Hearing her, Ramsey made a circle with his forefinger and thumb. "Smart girl," he whispered.
Pleased, she pressed closer to the mouthpiece of the telephone. "I can read it off to you right now, Mr. Armstead."
"You're sure of your sources?" said Armstead.
"Pretty much. There could always be some last-minute changes. But it's a tight itinerary and I believe the king will stick to it. Let me read it to you."
"Hold it, Victoria. The stenographer is on the line. You can dictate it to her. Here she is."
Armstead's voice faded. "Are you there?" inquired Victoria. "I'm ready," said a woman with a British accent.
"Let's go," said Victoria. She organized the notes in her lap. "What follows is my dictation." She paused and read aloud from her notes: "9:00 A.M.—King arrives at Fuenterrabia Airport. 9:30 A.M.—King takes military helicopter to San Sebastian. io:oo A.M. —King arrives at Palacio de Ayete, Generalissimo Franco's onetime summer residence. 10:30 A.M.—His Majesty takes motorcade to Casas Consistoriales, the Town Hall, where greeted by the mayor. 11:00 A.M.—King arrives by motorcade at Catedral del Buen Pastor for confession with bishop. 12:00—Royal party departs for Palacio de Escoriaza-Esquibel for luncheon hosted by governor general. 2:30 P.M.—King addresses crowd from platform in front of Palacio for ten minutes." Victoria paused. "Am I speaking too fast?"
"Go on," said the stenographer. "I'll want to check some of the spellings when you're through."
"Very good, so far," Armstead cut in.
Victoria cleared her throat and resumed her reading.
Nightfall had come to London, and in the living room of Arm-stead's suite in the Ritz the publisher had pulled on his ski mask and allowed Gus Pagano to help him adjust it.
"How many of them are here?" Armstead asked.
"Only two. Cooper and Quiggs. Cooper wants to give you a final report before leaving."
Armstead nodded and followed Pagano to the door of the adjoining bedroom. The two went inside. Except for a few dull lamps, the room was lost in darkness. Near the center of the sit-ring area a large circular walnut table had been set up with a half-dozen folding chairs around it. One chair held the rangy Cooper, the other the pimpled, stocky British youth named Quiggs.
Armstead greeted them briefly and took a place opposite them at the table, with Pagano beside him.
Momentarily the publisher was concerned by Cooper's unsmiling face, and Quiggs's phlegmatic one. Did this mean that something had gone wrong, that there was bad news?
But in seconds Armstead's apprehension was put to rest.
"We're leaving in an hour," Cooper began. "Before leaving, I thought we should report to you on the status of the operation. Everything is going exactly as planned."
Armstead exhaled his relief.
"Most of our team is in place for the secondary stage," Cooper went on, "some in Lyons, some en route to St-Jean-de-Luz with equipment."
"With weapons?" asked Armstead.
"All the lighter arms are in hand. The Lyons shipment arrived early, except for the helicopters, which we won't require until next week. The other goods are being transported from Wales into France and to the Spanish frontier."
Armstead was incredulous. "You mean most of the arms have been delivered? That's fast."
"It's what you paid for," said Cooper. "We'll be crossing into Spain in the next forty-eight hours. We'll then begin to familiarize ourselves with the various locales and sites on the king's schedule."
"You found our reports satisfactory?"
"Mr. Pagano delivered them right after lunch. That was prompt, and we found them thorough," said Cooper.
Quiggs shifted in his chair. "We hope the king stays with that schedule."
"Don't worry about that," Cooper assured Armstead. "We'll be double-checking in the field, up to the very last moment. If the royal party makes any change, we will be able to accommodate it with our alternative plans."
"Was our security report also satisfactory?" Armstead wanted to know.
"Most useful," said Cooper. "Because of the nature of the king's security, we were forced to alter our original plan."
At once Armstead was consumed with curiosity. "How do you plan to take him?" he asked bluntly.
"I'm afraid I cannot tell you," Cooper replied with equal bluntness.
"I'm sorry," said Armstead, contrite. "I don't want to interfere."
For several seconds, Cooper was silent. When he spoke, his demeanor had softened. "You are paying for this, so I suppose you deserve to know something."
"It doesn't matter," said Armstead.
Cooper appeared not to have heard him. "I don't mind telling you, since it is no longer operative, that our original plan was the one most often successful in previous operations. Perform the kidnapping while the subject is in a car. Use two vehicles to intercept and block the target—swerve one car in front of his car, one in back of it, grab him, throw him into the front getaway vehicle and follow it with the second car. This was our original plan, and the one we abandoned."
"Why did you give it up?" Armstead wanted to know. "The subject will be in his car, in a continuous motorcade, in San Sebastian."
"Let me tell you why we abandoned that plan," said Cooper. "Have you ever heard of an outfit called Control Risks?"
"Control—? No, what's that?"
"The insurance company, Lloyd's of London, has an Underwriter that sells kidnap insurance. if you are afraid of being kidnapped, you apply for this insurance. Lloyd's sends a team of surveyors and consultants to visit you, determine the potential of risk, and brief you on how to reduce the risk. Then they issue you a policy in secrecy. Your policy is with an underwriter called Control Risks. They try to help you prevent a kidnapping. But if you are kidnapped and pay a ransom, they reimburse you. It's a little-known but popular thing now.'
"Most unusual," said Armstead. "What does it have to do with your change in plans?"
"We have a woman in Control Risks. She's having an affair with one of our men. She does him favors. She has access to the Control Risks confidential files. From these files we learned that ninety percent of all kidnapping today, nine out of every ten cases, occurs when the victim is riding in a car. We realized that if Control Risks works with that statistic, they must have developed better protection for potential victims who are riding in cars. We realized that if we went for the king while he was in his limousine, Spanish security would be prepared for it. The chance of failure would be too great. So we decided against this mode of kidnapping. We changed our plans. Now you understand."
Armstead understood and was impressed. He was tempted to inquire further and try to learn Cooper's alternative plan. Yet, earlier, Cooper had been adamant against revealing it. He would probably still refuse to reveal his plan. And suddenly Armstead did not want to know the modus operandi. He wanted to keep the operation at arm's length. He had to remind himself that he was a publisher and not really a terrorist, after all. "Now you think you can succeed," was all he could bring himself to say.
Cooper stood up. "We hope to succeed. We cannot guarantee it. We can only try. We must leave at once. You want Mr. Pagano to accompany us?"
Armstead came to his feet. "Pagano is essential. He will be my liaison with your activities. I will be leaving London tomorrow. Pagano knows how to reach me. He will keep us in touch with one another." He faced Pagano. "Are you ready to go, Gus?"
"All set," said Pagano.
"I'll wait to hear from you." Armstead hesitated. "You're sure you'll be able to contact me?"
"Minutes after it happens," promised Pagano, "I'll be on my way across the frontier into France, by the same way we smuggled the weapons in—underground. I have a phone reserved. I'll report to you immediately."
"Okay," said Armstead, satisfied. "Good luck."
Armstead stood by until the three of them had left the room. Alone, he returned to his suite, tearing off his uncomfortable mask. He would dispose of it somewhere later.
H
e felt unnaturally excited, and knew that he had a partial erection. He wished that he were already in New York with Kim.
But he knew his real orgasm would be in San Sebastian.
It was a luminous, cold morning in San Sebastian, and the king of Spain and his entourage had arrived on schedule.
Despite countless hindrances due to the crowds of monarchist followers and neutral Basques and the police, Victoria and Ramsey had followed the monarch's progress in the new Renault that Ramsey had rented.
At 10 A.M. they had witnessed the king's arrival at the modest Palacio de Ayete, after they had parked the car and mingled with the curious crowd of spectators waiting outside the building. Ramsey had become restless at the inactivity, chain-smoking and complaining until the king emerged, resplendent in his visored cap and bemedaled sashed tunic jacket and dark trousers.
The people all around them had cheered, and Victoria had been ecstatic, pointing at her watch, saying, "It's ten-thirty, Nick. Right on schedule. Now he'll be heading for Town Hall. Let's stay with the motorcade. Which way is our car?"
"If you insist," Ramsey had grumbled, elbowing ahead of her through the mob of onlookers.
Back in the car, they tracked the royal motorcade to the San Sebastian Town Hall, left the Renault illegally parked in a side street, and made their way through more spectators in time to see the king and his aides enter the Municipal Building with the mayor.
They had lingered outside for twenty minutes, with Ramsey becoming more and more restless and inattentive.
Now he was pulling at Victoria's coat sleeve. "What's happening?" he asked.
"Nothing yet," she said.
"Nothing yet, and nothing now, and nothing later. Vicky, it's a washout. I warned you this would be a non-news event, and by now you should know that I'm right."
"Be a little more patient, Nick."
"For what? I've had it, Vicky. I'm cutting out."
"You're leaving?" she said incredulously.
"You bet. This is a drag, as predicted. You can handle any big beat by yourself. If king bites dog, you've got it. As for me, I'm going to walk back to the hotel, have a few drinks, and take a nap. When you're ready to file your hot story with New York—well, just wake me up and I'll give you moral support." He handed the car keys to Victoria. "Stay alert, old girl, and sober."
He disappeared into the crowd.
Disheartened by his cynicism, feeling a little foolish about her romantic expectations, feeling sophomoric and inexperienced, Victoria planted herself firmly on the pavement and prepared to wait. Dammit, she told herself, this could be a story and I'm a reporter and Nick is a jaded old drunk.
By 11:15 the king had not yet reappeared, which meant that from this point on he would be running late. Victoria kept searching the spectators, hoping for some demonstrators or protestors, but there were none.
Ten minutes more passed, and then Victoria was brought to attention by an outburst of cheers and applause. Rising on her toes, she could see the impressive figure of the king. He was shaking hands with the San Sebastian mayor before departing for his limousine, while members of his entourage and the plainclothesmen quickly surrounded him.
She whirled about, fought through the mass of people, burst into the open, and raced for the side street where the Renault was parked.
She breathed a sigh of relief that there was no parking ticket.
Once inside the sedan, she found her street map of San Sebastián, located the X's she had marked on the sites of the royal stops, pinpointed Town Hall and her present location, pinpointed the king's next scheduled stop, the Catedral del Buen Pastor. She traced the route, started her car, and was on the move through the less traveled back streets.
Finally, when she had the dominant 75-meter main spire of the church in view, she sought a parking place, and after many misses, she took the Puente Cristina across the Rio Urumea and found an empty slot near the Norte railroad station. Purse suspended from her shoulder, map in hand, she began striding briskly over the bridge. Shortly she was in the Plaza de Bilbao and approaching the massive neo-Gothic cathedral.
Once more there were thickets of onlookers. They ringed the church entrance and were being held back by a cordon of local police. She tried to edge her way closer for a better view, but was unable to get nearer than fifty yards from the entrance.
Her view was partially obscured by the applauding townsfolk, but she could make out that the royal motorcade had already arrived and that the king, caught up in his entourage, was making his way to the cathedral entrance. There, the members of the entourage appeared to melt to one side and hold still as the king, followed by two personal bodyguards, left them to join a single clergyman. Together, the four men went inside the church.
This was unexpected, the king going into the cathedral with only two of his party, but at once Victoria realized what was happening. She recalled the itinerary that she had prepared. The cathedral was a brief interruption in the ceremonial day during which the monarch would go to confession.
This was respect. Victoria sighed. It wasn't news.
Dumbly, and more weary now, she settled down for one more wait.
The interior of the cathedral had been tactfully cleared of tourists and worshippers, and except for the few clergymen who discreetly lost themselves in various shadowed recesses, the king of Spain was left alone with his cleric guide and pair of guards. Gesturing for the cleric and his guards to remain where they were, the king moved ahead.
Far below the majestic vaulted ceilings of this house of God, the king of Spain passed the rows of empty pews and made his way to the nearest confessional box. Arriving at the curtained entrance, far from the hue and cry of the multitude, isolated from the grave matters of state, the monarch paused to gather his thoughts, and then he stepped into the booth to cleanse his soul.
Inside the confessional, an openwork lattice was set into the wall that separated him from the priest who would hear his confession and give him absolution. The king knew that it would be the bishop himself beyond the lattice.
The king brought himself to his knees on the padded step, bowed his head before the lattice, and began in a low but distinct voice.
"Father, I have sinned."
"Yes, my son."
"I wish to confess—"
That instant, the lattice was pulled aside. To the king's astonishment, the bishop's face was not revealed. Instead, a gloved hand pointed a heavy Parabellum 9 caliber pistol through the opening and pushed the gun's metallic nozzle against the king's forehead.
"Silence," a harsh voice commanded. "Do as directed or die." The king remained on his knees, petrified.
The curtain to the confessional was jerked open, and he could barely make out a person in clerical garb, holding a gun and some sort of garments, standing behind him. He felt the bishop's white miter being shoved down on his head, felt a clerical robe—plainly the bishop's own purple cassock—being forced on his arms and around his body.
"On your feet," a voice in his ear ordered in Spanish.
Incapable of rising, the king allowed himself to be yanked to his feet. Another armed clergyman, a gunman dressed in surplice and cassock, had now materialized.
The pair pulled the king out of the confessional into the cavernous hollow of the church.
Prodding with their guns, prodding, pushing hard, the pair were swiftly joined by two more men in the garb of clerics, who helped surround the monarch.
The four hustled him between the pews and altar.
The king had only a glimpse of his bodyguards and several other clergymen—the real ones, he assumed—being tied up and gagged while fake clergymen held submachine guns on them.
Close to the king's ear a breathless voice, the harsh one, said, "We take you outside to a car in the rear. Behave, and you are safe. One word from you, and you are dead."
The king nodded, remained mute, and allowed himself to be hurried away.
Outside, continuing to keep her gaze on the cathedral
entrance, Victoria was becoming increasingly tired.
Fifteen more numbing minutes had gone by, a wind chilled the air, and still the king had not emerged, as members of his entourage patiently stood by in front of the cathedral. Victoria was almost ready to concede that Nick Ramsey had been right. This was a day for no news, a cosmetic ceremonial day, disappointing not only her but a disappointment for Armstead in New York.
She weighed backtracking to her car, walking to it as fast as possible for warmth, and returning to Ramsey to have him assist her in calling in her newsless story.
That instant she heard a shrill outcry ahead.
Startled, instantly curious, Victoria barged forward between the peasant couple in front of her and fought closer to the cordon of police to hear and see what was happening better. After a minute she came to a full view of the church entrance, and what she saw surprised her even further. In the entrance, a disheveled, bareheaded elderly man, apparently the bishop himself, attired in a cassock, was shouting frantically to members of the uniformed Guardia Civil and the royal entourage. A Guardia Civil officer now had the bishop by the shoulders, trying to calm him, and the bishop ceased his shouting and was speaking hysterically to the officer.
Abruptly the cordon of police heaved backward, and Victoria would have toppled over except for the press of spectators around her. Ahead of her there was an eruption of persons at the cathedral entrance—Guardia Civil officers, policemen, plainclothesmen rushing toward waiting cars—and breaching this avalanche, other officials and clergymen were leading the hysterical bishop back into the church.
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