"Naturally. I know you will be reasonable for such an order."
Middendorf grunted. "My friend, to me it is a small order. There are no discounts on any order." He located a pen in the pocket of the robe lying under his lounge. "Let me add this up for you."
For five minutes he devoted himself to pondering and jotting down various prices. Then he spent several minutes adding up the figures. At last he showed the total to Armstead. "This is the full price, delivery included."
Jolted by the figure, Armstead had to remind himself that this was a one-time expense only, and that he himself was now a billionaire. "Acceptable," he heard himself croak.
"Very well." Middendorf neatly folded the sheets and deposited them, along with his pen, in the pocket of his robe. "Now as to the destinations."
"I have a colleague outside who will give you the exact details, if you'll meet with him."
"Fine, fine. He will tell me where to find the warehouse outside Lyons?"
"He has a map for you. Also, one for the location in Britain. Your shipment will go to Hay-on-Wye, a small village in Wales, perhaps a three- or four-hour drive outside London. The warehouse there, a book warehouse, is on the fringe of the village."
"Then the light arms can be shipped as books. The rest can go as farm machinery."
"You will have no trouble with customs?" Armstead asked worriedly.
The German grunted. "There will be no customs," he said, rising with an effort. He picked up his robe and allowed Armstead to help him into it. "You leave it to me. Now, your associate, he is outside here?"
"On a bench in the woods near the terrace. His name is Gus Pagano."
Middendorf waddled to the door. "Introduce me. We can finish our business."
They descended to the wide path and started toward the hotel. Pagano was standing before the terrace steps, waving. Armstead summoned him.
The German said, "We will take a stroll in the woods. It is refreshing." Then he added, "It is quieter." As they moved up the path, he promised, "We will discuss everything. To begin with, the mode of payment."
Walking, Armstead marveled at one thing: It had all been as easy and innocent as ordering a shipment of Christmas toys. It was difficult to imagine that he had crossed the line.
He was now a terrorist.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They had arrived in San Sebastian in the early night, wearied by the British Airways takeoff delay in London and the changeover at Madrid's Barajas Airport to a Spanish Aviaco carrier, harried by the search for their temporarily lost luggage at the Spanish airport of Fuenterrabia, and exhausted by the fourteen-mile taxi drive into the Basque resort. It had been raining, the dark streets were windswept and desolate, and throughout the passage Victoria had derived no sense of city.
But this first morning was different. After a cozy breakfast with Ramsey in the gay dining room of the otherwise staid Londres y de Inglaterra hotel—fresh flowers everywhere—Victoria stepped outside into the cold clarity of the new day and found the view glorious. "Winning setting," her Fielding guidebook had promised her, "with its semicircular bay flanked by twin mountains and backed by green hills." It was all there.
Slipping her purse strap onto her shoulder, Victoria displayed her pleasure. "I'm going to love Spain!" she exclaimed.
Ramsey wrinkled his nose. "Maybe," he said. His eyes traveled over the curve of expansive beach below, La Concha, now almost lifeless in the low temperature of the early morning. "Don't forget, Vicky, you're in Basque country. Not as placid as it appears on the surface. There's a boiling cauldron of revolution underneath. These people don't want to be Spain. They want to be Euzkadi, their own country. They don't want outside dictators and they don't want monarchs."
"The king's showing a lot of courage, coming here."
"Either courage or foolhardiness," Ramsey said. "Although I still doubt if anything will happen. Armstead's way off. We're going to have a very routine and dull ten days here."
"Spoilsport," Victoria said cheerfully. "Where do we start?"
"Well, I know the city, and you don't," said Ramsey. "Since your assignment is to find out the king's schedule in his day here, you'd better become familiar with the sites he might visit. So to start with I'm going to show you around. This morning I'm going to be your guide, give you the Ramsey special—the highlights with colorful captions. It should take up the entire morning.
"Sounds great," she said. "Let's go."
They took a leisurely walk on the Playa de la Concha, then reached the Alameda de Calvo Sotelo, crowded with shoppers by midmorning, taking in the endless number of men's stores, fish restaurants, outdoor cafés. When they tired, Ramsey hailed a taxi which drove them up a winding road to the lookout on Monte Igueldo, where the breathtaking panorama of the Bay of Biscay stretched beneath them. Then Ramsey directed their driver to take them back to the Old Town huddled at the foot of Monte Urgull, where they covered the Plaza de la Constitución on foot. Making their way past the old fishing harbor, they hiked to the Palacio del Mar and examined the exhibits at the Navy Museum inside.
Ramsey proved an indefatigable guide, leading Victoria through a procession of museums, municipal buildings, churches. Finally, to Victoria's relief, they wound up in a colorful upstairs restaurant, the Casa Nicolasa, in the last of its three jammed noisy dining rooms, where Victoria was able to get off her feet and kick off her shoes. She consumed two glasses of cider, a crayfish and spinach appetizer, polio asado or roast chicken, and a custard with caramel sauce.
When they came out of the restaurant Victoria asked Ramsey, "What next?"
"You're on your own for the rest of the day. Me, I'm going to go back to the Londres. I'm going to take a nap. Then I'm going to get on the phone and try to make some appointments. It'snotgoing to be easy for either of us. Obviously, no official will want to tell me very much about the king's security setup."
"You think it might be easier for me to get his schedule in San Sebastian than from Madrid?"
"No. You won't get it in either place."
"It's just a state visit he's making."
"Vicky, in Basque country any Spanish leader is a target for the dissidents. Why tell them where their target is going to be every hour? Nobody's going to give you the king's full program here. They'll either tell you it can't be done or they don't know, or it hasn't been fixed yet. They'll tell you to contact them mañana. The mañana after the king has come and gone, they'll tell you where he's been."
"I'll say I'm a reporter here."
"All the worse."
"A pretty reporter."
"You may get laid, but you won't get the king's schedule."
She grimaced. "You can be so discouraging. Well, I'm going to ignore your comments. I'm going to get that schedule, the whole itinerary." She dug into her purse for a local guidebook she had acquired. "I'm going to start with the city hall. I'm going to see the mayor."
"Good luck," he said sarcastically.
"Even if you invited me to dinner, I might not go."
"I'm inviting you to dinner tonight."
"I accept."
"In the lobby at nine o'clock." And he strode off.
Awakening from his short nap, Ramsey doused his face with cold water, wiped it dry, and went to the telephone on the stand beside his bed.
Security was the word for the day, and he knew calling the San Sebastian police department would be a waste of time. Instead, he decided to call his favorite farmacia and arrange to see his favorite Basque friend, the pharmacist Josu, a secret member of the Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna, the underground ETA. If anyone would know about the state's security preparations for the king, it would be Josu.
A half hour later Ramsey stood before the cheerful window of the modern pharmacy in the Avenida de España. Amused by the gaudy color posters on display—from vitamins for infants to skin creams for women—Ramsey pushed the glass door and stepped inside. A young woman in a green smock was pouring some powder from a large jar into smaller jars, an
d next to her, his back to the door, opening and closing little mahogany drawers, was a gnome of a man wearing a rakish beret and thick spectacles, with a bristly gray mustache under a mottled bulge of nose.
Ramsey crossed the shop to the counter, greeted the woman assistant with a nod and said quietly, "Josu."
The gnome of a pharmacist spun around, squinting through his thick lens, and suddenly his mouth came out from under his mustache, spreading in a broad grin. "Nick!" he shouted. He sprinted around the counter, and fell on Ramsey with a bear hug. "Nick, Nick, it is so long. You are feast for eyes." He grabbed Ramsey by the sleeve. "Come, I have some wine for us in the back room."
Ramsey resisted, with a tilt of his head indicating the female assistant. "Maybe we should go somewhere—I mean where we can talk privately."
Josu tugged at Ramsey. "Not necessary." His head, too, indicated the assistant. "She does not understand one word of English. You can speak freely." He winked. "So can I."
He yanked Ramsey past the counter, and they went into the confined room behind the pharmacy. Unlike the modernized shop area, the room had never been finished. Actually a storage and accounting room, it contained a roughhewn wooden table that served as a desk, and two wooden chairs. The adding machine had been pushed to one side of the table, and a carafe of red wine and two plain glasses rested in the middle.
Josu shoved Ramsey into one chair and he squatted on the other, filling the wineglasses. "Chacoli wine," Josu announced. "Clears the cobwebs from the brain."
"Exactly what I need," said Ramsey, toasting and drinking. Josu smacked his lips, licked at his wet mustache and set down his glass. "Why you here this week, Nick?"
"Why is the king of Spain here next week?"
"He, to mend fences."
"Me, to watch him mend fences."
"You are writing another book?"
"I'm gainfully employed this time. I'm on the newspaper again. The New York Record. I'm paid to be curious."
The gnome of a pharmacist sucked at his wine, poured himself a refill. "You are curious about our so-called king?"
"A Spanish king in Basque country? It could become a story."
Josu shook his head sadly. "No story this time. He is safe as if he wearsarmor. Because he comes here, he will be made safe. Normally, in Madrid, he is lax about protection. In San Sebastián he will have heavy protection."
"How much?"
"Who can say exactly?"
"You must have an idea, Josu. Make a good guess. I will not speak of my source, you know that."
"A good guess," mused Josu.
"An educated guess, based on knowledge."
About to pick up his wineglass once more, Josu left it untouched. He scratched his mustache. It was, Ramsey could see, as if he were trying to determine how far to go.
"I am your friend," Ramsey prodded him.
Josu appeared not to have heard him. He began speaking in a quiet monotone. 'It is our practice to keep all major government officials in Madrid under constant surveillance. The king among them, of course. He is accompanied everywhere by six personal bodyguards in plainclothes. They are armed with handguns. If the king is flying up from Madrid, he will bring with him these bodyguards. The mayor of San Sebastian will meet him with three cars and military chauffeurs. The middle car, the limousine, will carry the king. The limousine will be preceded and followed by the other cars carrying the personal bodyguards."
"No additional personal guards?"
'No evidence of more," said Josu. "The king does not have a budget for a large security force. But even if he did, he might not use it. Spain tries to show it is a democracy, with the king a mere figurehead. As such, the officials do not wish to display too much protection. They do not want to look like a police state again. Of course, once he arrives in San Sebastian, you can certainly expect the Guardia Civil will be on hand, stationed at every stop."
Ramsey conjured up a picture of the Guardia Civil, the well-trained elite guardsmen with their unique tricornered hats, gray uniforms, rifles and revolvers.
"How many?" Ramsey wondered.
"I would not know. But for a special state occasion such as this, there might be fifty or sixty strategically placed, no more. Also, the province will furnish a military unit scattered in the streets, on rooftops and elsewhere."
"That's it?"
"As far as we can tell. There will also be the usual San Sebastián police in the streets for crowd control."
"The king's protection does not seem too heavy to me."
"It will not be heavy. But it is formidable."
"Still, if I were a leader of the ETA, I would think him vulnerable."
"No, Nick," said the diminutive Basque. "It is all too obvious a situation for the National Liberation. The king's security will be alert. We cannot sustain such losses or a failure."
"So the ETA will not move."
The gnome offered a wisp of a smile. "My educated guess is that they will not move." He pushed back his chair and rose. "Now I had better be seen in the shop. If you are still here when the king has left, call me. We will drink to his continued safety."
Ramsey escorted Victoria to a late dinner at an old two-story rustic restaurant called Salduba. They sat at a small table covered by a spotless red-checked tablecloth, under a wagon-wheel chandelier.
Ramsey had suggested sopa de pescado, a delicious fish soup, and changurro at horno, the local specialty of baked crab, and they had ordered both dishes, Victoria eating hungrily and Ramsey eating lightly as he devoted himself to his straight scotches.
Peering past the candles on their table, Ramsey could see that despite her appetite his partner was unhappy. Victoria's unlined pretty face remained uncharacteristically morose. It bothered him to see her so troubled, and he considered how he might cheer her up.
"Vicky, you didn't really expect to have anyone in the mayor's office hand you the king's schedule, did you?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Maybe not. Yet I expected something, a morsel or two. But they were totally uncommunicative, and a few of them were actually rude."
"Well, try to see their point of view," Ramsey said. "Handing you the royal itinerary would be like handing out an invitation to assassination."
"I know," said Victoria, "but I wasn't expecting everything. Just a tidbit or two. They could even have lied to me, just to give me a couple of paragraphs to write about."
Ramsey smiled. "The Basques do not lie much, at least as far as I know. What did you do after Town Hall? Did you try anywhere else?"
"Of course. The police department. They thought I was crazy. They almost threw me out."
"Did you try the local newspapers?"
"Yes," said Victoria. "The editors were friendlier. One even made a pass at me. But they insisted that they knew nothing. They'd know the king's schedule when he was here, when he kept it. What good will that do? Armstead is expecting something from us the day after tomorrow. What can I tell him?" She pushed her plate aside and had a sip of white wine. "What about you, Nick? I haven't asked about you. Forgive me—I'm usually not this self-centered. How did you do on the security thing? I'm sure the city officials wouldn't cooperate with you, either."
"I didn't bother with the officials, Vicky."
"Oh." She looked at him harder, but posed no more questions. "But you got something, evidently."
"Very little, very little," he told her, lighting a cigarette. "Vicky, as I knew from the beginning, this is a bust assignment. There's going to be no incident. Nothing's going to happen to the king."
"You're sure of that?"
"Fairly certain. I won't have much more to tell Armstead than you do. Look sweetie, you lose some, you win some. This is no win. Have a dessert."
"I don't want a dessert. I want a story."
"You've still got tomorrow," he said encouragingly. He signaled the waiter for another scotch. "We won't be talking to Armstead until the morning after. There's time."
Victoria's eyes were fixed on Ramsey. "Yo
u did not go to official sources," she said. "Then you went to unofficial sources."
He sized up the other diners at nearby tables. "If that's what you want to call them," he said.
Her expression was alive for the first time this evening. "That's what I'm going to do tomorrow, Nick. I think I know what to do. I'm going to dig up something for Armstead after all. Thank you, Nick. Thank you very much. And yes, I will have a dessert."
It was late Friday morning, and they were both in Ramsey's spacious single room in the Londres. Victoria sat on the side of the bed, listening as Ramsey dictated to the stenographer in Armstead's suite in London with Armstead on a second line. The ceiling lights were on. It was an overcast day outside, with a steady rain tapping at the window. Victoria watched the rain dance against the panes, nervously fingered her notes, and listened with more concentration.
Ramsey had no notes. He spoke fluently from memory. He said, "The end," to the stenographer. "There is no more."
Victoria could hear the stenographer say, "Thank you." Next, she could hear Edward Armstead's voice resound from the receiver.
"Nick," Armstead said.
"Yes?"
"You're sure of what you have?"
"Fairly sure."
"Pretty light security for the head of state in a guerrilla center."
"I can only repeat what I heard," said Ramsey evenly. "Looks like a great big zero. No hit planned."
"By the locals."
"Right. No action, far as I can learn."
"Thanks," said Armstead abruptly. "Put Victoria on."
"Here she is," said Ramsey. He got out of the chair, handing the receiver to Victoria, who sat down, sorting her notes in her lap.
"Hello, Victoria," Armstead said. "Did you get an official schedule for the king?"
"There is no official schedule, Mr. Armstead. I tried every source. They were uncooperative. But I do have an unofficial schedule."
"Unofficial," said Armstead. "What exactly does that mean?"
"No one handed me a certified itinerary," Victoria said. "But I figured that if the king was going to be here for a full morning and afternoon, he'd have to go somewhere, visit something. So I sat down and made a summary of the most likely sites he would look in on. Then I beat the pavements all morning and afternoon yesterday calling on the minor individuals who are in charge of these logical places. They were easier to get to, easier to talk to—like a museum curator, the supervisor of the street cleaners in the main plaza, an assistant to the bishop at the biggest church—people like that. Some did not expect a visit from the king. Others had been instructed to expect him and to have everything in readiness. It worked out. I got together a list of where he'll be—"
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