Meet my wife, Victoria."

  Henri greeted her with a gallant kiss of her outstretched hand. "My best to you. Why do you marry such an old man?"

  "For money," said Victoria, falling into it.

  "And you, Henri, how are you?" inquired Ramsey.

  "I now have a grandson." He fished inside his jacket for his wallet, withdrew a snapshot and handed it over. Ramsey and Victoria dutifully clucked over the picture.

  Handing it back, Ramsey said, "Congratulations, Grandpa."

  "You must not waste time," sa
id Henri. "You are here on a honeymoon?"

  "On business," said Ramsey.

  The bartender's expression sobered. "The same business?" he asked softly.

  "The same," said Ramsey, lowering his voice. "Is he still in Paris?"

  "Yes."

  "Can I speak to him?"

  "When?"

  "Soon."

  "Where do you stay?" asked Henri.

  "Plaza Athénée. Suite 505."

  "He will call you there in an hour."

  "Thanks." Ramsey swung off the stool, paid for the drinks, left 500 francs for the bartender, and departed from the bistro with Victoria at his heels.

  They took a shortcut back to the hotel and waited nervously in their suite for the telephone to ring.

  They had waited fifty minutes when the telephone rang.

  Ramsey, sitting on the sofa, grabbed for it. "Hello."

  "Mr. Ramsey?"

  "Yes, this is Nick Ramsey."

  "I am Ahmet."

  "Hello, Ahmet, I'm glad you called. Can you speak?"

  "No. Not now. I will be fishing in the Seine, near the Quai de Montebello stairs. Three o'clock this afternoon. We can speak then."

  "All right, that's fine. See you there at three o'clock."

  Ramsey hung up. "That was quick," said Victoria. "Any luck?"

  "He was jittery. Didn't want to talk from wherever he was. He indicated the best way to talk would be to see him at three o'clock. He will be fishing in the Seine. He told me where on the flyer.

  "You mean literally fishing—trying to catch fish in the Seine?"

  "As good a place as any. Better. Hard to be picked up by electronic devices or bugged there. Carlos may keep a close eye on his crew." Ramsey glanced at his wristwatch. "Well, we have a few hours to waste. I think I'll look up Sid Lukas, head man at the Record bureau. We broke into this business at the same time. Anything you want to do?"

  "Nap," said Victoria. "Wake me when the countdown begins."

  By midafternoon she was refreshed, her face shining and apprehensive as she strode beside Ramsey on the Quai de Montebello above the river and across from the towering Gothic cathedral of Notre-Dame.

  "Down here," said Ramsey, pointing to stone steps leading from the street to the banks of the Seine. Victoria followed him down the steps to the cobblestone walk that ran along the river. Orienting himself, Ramsey looked about, then searched off to his right. Victoria could see what he saw—four or five fishermen scattered at intervals along the riverbank.

  "He's the nearest one, the one with the cowboy hat," said Ramsey. He started along the bank, and she chased after him. They went on for thirty yards, and as they neared the fisherman with the broad-brimmed cowboy hat, Victoria could make out the concave face of a brown-skinned youngish man, thin, seated holding a bamboo pole and line, with a closed wicker basket next to him.

  Ramsey halted to light a cigarette and said to Victoria in an undertone, "You can come along, but stay in the background. Don't talk. I'll tell him you're my wife. Okay, let's go."

  Ambling nonchalantly, dragging on his cigarette, Ramsey approached the fisherman, with Victoria lagging to the rear.

  Reaching the fisherman, Ramsey stopped at the basket. He looked off. The rest of the fishermen were farther up the river, well out of earshot. Ramsey pointed to the basket. "How's the catch today, Ahmet?"

  The swarthy young man in the cowboy hat and sweater shrugged. "See for yourself."

  Ramsey kneeled close to him and opened the basket. It was empty.

  Ahmet said quickly, "Who's the woman?"

  "My wife."

  "All right. Make it fast."

  "Like last time," said Ramsey. "I need some information. Is Carlos in Paris?"

  "He could be."

  "I'd like to know if he's planning anything soon."

  "Impossible. Go away."

  Ramsey did not move. "It would be worth ten thousand dollars to know something."

  For the first time Ahmet glanced up at Ramsey, as if to be sure he had heard right.

  "Ten thousand dollars," Ramsey repeated.

  Ahmet went back to his fishing. After an interlude of seconds, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Tonight. Midnight. I phone you. Good-bye."

  Ramsey straightened up, went back to Victoria, took her by the arm and started away.

  "Get anything?" she whispered.

  "A nibble," he said.

  Early that evening, in a cheerful mood once more, Ramsey announced to Victoria that he had made reservations for them at Tong Yen, his favorite restaurant in Paris. It was a confined, yet airy place in the Rue Jean-Menmoz, a busy short thoroughfare off the Rond-Point. They were warmly received by the young Chinese proprietress, who kissed Ramsey on each cheek and seated them in a large booth downstairs. Ramsey refused scotch but had a Chinese beer, letting Victoria taste it from his glass. He ordered for both of them—won ton soup, spareribs, deepfried chopped beef and onions, and jasmine tea.

  They were in their hotel suite before eleven o'clock, pretending to be interested in this morning's International Herald Tribune and the London Telegraph, listening for the sound of the telephone.

  At eight minutes before midnight the telephone rang sharply, several times, until Ramsey lifted the receiver.

  "Ramsey here."

  "It is Ahmet."

  "Hello, Ahmet."

  "I could find out nothing from my main source."

  "Too bad, but—"

  "There is something else."

  "Yes, go on, go on," Ramsey urged him.

  "I have heard something interesting from another source that I will tell in person."

  "Good, very good."

  "California Hotel," said Ahmet. "Five o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Room no. Door will be unlocked."

  "Five o'clock, I'll be there."

  "Not you. Send your wife. She will bring the money in cash, American dollars."

  "Okay, she'll be there."

  "Room 110. Do not forget."

  "No, no, don't worry, I won't forget. Thanks, Ahmet."

  Ramsey bent down to replace the receiver on the hook, and pivoted to meet Victoria's inquiring gaze.

  "We may have something," he said.

  "Tell me what, Nick. Don't be exasperating."

  Ramsey was lighting a cigarette. "Ahmet said, 'I could find out nothing from my main source.' Meaning his girl in the Carlos group. Then he said, 'I have heard something interesting from another source that I will tell in person.' He said he will be waiting in Room 110 of the California Hotel—"

  "Where's that?"

  "A block and a half off the Champs-lysées in the Rue de Bern. It's a nice old commercial hotel. He wants you to make the contact—'Send your wife,' he said—Room 110, first floor European style, second floor our style, and he said the door would be unlocked. He also said, 'She will bring the money in cash, American dollars,' We'll pick up the money in the morning. I have Armstead's authorization for this. Then you'll deliver it at five o'clock after Ahmet tells you what he's found out."

  "What do you think he's found out?"

  Some hint of Carlos's next move, I hope."

  "God, I'm nervous."

  "Let me treat you to a drink." He started for the refrigerator. "Maybe this could be our big break, Nick."

  "Sure. The Pulitzer, at least."

  The time was six minutes to five o'clock in the afternoon when they arrived at the entrance to the California Hotel.

  They paused briefly under the glass canopy of the hotel while Victoria took the compact out of her leather purse, snapped it open, examined herself in the mirror. She licked her upper lip, put away her compact, pushed back a strand of her long blond hair.

  She became aware that Ramsey was eyeing her critically. "What's the matter?" she wanted to know.

  "Next time, do your hair up in a bun or something before we go out," he said.

  "Why? Is it unattractive to you?"

  "The opposite. The long hair attracts too much attention. You don
't look like a wife—or an undercover agent."

  "I'm neither," she snapped, but he had her arm and was leading her inside.

  The stretch of lobby, caught between day and night, was dusky. They went past the nearest desk, where a uniformed concierge was marking directions on a map of Paris for a tourist, on past the reception desk largely obscured by a registering company of Japanese, to the metal grille of the elevator.

  Ramsey pressed the button. "Remember, this is the ground or first floor. You'll find Room 110 on the next floor."

  "Nick, I've been to Paris as many times as you have. I know how they count floors here."

  "Sorry. Now, when you get to his room the door will be unlocked. Go straight in. You have the money?"

  She patted her swollen purse. "Right here. Nick, what if he's not there? Do I hang around?"

  "No, come back." He watched the elevator descending. "Don't worry, Ahmet will be there."

  "I'm to write down what he has to say first, and then I'll pay him."

  "You've got it."

  "What if—if his information isn't anything much?"

  "Pay him anyway. He'll mean well. We want to keep the contact."

  The elevator had ground into place. Ramsey opened the grilled outer gate to let her inside. About to enter, she said, "Nick, where will I meet you?"

  His head indicated an archway behind him. "The dining room and bar are back there. I'll be in the bar." He closed the grille. "Push the button for the first floor. Good luck."

  She saw his comforting figure disappear as the elevator rose and seconds later jarred to a halt at the first floor. She left it, read the sequence of room numbers, and walked down the dim corridor to Room no.

  The door was closed. She wondered whether she should rap. She gripped the doorknob and turned it. The door opened. She stepped inside the bedroom and closed the door.

  The old-fashioned room was obscured in shadow, no windows except the drape-covered french doors undoubtedly overlooking a court below. She could hear the monotonous splashing of a fountain in the court. Some sparse illumination was coming from a low-wattage bulb in the lamp standing between the door and a large brass double bed. She could make out a mirrored green-painted armoire and a stiff settee covered in maroon velour. The room seemed unoccupied, and then her gaze lighted on him. He was on the other side of the bed, in an armchair, bent forward, apparently changing his shoes.