All about Victoria, the babble of rising voices mingled with the whine of automobile engines. Obviously something had gone terribly wrong, but Victoria did not know what was happening because she had not understood a word of Spanish. She raised her voice, calling out to the spectators around her, 'What's happening? What's going on? Can anyone speak English?" Her neighbors ignored her until one bespectacled young man, who looked like a student, reached between the people separating them and touched her shoulder to gain her attention. "I speak English," he said. "The king has been kidnapped from inside the church, abducted by terrorists at gunpoint. They tied up the bishop, took his place. The rest dressed up as priests." Rattled, disbelieving, Victoria held on to the young man's arm to keep him from getting away. "The king kidnapped?" she shouted.
"You're sure?" The young man was nodding vigorously. "It is true. He's been kidnapped." Victoria tugged at the young man's arm. 'Who did it? Do they know?" The young man was shaking his head. "They did not tell—but for certain it must be ETA." The young man was pulling away from her and she called after him, "Thank you, thank you."
There was not time to think, only to act. She was clawing through the crowd, battling to get out of the noisy mob, and after minutes the crowd was thinning. Victoria scrambled free, fully into the open, halting only to catch her breath.
Her mind reeled. She'd been right to stay with the royal tour. Nick had been wrong to leave, to believe nothing would happen.
An incredible event had happened, and she was half-witness to it. She had a—a scoop. The Record would have it. Armstead would be out of his mind.
She was running away from the cathedral in the direction of her car. The first thought that entered her mind was to find a telephone somewhere, anywhere, and call New York. But reality dampened the thought. The obstacles would be insurmountable: she did not know the method of making a call outside the hotel, she would be unable to deal with a Spanish operator, she would have to make the long-distance call collect—impossible. She was winded, now only half-running as she approached her parking place. Her immediate destination had become clearer. She must get back to the Londres hotel, to her room, use the hotel's English-speaking operator to get the first flash across to Armstead.
The king of Spain kidnapped!
She threw herself into the front seat of the Renault, started the car, gunned the engine, and was off as if flung from a catapult.
Safely inside her hotel room, Victoria had dialed the hotel operator, said that she wanted to call New York City, a station-to-station call prepaid, and she carefully enunciated the telephone number of the New York Record. "Hang up, please," the operator had told her. "I will call you back." Victoria had pleaded, "Make it fast as possible." The operator, unperturbed, had replied, "I will call you back when I have the connection."
Now Victoria was waiting, trying to put the story together in her head, and silently beseeching the telephone to ring.
In less than a minute it rang, and Victoria grabbed it up. "Yes?"
The operator's tone was maddeningly cool. "Miss Weston, on the call you have placed to New York—it cannot go through at this time."
"What?"
"Maybe later, in a few hours, by this evening."
"Why can't I make my call?"
"There is a police emergency. All calls going out of San Sebastian have been temporarily stopped. Your call cannot be placed. I will let you know when long-distance service is resumed."
Victoria knew that any further pleading with a minor functionary, minor cog, would get her nowhere.
"I'll be waiting to hear from you," she said helplessly and hung up.
Only one bit of light alleviated her dark frustration. If no outgoing calls were being permitted during this emergency, it meant that other press people, rivals, were being similarly frustrated. No Spanish newspaper or foreign wire service would be allowed to send the news out of San Sebastian. Nor, she was sure, would any Spanish radio or television station be permitted to broadcast the news. This was an immediate clamp-down on word that the king of Spain had been kidnapped. Whatever the reason the police had for the censorship, she had no doubt that it was in full effect.
What to do?
Nick Ramsey, of course. Nick right next door napping, unaware of what had taken place and of the great scoop she alone had. She must enlist him, with his experience, ask him what they should do to get the story to New York.
Quickly she left her room, entered the corridor, and hurried to the next room. She rapped hard on Ramsey's door, to be sure to awaken him.
No sooner had her knuckles left the door than it was thrown open.
"Nick—" she started to say, stepping into his room, and immediately she stopped in her tracks.
Confused, she tried to take in the unexpected scene. Looming over her at the door was a uniformed soldier holding a rifle. He had opened the door. On the bed straight ahead of her sat Ramsey, barefoot, bare-chested, wearing just trousers, with two gray-uniformed Guardia Civil men, holding guns, flanking him. At the far side of the room at a desk, using the hotel telephone, was another member of the Guardia Civil, probably an officer.
Victoria stared at Ramsey. He looked terrible, as if in the throes of a hangover. The bedcover behind him was in disarray.
He lifted a hand in good-humored greeting. "Hi, Vicky."
"Whatever's going on here?" Victoria demanded, moving toward Ramsey. One of his two guards said something to her in Spanish. She didn't understand him, but she stopped. "Nick, the king's been kidnapped!"
"I just heard," said Ramsey, "and they think I'm the one who did it."
"But you've been here all the time! Anyway, that's idiocy. Why you?"
"I was followed last week—seen going into a pharmacy owned by an ETA sympathizer, and seen leaving a half hour later without making a purchase. They figured I must have been plotting with him."
"That's absolutely ridiculous!" Victoria exclaimed.
"Tell them, not me," said Ramsey cheerfully.
"Nick, I need your help—"
At once, he was serious. "I need your help first," he said. "Soon as you leave, get hold of Armstead and have him notify the United States ambassador in Madrid to get the police off my back, to spring me."
"That's just it," said Victoria frantically. "I can't reach Armstead with my story—or to help you. All outgoing calls have been shut down. How do I reach New York from here?"
"Quiet!" a voice bellowed from the far side of the room. The Guardia Civil officer had set down the phone and was putting on his tricornered hat as he marched to the bed. He addressed himself to Ramsey. "Please dress. I have spoken to my superiors. You are to be detained until everything has been cleared up. I must take you in for questioning."
"Here we go," said Ramsey, wobbling to his feet and reaching for his shirt. He made a gesture of distress to Victoria. "I guess we're both cooked."
The officer signaled for the guards to get rid of Victoria and then strode into the hail ahead of her.
Briefly, she stood fast. "Nick, we're not cooked. Listen to me."
"Better make it quick."
"I'm heading for St-Jean-de-Luz on the French side," Victoria called out. "It's about twenty miles from here, across the frontier. I've been there before, so I know the area. I'll take a train, or whatever."
"They won't let you through."
"When I show my American passport, I think they will. Nick, I'll be at the Chantaco Hotel—it's France, so the phones will be open to New York. I'll call Armstead for both of us—file my story and get you out of here."
The bedside guards had finally converged to block Victoria, and to ease her toward the doorway and into the corridor. She stood there, immobilized, watching the guardsmen roughly push Ramsey out of his room. In the corridor, they surrounded him and marched him toward the stairway.
As he was led away, Ramsey caught a glimpse of her, tried to maintain his grin, and failed.
"Nick," she shouted after him, "I'll be waiting for you
there!" Then he was gone.
Animated once more, Victoria ran back to her room and the telephone to find a means of reaching St-Jean—that is, if they would let her, let anyone, leave San Sebastian or Spain itself on this violent day.
Although St-Jean-de-Luz was only a short distance away, it had taken Victoria a long time to get there.
For Victoria it had been a harrowing afternoon, because of the threats that had befallen her, and maddening in some respects because of numerous delays. Eager to get to a telephone to help Ramsey, bursting with her still exclusive story on the kidnapping of the king, she was taunted by the parade of hours.
She had sought assistance from the hotel's main concierge, buttering her request for transportation with a sizable tip. He had assured her that it would be time-consuming to go by train. At last the concierge had located a private car-rental service in San Sebastian that would have a BMW sedan and an English-speaking driver available in two hours to take her to France.
Not thinking, she had tried to put through a call to the Chantaco Hotel in St-Jean, but had once more been reminded that no outgoing calls or communications of any kind were permitted from San Sebastian. However, a local travel agent had assured her that as the resort season for St-Jean was almost over and the hotel would be closing down in a few weeks, it was probably no longer fully occupied. The agent was sure that she would find a room once she presented herself at the Chantaco.
Impatiently watching the wall clock for the time her driver and car would arrive, she had busied herself making notes on the kidnapping of the king. She had wanted to be prepared to pour her story out to Armstead once she had him on the phone. Then, in the lobby, having found and purchased a travel guide on the area that gave several pages to St-Jean-de-Luz, she had returned to her room to read the book and have a snack.
She had been packing her single bag, on the verge of leaving, when the police came.
There had been two of them, both in plainclothes and both speaking English. The more aristocratic of the pair had flashed his identification and verified that she was Victoria Weston and recited what was in her American passport. He had proceeded to interrogate her closely. There had been this day, he had said, an act of terrorism in the city. Did she know that? Yes, she had replied forthrightly, she had been a witness to part of it. Why had she been at the cathedral? As a tourist to see the king? No, she had replied, as a newspaperwoman to write about the king's visit. Could she prove that she was a bona fide member of the American press? She had shown him her press pass from the New York Record. He had returned her pass, remarking that it could be counterfeit. She had suggested that he contact her newspaper for verification that she worked for them. He had then gone off on another round of questions. There had been evidence that she had been nosing about San Sebastian in advance of the king's visit, trying to find out his schedule. Why had she been so interested? Well, she had retorted, why not? She had been assigned to write a story about the king's activities in San Sebastian. She had looked into his itinerary openly.
The plainclothesman had described her own visits around the city accurately, and had wanted her to explain the purpose of each call. Then he had described her activities in the company of one Nick Ramsey, and inquired into their relationship.
This questioning had gone on for over an hour. In the end she had been absolved of complicity. Hard as she had tried, she had not been able to learn more about the fate of Nick Ramsey.
Her departure from San Sebastian had been aggravatingly late. Once in the BMW, she and her driver had been stopped three times. After getting on the A-i autoroute heading toward St-Jean-de-Luz, they had been brought to a halt by a roadblock just outside of town. Here they were questioned. When they reached the border and Iriin, they had been held up by customs. And when they turned off the autoroute for the French town of Ciboure, they had been delayed yet again, this time by road construction and a detour.
When they had crossed the bridge over the Nivelle River and entered St-Jean-de-Luz, Victoria had given an audible sigh of relief. It was midevening and there were lights and life in the gay port town, but Victoria had not been distracted from her main purpose. A mile from the downtown, they had arrived at the elegant Chantaco Hotel. The haven of the hotel with its two-story fireplace near the reception desk and its Moorish arches had no interest for Victoria. Only one thing: Did they have a bedroom and a bath for her, a room with a telephone, for at least two or three days? They did.
Now in the room, despite hunger pangs there was only one thing on her mind. She put through her call to New York, to the Record, and in five minutes she had the newspaper and then Edward Armstead's secretary, Estelle Rivkin, and Victoria's excitement mounted. She must speak to Mr. Armstead immediately. She learned that he was out and could not be reached, and Estelle had no idea when he would be back. Victoria felt a lurch of disappointment, then asked for Harry Dietz, who was second-best. But Dietz was also out. Another disappointment. Victoria realized that she had wanted congratulations and praise at the highest level, but that was unimportant and she was pleased to settle for third-best, her managing editor.
Ollie McAllister was on the phone.
"Ollie, this is Victoria Weston. I've been trying all afternoon—"
"Vicky, how are you?" He sounded surprisingly cheerful for a dour Scot. Where in the devil are you?"
"I'm calling from the Chantaco Hotel in St-Jean-de-Luz—"
"Where?"
"The French resort town across the border from San Sebastián. I'm at the Chantaco Hotel."
"Yes, Mr. Armstead mentioned—"
"Ollie, I've got a tremendous scoop. No one has been able to phone it out of San Sebastian. That's why I came here. The king of Spain was kidnapped this morning! I think we've got it alone!"
"We sure have, Vicky," McAllister agreed. "We have it alone, a big exclusive. We hit the streets with it an hour ago. The king of Spain kidnapped in the Cathedral of the Good Shepherd in San Sebastian by a group of Basque terrorists. They were dressed as clergymen. They pulled off the abduction without a shot. We've headlined it, a clean beat. I'm told the Record is selling almost at the pace of the Yinger issue—"
"Ollie," she interrupted. "I can't believe I heard you right. You know about the kidnapping of the king?"
"I told you. It's on the front page."
She sank down into the couch, deflated and bewildered.
"But Ollie, I had it exclusively. No one's been able to get it out of Spain."
"Well, someone did. Good try, young lady, but—"
"Who?" she wanted to know. "How?"
"It's by-lined Mark Bradshaw. I'm told he's a British hotshot Mr. Armstead hired to cover the Continent."
"How did he get it out?"
"I don't know precisely. It was filed through our London bureau. He must have found some means of getting it out. Maybe just as you tried."
"Mr. Armstead didn't tell me he had someone else there."
"Publishers don't always confide in reporters, or editors either."
She tried to protest once more. "But Nick Ramsey and I—" She remembered. "Oh, my God, Ollie, I nearly forgot to tell you.
Nick Ramsey was picked up by the Spanish police around noon today. They dragged him out of the hotel for questioning about the kidnapping. They had spotted him earlier, meeting with an ETA sympathizer—"
McAllister chuckled, unconcerned. "Good old Nick. Here we go again."
"He's been arrested, Ollie."
"He always is. Okay, the police in San Sebastian have him. You want us to try to get him free."
"He wanted Mr. Armstead to contact the United States ambassador in Madrid—"
"I know. Nick always travels first-class. Don't worry, I'll get right on it."
"I'm supposed to wait here for him. Also, to stand by for our next assignment. You can get Nick out?"
"Don't worry, Vicky. Enjoy the sun while you can. You'll see Nick soon enough, and you'll hear from us."
After the call, Victori
a broke into tears out of exhaustion and frustration. As a team player, she should have been happy that the Record had the story. But she was miserable that she had failed to make it alone, that she had been scooped by her own side. A few minutes later she recovered and picked up the telephone again, this time to call room service.
The next day, except for one long walk on the busy Boulevard Thiers and the crowded shopping mall of Rue Gambetta in St-Jean-de-Luz and a stop at the waterfront to watch the blueand-white tuna boats in the harbor and the sun-lovers before their cabafias on the broad beach, she confined herself to her room, awaiting a call from Ramsey.
When the telephone rang, it brought her not a call from Ramsey but a long-distance call from Edward Armstead in New York.
"I hear you phoned me yesterday with news of the kidnapping," Armstead said. "I appreciate your effort, and I wanted you to know it."
She bit her lip and forced herself to say, "Congratulations anyway for getting the story before I could get it to you. You must be very happy."
"I'm ecstatic," crowed Armstead. "We're outselling every other paper in town. We're running alone, way out in front, with this one. And this morning we've got another clean beat."
"What is it?" she asked politely.
"Bradshaw filed the kidnappers' demands. He got hold of a communiqué they've just issued. Want to hear it?"
"Yes, of course."
"Let me read it to you," said Armstead proudly. "Here it is. 'The Basque Socialist Revolutionary Organization for National Liberation, Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna, ETA, assume responsibility for taking into custody yesterday the king of Spain."
"So it was the ETA."
"Naturally it was," said Armstead. "Who else could it have been? The communiqué goes on, 'Our action against the king of Spain and the Spanish government constitutes a major step forward for socialism in Euzkadi in our struggle against national oppression, as well as for the liberation of the exploited and the oppressed in the Spanish state." Armstead's voice had drifted off. "Then they make their ransom demand. They want a half-dozen Basque political prisoners in Madrid released from jail. When they are assured that this has been done, they will return the king unharmed."
The Almighty Page 17