Pagano also smiled. "Yeah, I heard."
"And I'm not interested in politics, either," said Armstead. Pagano's eyes held on the publisher shrewdly. "What are you interested in?"
"News."
Pagano tried to make sense of it. "News," he echoed. "You've got me kind of lost. I don't know what you mean."
"I mean I'm interested in making news—creating it—for my newspapers and television stations. I need exclusive news for my papers and TV news network." He paused. "A gang could create that kind of news for me."
Pagano tried to absorb it, and wagged his head slightly. "That's kind of—" He did not want to sound disrespectful. "—far out."
"You mean crazy?"
"I don't know. I suppose there is a business side to it. But it's far out."
They were down to bare bones, Armstead decided. Now he would go all the way. "You gave me the original idea," he said to Pagano, "with the lead about Yinger's tunnel. That led to Yinger's escape. It was a set-up happening, an invented one. And I had it all to myself. Yes, it was good business, the best. It doubled the circulation of my newspaper here in New York, and it upped the circulation of my other newspapers around the country, and it hyped the attention given the story on television stations everywhere. That gave me the idea of setting up and creating more news. Do I make myself a little clearer, Gus?"
"Yeah," said Pagano, with slight uncertainty. "I'm catching on.
"You see," Armstead tried to explain, "there's not enough hard news around, exclusive news. Usually my competitors have the same thing to sell that I have. But we here want our news alone. Since it's not around, we might have to invent some of it. That's my big idea."
"For that, you need a gang?"
"Who can pull off big jobs for only the New York Record to write about. To put it bluntly, I need an outfit of experienced, organized thugs to do what they do best. I want them to work for me full time. I want them to make news for me. No killing, no murdering. But a hijacking, a sensational robbery, most of all a name kidnapping. High-class stuff. Front-page caliber."
This was closer to Pagano's area, and he understood completely. "This could be dangerous."
"So is deep-sea diving and riding a space capsule."
"People'll be putting up their lives for—for news."
"For money." Armstead enunciated each word. "The Cooper gang wants money, you said. I've got money."
"What kind of money would you be talking about?"
"Maybe three million dollars a job."
Pagano emitted a low whistle.
"Think they'd be interested?" Armstead wanted to know. "Depends what you want them to do. But three mill. Yeah, they'd be interested."
"Of course, I don't want them to know who I am. They must not know whom they are working for—or why. I want to assign them jobs—through you. No questions to be asked. I want the jobs done professionally, cleanly. For each job they'll get paid. You believe they'll be interested?"
"I'm guessing. I think so."
"Can you find out for sure?"
"You mean make contact with Cooper?"
"Yes."
"I can make contact," said Pagano.
"Then make it," said Armstead. It was an order. "There'll be plenty in it for you, Gus. Go to London and find out if they'll cooperate."
"You sound like you mean right away."
"I mean tonight. I'll make arrangements for you. I expect to hear from you in forty-eight hours."
At eleven o'clock in the evening, two days later, Armstead received his call.
He had just walked through the door of his Fifth Avenue penthouse overlooking Central Park when Hannah, from her wheelchair, a telephone receiver in her hand, raised her voice. "Is that you, Edward?"
"It's me."
"There's a long-distance call for you. From London." Armstead's heart quickened. "Tell them to call me back on my private line. I'll take it in my study."
He yanked off his raincoat, threw it aside, hurried to his study, let himself in, and carefully relocked his door from the inside. He strode to the white telephone, his very private telephone that had an unlisted number different from the one for the other rooms of the penthouse. He waited a few moments for the phone to ring. Finally it rang.
Hastily he lifted the receiver. "Hello."
A female operator's voice. "Is this Mr. Armstead?"
"Yes, this is Edward Armstead."
"Mr. Pagano calling from London, person-to-person."
"Okay, put Mr. Pagano on."
The line from London crackled, but Pagano's voice came on distinctly. "You there, boss?"
"Hi, Gus. Okay, what's the word?"
"All signals Go."
"All signals Go. What does that mean?"
"Cooper is definitely interested," said Pagano. "But there's just
one thing—"
"They are interested, you say—but what?"
"They want to meet with you in person, over here. I think they want to know exactly what you have in mind for them. We can fix it so's you won't be recognized. If it's not too much trouble, I think it would be worth—"
"It's not too much trouble," Armstead cut in. "If they want to see me first, I'll see them. I'll be there."
"Can you make it by tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow's okay. I'll take the Concorde. I'll get on the first flight."
"If you'll let me know your arrival time, I'll meet you at Heathrow. Set you up for a suite in the Ritz."
"I'll let you know the time. You'll meet me at Heathrow? Fine. The suite at the Ritz is also fine."
"You won't be bringing anybody along?"
"Bringing anybody? No, don't worry. I'll be alone. See you tomorrow."
He hung up slowly.
He felt exultant.
He was almost—almost—in the terrorist business for himself.
CHAPTER SIX
The chauffeured black Rolls-Royce turned off Piccadilly, moved around the block to draw up before the Arlington Street side entrance of the Ritz Hotel in London.
Gus Pagano quickly stepped out of the car, with Edward Armstead right behind him. The doorman tried to take Armstead's Mark Cross bag and wardrobe, but Pagano insisted on carrying them himself. The evening was chilly, and they ascended the steps and hastened into the warmth of the hotel lobby.
Pagano guided Armstead away from the registration alcove to their left. "I've already registered you under my name, Mr. Arm-stead. We better go straight to your suite."
They proceeded through the long lobby, turned right to the waiting elevator, and rode up to the fifth floor. Rounding a corner, they arrived at 518, Armstead's suite. After getting rid of his hat and light topcoat, Armstead was eager to learn more about what lay ahead. At Heathrow Airport they had hardly been able to talk, since the hired chauffeur had joined them almost immediately. After that, during the drive to London, even though the chauffeur's window partition was closed Pagano had cautioned his employer against conversation.
Now, in the Ritz suite parlor, at 9:35, Armstead was at last able to ask Pagano, "How interested are they?"
"I'd say Cooper was very interested. Enough to tell me to bring you over to London right away. The three-million-dollar paycheck hooked him."
"You did tell him I'd pay that much for each job?"
"Yeah, I sure did. That's what got him. But he's not sewed up yet, boss. He wants to meet you, hear it from you exactly what you got in mind."
"I'm ready if he is," said Armstead. "When do we meet?"
"Now."
"Where?" Armstead wanted to know.
"Here," said Pagano. "Next door. I reserved a two-bedroomand-living-room suite for you. They're in the other bedroom, waiting for you."
For the first time since his arrival Armstead felt a surge of anticipation, the kind a leading man must feel when the curtain goes up on a Broadway first night, or a football player feels before a crucial kickoff. There was also something else inside him, a pulsating curiosity to meet live terrorists in
person, not actually terrorists yet but widely feared, successful criminals, men who inhabited a secretly populated world outside the law.
"How many of them are there?" Armstead asked.
"Should be Cooper and two of his aides. I showed Cooper to the room, and he said he expected two more of his crowd to join him. That was when I went to meet you at Heathrow. By now they should all be there." Pagano studied his employer. "Maybe you want to rest a few minutes first? I mean, you just got off the plane."
"It was no more tiring than taking a car across midtown Manhattan."
"So you're ready to see Cooper and his men?"
"I'm ready."
Pagano held up a hand. "Not quite," he said. He reached inside his sports jacket. There had been some object bulking it up behind the breast pocket. Pagano removed the object and handed it to Armstead.
"What's this?" said Armstead, flattening it out. "Looks like a ski mask."
"A passe-montagne," said Pagano. "A mountain climber's mask. Also, a ski mask. Better put it on if you don't want no one to recognize you. It's a little warm, but it'll hide your face."
Armstead gave Pagano an appreciative nod. "You're on the ball, Gus." He pulled the woolen mask over his head. Armstead stepped to the entry hall mirror and viewed his reflection. "Grotesque but efficient."
"Okay, let's get in there," said Pagano.
He unlocked the door to the second bedroom and pushed it aside. Armstead entered awkwardly and tried to get his bearings. The large room had been darkened except for a few lamps. There were two isolated folding chairs past the bed at one end of the room. Facing them were an armchair and a sofa bearing male occupants, each man in tie and jacket. None wore masks.
A rangy man with matted hair, hooded brown eyes, a drooping brown mustache, and a gaunt, seamed, expressionless face uncurled from the sofa, straightened his tweed jacket and came forward, hand extended. "I'm Cooper."
Pagano quickly introduced Armstead. "My boss."
"Walter Zimberg," announced Armstead, "for purposes of identification." He shook hands. "Glad to meet you." Cooper pointed to the other two in the bedroom, giving their names almost indistinctly. "Krupinski . . . Quiggs." He added, "If necessary, you'll meet the rest of our board of directors later—De Salvo, Overly, Shields, Lafair. Now we might as well get down to business." He headed back to the sofa and took a seat.
Armstead sat gingerly, well to the front of his folding chair, while Pagano occupied the chair beside him.
Armstead cleared his throat. "You all know the reason for this meeting?"
"Let's be certain that we have it right," said Cooper. "You want to hire an experienced organization in order to instigate a series of actions. You are ready to pay three million dollars for each individual action."
"Correct," said Armstead.
"We won't ask you why you want these jobs done," said Cooper. "That's your business."
"It's not political," said Armstead hastily.
"No matter," replied Cooper. "Before we can determine if we Will work for you, we must know exactly what you want done. Does this involve murder?"
Armstead was horrified. "Absolutely not," he answered quickly. His woolen mask was beginning to itch. He clasped a hand more tightly against one thigh. The bland use of the word "murder" had unnerved him. He tried to recover his poise, his voice, his prepared speech. "I'm mainly interested in kidnapping," he announced. "Maybe robbery later. But the first job is a kidnapping. I want you to abduct a well-known person, keep him in hiding two days, demand a ransom—not too large a sum, a reasonable amount that can be raised and paid easily—you can keep the sum, the payoff. I told you this is not political, but I think it would be smart to make it look political, maybe instead of money ask for the release of a political prisoner, some minor radical figure. You'd free the kidnap victim after two days, because I want to lessen the risk of your getting caught. An important consideration is that Gus Pagano must be added to your organization as my representative. He will help you when he can, mainly he is to act as my liaison man, be accountable strictly to me. If this can be done, I'll be satisfied."
"Where does our first action happen?" inquired Cooper.
"San Sebastian, Spain," said Armstead.
"When?"
"Two weeks from tomorrow."
There was a pause. "Who do we kidnap?" Cooper asked.
Armstead held his breath, then blew it out of the mouth slit in his mask. He kept his voice even. "You kidnap the king of Spain," he said.
There followed what seemed an interminable silence.
Cooper broke it. "We'll have to talk about that," he said. "You go back next door. We'll call you when we are ready."
For Armstead, it was a restless hour's wait. Removing his mask, he wanted to call for room service. Pagano thought that it would be unwise to have a waiter around. Armstead undressed, busied himself taking a shower, dressed again. He unlocked his suitcase and extracted a manila folder, reviewing a number of alternate possibilities should the offer to the Cooper gang fall through. None was as promising as the Cooper connection, and Armstead prayed that it would work out. He was absently leafing through a London magazine when he heard the loud knock on the door to the second bedroom.
"It's Cooper," called a muffled voice. "You can come back in."
Paganocaught Armstead's shoulder. "Don't forget your mask. Put it on."
Armstead did so.
They were in the darkened second bedroom once more, and Cooper was confronting them with a stocky, short, pimply young Englishman in tow. "This is Quiggs, you remember," said Cooper. "He's the one with the most experience of Spain. In fact, he has a summer residence there. He'll take over. He has a few more questions."
Cooper returned to the sofa. Quiggs waited for Armstead and Pagano to reach their places. Once they were seated, he pulled a free folding chair closer to them and sat in it.
Quiggs spoke in a high-pitched nasal voice. "This is no simple assignment," he began.
"That's why I want experts," said Armstead mildly.
"Oh, the kidnapping itself might not be too difficult," said Quiggs with the confident air of a professional. "Ordinarily the snatch itself is a matter of preparation—deployment of members to create a diversion, to block traffic, to transfer the victim to an escape vehicle, to reach a predesignated hideout, to have shifts of guards, to negotiate. But the assignment you've requested is a more dangerous one."
"Aren't they all dangerous?" challenged Armstead. "Isn't that the risk entailed in any effort?"
Quiggs would not be baited. "This assignment is more dangerous than most because it will take place in Basque country. The king of Spain will mount heavy security against any attack by the Basque separatists, the ETA."
"I should think that would be in your favor," said Armstead. "The Spanish police will be watching out for the ETA. They'll give less attention to a sprinkling of curious foreign tourists. Any attack from ordinary British tourists is likely to be unexpected."
Quiggs agreed. "Yes, we've discussed all that." He hesitated. "Have you heard of the Blanco affair?"
Armstead knitted his brow beneath the warm wool mask. "The Blanco affair?"
"An ETA operation," said Quiggs. "We might be wise to imitate it, and let the Basques take the heat. We suggest this as an alternative plan which, in some respects, might be easier to implement."
"Blanco affair," repeated Armstead. "I'm not sure I remember."
"Admiral Luis Carrero Blanco. He was prime minister of Spain. The Basque separatists wanted to get him. They observed that Blanco was a creature of habit. He drove his Dodge Dart through central Madrid on the same route daily. The Basques rented a basement along the route, patiently dug a tunnel under the street—"
Tunnel. Armstead listened more intently. There had been a tunnel involving Yinger. It sounded lucky. "Go on," said Arm-stead.
"The Basques imported over one hundred pounds of dynamite from the IRA, who had acquired it from the terrorist Carlos," Quiggs went on
. "They planted it in the tunnel under the street. When Prime Minister Blanco drove over the spot, the Basques detonated the dynamite. The explosion blew the prime minister and his Dodge Dart up over a five-story building, a church I think. It was an extremely successful operation, and in some ways easier than a kidnapping."
Armstead peered through the slits of his mask at the stocky speaker. For the first time he fully realized that he was not dealing with mild and gentlemanly romantic robbers. He was dealing with cold-blooded killers. He was shaken. "Wait a minute," he forced himself to say. "Are you suggesting we try to blow up the king of Spain?"
"Just a thought," said Quiggs ingenuously.
"Christ, no," blurted Armstead. "I told you right off—no murder. I just want a—a harmless kidnapping."
"As you say," said Quiggs good-naturedly. "A kidnapping it is. But again, more complicated, more dangerous. We think it's too dangerous for three million dollars."
"I see. All right, exactly what sum would make it worthwhile for you?"
Quiggs glanced over his shoulder at Cooper, and directed himself at Armstead again. "We could do it for five million," said Quiggs.
"You want five million dollars for one job," said Armstead, to be sure he had heard it right.
We can guarantee a helluva job," said Quiggs. "The payment from you, that's not all. There are other conditions and costs."
"Name them," said Armstead nervously.
Quiggs looked behind him. "You better take over, Coop." Cooper rose and exchanged places with his confederate. "We have a force of exactly twelve men in London," said Cooper. "For this kind of operation we might need closer to twenty. We know where we can recruit eight more—some are in hiding, in exile, in retirement—all veterans. To get them in line quickly might take another half million American dollars. Of course, this is a onetime-only expense. Once the personnel are with us, well have them available for any future assignments."
"Anything else?"
"Weapons," said Cooper. "We have a fair supply of small arms, but for what you have in mind we'd have to be able to do better, depend on more firepower. We wouldn't need anything heavy. We'd require light, portable weapons. You'd have to supply them, preferably buy them from an individual dealer, not from a national source. Another one-time expense. Once we had the arsenal, we could use it over and over."
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